Uphill Battle

A veteran marathoner finds unexpected meaning in a 26.2-mile history lesson.

 The sun wasn't up—just the seep of pink and orange setting New Mexico's Organ Mountains aglow—but I'd been awake since 4 a.m. When the lights had popped on in the gym at the White Sands Missile Range, I'd rolled out of my cot along with hundreds of soldiers to prepare for the 26.2-mile Bataan Memorial Death March.

To say the least, I was out of my element: I've never been known for my gooey patriotism, and always had the luxury of being a cynic. I loved my country as an afterthought. Now I was at an army base 45 miles north of El Paso, where the first nuclear bomb was exploded in 1945, yelling the Army's Warrior Ethos: I will never accept defeat. I will never quit.

We gathered for the start near a podium where a dozen World War II veterans sat with their medals and canes. A huge American flag snapped in the wind. Almost everyone in the pack of 4,000 wore fatigues and combat boots—and some shouldered enormous backpacks. It didn't feel anything like a typical marathon.

But I wasn't here just to knock off another race. I already had four marathons under my belt; I'd been around that block. I wanted to do something different, with larger meaning behind it. You can run the Bataan Memorial Death March like any other marathon—though with the hills, dust, and wind, it's a lot tougher. You can also enter the "heavy" category: carrying at least 35 pounds in a backpack. That's what I signed up for. After all, I was a 3:30 marathoner. How hard would it be to walk 26.2 miles?

Maybe not too bad, at least compared with the original Bataan Death March, which took place in the Philippines during World War II. The Japanese had forced American troops to surrender, and made some 10,000 U.S. soldiers and 50,000 of their Filipino allies march 65 miles through oppressive heat to prison camps. Along the way, the men—many of whom had tropical diseases—were denied food; some were shot for lagging behind.

I shook hands with some of the survivors as I crossed the start. They thanked me for competing in their honor, as if what I was about to do would somehow compare with what they'd endured. As the runners took off, it felt strange to let their light strides leave me behind. All I could manage was a frustratingly slow pace. Then I saw a team of soldiers—with boots and guns and heavy packs—sprint past me in rhythm, causing an unexpected swell of patriotism.

That feeling faded as I marched past the White Sands Missile Range Museum, and onto a road surrounded by dust, dunes, and juniper plants. I tried to keep a steady 19-minute-per-mile pace, and let the fellowship of the marchers carry me along.

At mile six I started trudging up a two-mile hill—steeper than Heartbreak Hill in the Boston Marathon—and saw other runners coming back down who were already seven demoralizing miles ahead of me. I was walking, but a mere three hours in, this felt harder than any marathon I'd ever run. The wind and heat were relentless. I'd already changed my socks and retaped my blisters once, and when I got blisters next to those, I taped them, too. My pack—which I'd filled with 38 pounds of ExquisiCat kitty litter—was cramping my shoulders. I was over it.

Yet as I circled dusty Mineral Hill at mile 14, I spotted Ben Steele, a 91-year-old veteran. He said he didn't get blisters during the real Death March because he "stole a sock off a dead guy." Seeing him put my discomfort in a new light. Having to get my blisters taped again suddenly didn't seem so dire. And when I reached the Sand Pit, a mile-long path at mile 22, I dug in my trekking poles and plowed through. Steele had trudged three times as far, with no shoes, no finish line, and no hope. I could do this.

On the final flat stretch, I marched alone, the dust in my eyes. The real runners were long done. When I finally arrived at the finish in 9:35—some six hours slower than my marathon PR—I looked around for a hand to shake, but all the veterans were gone. I realized that it didn't matter: I'd completed a marathon as a tribute to them. When a soldier said, "Thank you, ma'am," and hung a medal shaped like a dog tag around my neck, the weight of it surprised me.

By Evelyn Spence