The Everest Marathon…and then some

Where to begin? I’ve been on this journey for three weeks now; three truly transformative and enlightening weeks in so many ways.  But even through it all, I’m not sure anything could have prepared me for the actual race.  It’s silly to even call it a race honestly. For some in our group, who have extensive trail running experience, sure. For me, the Everest Marathon was always going to be simply an exercise in physical survival and mental strength. It was both, in spades. 

Organizers call it the World’s Highest Marathon. That’s underselling it. The Everest Marathon should be called the world’s toughest marathon. The elevation is part of the reason it’s so hard, but only part. Truth be told, most of us arrived at the start line with varying degrees of illness, whether respiratory or altitude-related. Not to mention exhausted from ten hard days of trekking in increasingly unhygenic conditions. 

By the time race morning arrived we hadn’t had running water for five days; we’d lost our appetites, and few were sleeping well, particularly when every time we had to get out of our warm sleeping bags at night to go to the bathroom it was in sub zero conditions. For those of us on Diamox to combat altitude sickness these visits were thrice as frequent. Ideal race prep it was not.

Race Day

Such was our weariness, that on the morning of May 29th no one showed any signs of excitement. As we tiredly collected our bowls of oatmeal and cups of tea in the freezing dawn of Everest Base Camp,  all we could think of was, ‘Please, let this be over already. I need a shower. I need a meal that isn’t spaghetti and potatoes. I need to sleep. I need a real toilet.’ Again, not ideal. 

It took 15 minutes of walking through ice and rock to get to our Game of Thrones-like start line at the edge of the Khumbu Icefall. Not spraining an ankle was everyone’s priority at that point.

Once there, for a brief moment, a switch flipped. The exhaustion and increasing grumpiness of the last few days lifted. We were really here, lining up to ‘run’ a marathon at the base of the world’s tallest mountain. 

We were underway. My first thought was ‘just make it out of base camp without hurting yourself.’ Most of us walked single file along the rocky route. The only runners at that point were the Nepalis who we saw for a total of, oh, 30 seconds. 

No sooner did we start I knew this would be no ordinary day. The woman directly in back of me was wheezing so badly, she was airlifted off the mountain within minutes. Shortly after, a second woman, participating with her husband just mentally gave up, unable to catch her breath. Another airlift. Then a third, as a man was found passed out, given oxygen and sent down. This was all just on the way out of Everest Base Camp; not even a mile in. Then started the accidents: dislocated arms, torn ligaments, etc. More airlifts. I had a single goal: make it to the finish line on my own two feet, preferably within one day. 

Even before the race started we were all warned, we had until 4pm—nine hours—to make it to Tengboche Monastery, the 20-mile marker for the race. If we missed the cutoff we’d be forced to stop, spend the night and continue the next morning at 6am, with a three hour penalty added to our time. 

I always knew it would be a close one for me. Ordinarily nine hours to go 20 miles would be a no-brainer. But this, as we’ve established was no ordinary marathon. 

Because the first 10K is extremely technical and at such high altitude, I had decided I would simply survive those first few miles, then as we began our descent into richer air, I’d pick up the pace as much as possible in my effort to make the cutoff. 

I don’t want to say I underestimated the difficulty this would pose. I’d already traversed the course, in reverse, on the way to Everest Base Camp, so I knew exactly what to expect. Maybe what I underestimated was just how quickly the hours would tick by. 

One of the most important parts of any multi-hour race is managing your nutrition. So I set my phone to go off every hour to remind me to take in some food. I’m pretty sure time accelerates at altitude, because it seemed to me those alarms were coming awfully quick, each one a reminder that I either had to speed up or I’d miss the 20-mile cutoff.

It was brutal. Being in your head for that many hours is the hardest part of an effort such as this. With only about 170 participants, there’s not one to talk to. We’re by ourselves the vast majority of the race. Putting on music, a podcast or audiobook was completely out of the question. I either focused on where my foot was striking or I risked falling off a boulder or a cliff. Pick your poison. It’s that simple.

Six hours went by. It was 1pm and I was finally able to breathe more easily. I knew I was approaching the village of Dingboche, where I had a loop that would take me to the half-way point in the race. With three hours till cutoff I was feeling optimistic. All I had to do was follow the yellow flags that guided our way along the course. At my current pace I should be able to make it. Just follow the yellow flags…

Getting lost

‘Wait, where are the yellow flags?’ The plain I was on at this point was extremely windy. The flags seemed to be few and far between. Had they blown away?

‘Ok Michelle. Just find Dingboche,’ I thought. ‘You spent two days there. You know it lies at the bottom of the mountain you’re on. Just figure out where the path is to get down. There was a stupa with prayer flags. Just find that.’

‘There it is. Down there. It looks a bit different, but it must be Dingboche. I mean, what else would it be?’

What else indeed. As I descended the mountain toward the village I nervously hoped would be my destination, something felt off. This didn’t look familiar. But I kept going. The alternative was too awful to contemplate. I was not in Dingboche after all. A sign advertising a local teahouse told the truth. I was in a different village altogether. A place called Pheriche. 

I’m not going to lie. I descended into a full-on panic. Desperately I tried to find someone, anyone, who spoke a few words of English. A tea house would be the place for that. For a few minutes that seemed like an eternity, it seemed like no one lived in this village. I literally called out for someone to hear me. When I finally got a response, it was from a woman who pointed me in the direction of someone who would be able to at least partially communicate. “Where is Dingboche?” I asked. “How do I get there?” The response was not one I wanted to hear. “I don’t know,” she answered.

‘You don’t know?!’ How far off could I possibly be? I looked for someone else. I found two young men shooting pool in a second lodge. I explained I was participating in the marathon and had gotten lost. Could they help me? Did they have a phone to call Dingboche?  I knew the answer even before getting it. Phones don’t work here. 

Paralyzed with fear, I half-listened as one of the young men pointed to a dirt path that led back up the mountain I had just descended. “Go in that direction,” he said. “You will see a gate. That is the entrance to Dingboche.”

It was the only choice I had. I knew it. I didn’t want to accept it. I wanted someone to come get me. Someone to take me there. But of course, short of an evacuation, there is only one way to ‘get’ anywhere in the Khumbu Valley: on foot.  

As I made my way back up the mountain I felt any remaining mental strength fading away. I didn’t want to be here anymore. I wanted more than anything, for a helicopter to come get me and take me down to Namche Bazaar, the finish line to this crazy, stupid race. My physical strength was also slipping away. I felt completely disoriented.

Then I found it. The gate. The stupa, with the prayer flags I was looking for from the beginning. The path down to Dingboche would be there. I was safe. I was going to be OK. 

Getting found

Who am I kidding? I was definitely not OK. Upon descending the mountain, I walked into the teahouse we had stayed in for two nights expecting someone from the marathon organization to be here. They were not. I was told I had to go to the end of that God-forsaken loop we had to do if I wanted to find someone. I didn’t want to do the loop. I wanted to go home. 

With no other choice I embarked towards the damn loop. Guess what? Those silly yellow flags were back. The physical and mental exhaustion I felt, were nearing a breaking point. ‘Wait, is that another runner coming in my direction?’  Relieved, I told her I’d gotten lost and asked what way to go. She told me she’d gotten lost as well and pointed me towards the checkpoint. A few minutes later, two more runners.  I was definitely going in the right direction now. And then I saw him: Mindu.  

Mindu is one of our group’s Sherpa guides. He knows the mountain like the back of his hand. And is always there to take care of us. It was he who would have been ‘sweeping me’ at the back of the pack today had it not been for a couple of emergency evacuations he had to take care of no sooner had the race taken off from Everest Base Camp.

I’m not going to lie. When I saw Mindu running towards me, I sat down on the ground and cried. I let all the tension of the last couple of hours run out of me as I sobbed, explaining to him what had happened; how the yellow flags had disappeared, and I’d lost my way, descending down the wrong side of the mountain.

Mindu being Mindu, he got me back up, made sure I finished the silly loop, and then took me back towards the teahouse I’d originally gone to for help. After restoring me to some semblance of coherence with hot tea and Sherpa stew he broke the news. I had to keep going. Stopping was simply not a choice. 

Beyond the cutoff

The cutoff time of 4pm had come and gone. I would not be finishing the race today. What I would be doing was continuing my trek to the 20-mile mark, spending the night there and then, the next morning at 6am, I’d finish the marathon, which after my little ‘extra credit’ was probably at least 30 miles long, not 26.

The next few hours were brutal. But also, in a strange way, the most edifying. The stress of getting lost had taken its toll. The trek became more of a slog. Sunset came and went. We were now trekking in the pitch black of night on a narrow trail that more often than not had a steep drop on one end. There’s no coming back from a fall here. And yet, never once was I afraid. The fear had gone. Mindu was with me. We had headlamps. I knew he’d keep me safe. 

And then…all of a sudden, we had company.

As it turns out, I wasn’t the last person out on the course. That girl who I’d run into earlier was suddenly there too, accompanied by her own Sherpa.  After brief introductions, we decided four was better than two and we continued on together. Her name is Jesse. She’s from Beijing, but had lived in Chicago several years ago. I mean, what were the odds?

Jesse was a Godsend. Her optimism in light of what we were going through buoyed me. “We’re lucky” she said. “Say what?” I countered.  “Yes. This is an adventure,” she insisted. “No one else is having this experience but us. It’s an extra challenge and we get to learn and enrich ourselves from it.”

Chatting non-stop, we finally made it to Deboche, the village where we’d be spending the night. It was around 9pm. Upon arrival in our teahouse, I found Lawang, our marathon group’s leader there waiting for us to arrive. He’d already secured a room for me. It was a warm room, with brand new down comforters, an electric blanket and an en-suite bathroom. In this part of the world that might as well be the Four Seasons. Not having a sleeping bag or any clothes but the filthy, sweaty ones I was wearing, this was a huge deal. He also informed me there were at least seven others who’d missed the cutoff, staying at a separate teahouse nearby. 

The Finish line

Exhausted, but too wound up to sleep, I lay in bed for a few hours, until dawn came. It was time to resume the ‘marathon.’ There were just over six miles left.

Accompanied by Jesse, her Sherpa, Mindu and Lawang, we set off. I have no idea what time it was when I finally crossed the finish line in Namche Bazaar. All I know is that it was a full day and then some after I originally took off.

But it was over. 

Through all the obstacles and adversity thrown my way starting at the base of the world’s highest mountain—two weeks before that really—I had made it.

I completed the Everest Marathon.