Denmark’s 100-kilometer Race: Agonies of a Distance
Runner.
by
Fradley Garner
It’s insane. Never again.
That’s what
number 453 swore to his wife and sons as they carried him home a year ago from
that bone-bending, blister-raising nightmare on Denmark’s so-called “Riviera.”
That’s what he’s been telling himself since.
Many a
morning this year, jogging in the woods across the shore road, as frost
crystals form on the shoulders of his maroon training jacket with the tiny “100
Km. DENMARK” flag sewn over the right breast, 453 tells himself:
“On Saturday
night, May 13, 1978, you will walk the few steps from your house north of Vedbæk
out to the shore road and watch the sweaty runners gulping tea and
encouragement at the 19-kilometer tent and disappearing up the road toward
‘Hamlet’s castle.’ You will remember last May and the two other Mays you tried
it and thank heaven that the satellites above you aren’t out there the
rest of the night and next day proving you’ve gone completely cucumber.”
Last year he
proved it. At age nearly 51 he proved he could run, walk and hump 100
kilometers—62.14 miles—in 21 hours, 12
minutes, 30 seconds. (The first 50 km took seven hours. The rest he walked and
humped.) He had run well in many shorter events for several years. This was the
third year, not in a row, that he’d tried to finish Københavns Idræts-forening’s
(the Copenhagen Athletic Association’s) annual international road test of
two-legged folly.
It always begins at Østerbro stadium in Copenhagen on a Saturday
night. And that’s where it ends some time next day—for the
three out of four who hack it back. Inside, hundreds of starters—both sexes,
all ages, from many countries—line up to get their starting numbers, route map
and control coupons. And pay their starting fee (60 Danish kroner) if they
haven’t registered in advance.
Loud waves of voices, soft scent of
camphor. Some hotshots mill around, revving up their motor muscles. Old friends
and veterans slap backs, swap insults. Novices wait uncertainly, saying little.
Last May, number 453 sat on a bench next to a 15-year-old girl named Lise with
her left arm in a sling. “I guess it will take about 15 hours,” she said. “I
broke my wrist running home from school.”
Some official blabs instructions over a
bull horn which few understand. Adjust your shoelaces. The highway garments
lend a false air of festive outing to this double-and-a-half marathon. Sweat
suits in all shades. Knitted caps. Funny hats. (Ha, ha, they laugh all the way
to Hellebæk where they collapse like a bum soufflé.) Army shoes and uniforms
for some walkers and marchers. Knapsacks, belt packs. Some are garbed the way
453 was under another number on his first abortive attempt back in 1972:
shorts, undershirts, no headgear. Crazy. Heavy mists and temperatures down to
five degrees C. (41 F.) are forecast along the Øresund coast.
Well before 10 p.m. starting time the gang drifts outside into
the lighted stadium, across the green turf and onto the cinder track. Knots of
onlookers shout encouragement from the bleachers. Tension mounts as the
countdown is barked over a loudspeaker: 5 minutes . . . 4 . . .
3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .
10 seconds . . . BANG! Off we
shuffle—last year 509 of us, ages 12 to 76, rubbing elbows
around the track and emptying into the street. He we can—and do—spread out.
Crossing the street, 453 sees 306—short
stubby Jens Jensen—stumble and scrape a knee. Jens wears knee-length shorts. He
is an everyday jogger well into his seventies, a retired Copenhagen district
physician, cofounder and now committee member for this six-year-old event.
“I’ve never done that before,” Jens mutters to his young running-buddy
scrambling to his feet and pumping onward. 453 passes a cheerful word to 306 as
he passes the white-haired hoofer. On the return leg next day, the sturdy
doctor will overtake the limping invalid, clocking 16.44.30—219th of
376 finishers. Number 453 will place 367th. But never mind that now.
The first post—8.5 km—winks ahead. Nobody
worth his salt stops here. As Robert Frost wrote in “Stopping by Woods”: “But I
have promises to keep,/And miles to go before I sleep,/And miles to go before I
sleep.”
Strandvejen—(the Shore Road)—is trafficked
like a warm summer night. Cars. Motorcycles. Even bicyclists to pace and nurse
the privileged few with dry socks and underwear. There are still more runners
than wheelers, though.
The next post—19 km—is so close to home,
453 could drop out and crawl under the covers at midnight. He’d like to.
Instead, he downs a couple of plastic cups of tepid tea, two bananas and three
chocolate bars, the last one on the lope again. No family there to wave him
on. Nice guys. Puff. Pretty well soaked with sweat and the mist closes in
off the sound a few meters to the right, the briny Øresund dividing Denmark and
Sweden.
Puff, puff. The dark closes in, too. No road lights along much
of the lonely leg to the next post. No other runners in sight. In fact, no
sight. Puff. Not for the first time, 453 slows to a brisk walk.
One-thirty or so the gas lanterns by Nivå Bay beckon ahead like
airport landing lights. The red-faced fliers with numbers on their fuselages
cluster around the 26.5-km post. No warm drinks here, me hearties. After
a few cups of flavored cold water, pangs around the appendix. Puff. Walk it
off. Somehow he hacks it to Skotterup. And there at the 35.5-km tent the
bouillon and tea are warm. As much as you want. Sandwiches, too. 453 longs for
a friend to drink with. This is farther than he made it in 1972. A couple of
runners sleep it off in the tent. A bus waits for more drop-outs. He wishes . .
.
On the road again, and what yonder light breaks in the east? The
first runner passes going the other way, back to pick up his gold medal.
Tonny Nielsen, a Copenhagen skier, destined to finish this punishment in
7.57.00. Hard to believe? Well, in 1976 Norway’s Kasper Berg set the record:
7.00.40. Tonny isn’t on skis tonight, but the wings on his track shoes waggle
at 453 as the two giants cross paths. How now, brown cow?
At the Helsingør (Elsinore) shipyards 42 km north of the
starting pistol and only 8 km from the turn-around point north of Hellebæk. But
first a gimp around the cobble-stoned paths of Kronborg. Flickering oil pots
are set out to light the way around the great castle grounds. His red eyes
sweep the dusky ramparts for the prince’s ghost, and he hears:
Hamlet. The air bites
shrewdly; it is very cold.
Horatio. It is a nipping and
an eager air.
Hamlet. What hour now?
Midnight struck four hours ago, fellas. Consult your shimmering
watch dial. His ankles are so tired. His knees are stiffening. His head is
empty. Whew, the road to Hellebæk is endless when you can’t run anymore.
The sea to the right sleeps under the rising sun. Runners pass
both ways. Marchers pass both ways. Low conversations.
At last, Hellebæk School. Halfway house 453 slurps bouillon,
glops sandwiches, lies down on the gym floor with his feet up on a bench. And
almost passes out. A lady passes and says the bus is waiting outside. He
rattles to his feet and slogs out the door. Past the bus full of unlaughing
faces. Out of the school grounds, onto the road again.
Let’s see—the first 50 km in seven hours. That’s about seven km
(4.2 miles) an hour. Fair for this course at his age. Of course, if he knew
then it would be another 14 hours before he crossed the finish line, he’d join
the long faces in the bus. Maybe. But he doesn’t know that. All he knows is
that one foot has to move out in front of the other foot. Like the golden C3PO
robot on the desert in “Star Wars.”
He licks his chapped lips again and blinks.
That sun. Change the gray wool moon cap for a widebrim cotton sun cap pinned
inside his jacket. The cotton cap has a pocket on the side with 50 Danish
kroner mad money in it. The mad money goes for extra sandwiches and bananas and
pastry and (ahhh) milk at the next post.
He plays leap frog with a father and son
team. Boy can’t be more than 10 or 12 years old and he insists on sitting down
and resting all the time. Father waits, then rouses the boy, and they plod on.
They pass 453. He passes them. They pass him. At the 62.5-km post a uniformed
aide lifts the half-awake lad up in his arms and carries him into the tent,
stuffing him gently into a sleeping bag. 453 will meet this team again down the
road.
Meanwhile, more grim-faced, stiff-legged
former runners and swaggering marchers pass him. They don’t show us around
Kronborg Castle again on the way back, thank heaven, but Elsinore is now the
size of Manhattan. Massage is offered at the 71.5-km post (where they sell milk
and pastry) but the line is too long. He slumps in a camp chair near the road—and
looks up to see oldtimer Jens Jensen trot past. Not shamble but trot, in
those knee-length shorts. Looking fit. Wonder where his young runner-buddy is.
Now 453 remembers Jens telling some well-wisher last night: “I’ll look forward
to seeing you on the way back!” 453 thinks Jens doesn’t see him.
The rest slowly fades into oblivion: A
half-hour pause on his back in the sweet weeds back of the 79-km post, which
was the 19-km post on the way north last night, which still is two minutes
(even at this pace) from his (uhhhh) bedroom. . .
Mushing inland and down an eternal path
through the woods, always with an eye out for the next bench or log. . .
Picking up a dead branch. A walking stick
to ease the spine through the Deer Park at Klampenborg—and giving the skyward
finger-sign to a grinning young photographer who keeps clicking away at him. .
.
Planting all his bones flat out on a park
bench, all done. Until Florence Nightingale looms overhead (on her way home
from the next post) and asks if he’s part of the race. Is he sure he’s all
right? Would he like a leg massage? Would he? Ohhh. And such soothing words.
All while the Red Cross lady’s male companion stands by helplessly. . .
Throwing away the walking stick and walking
on water (blistered water) out to the shore road and into the stretch, one hand
on hip, other hand on base of spine. Sit. Get up. Find a phone booth and let
them know they can scrape up the remains at the stadium, seven p.m. . .
Asking passers-by how far is the stadium
please, and watching the marcher in the brown tweed suit, in her seventies,
stride past and disappear southwards with a group of late finishers. “Hej
bestemor!” (“Hi grandma!”) some squirts call after her. Only a few streets more.
Who can’t miss it? . . .
Dragging through the door past the man with
the stopwatch, to the table where the lady says she hopes no more are coming
because she’s running out of diplomas. Here, sit down here. . .
And
two of his sons racing in, faces alight, easing him to his feet and steering
him out the door again. No more promises to keep, no
more miles to go—just sleep.
Note: 453 is too
modest to mention the bronze medal and diploma they laid on him back at the
stadium. Perhaps because 375 others also were decorated for finishing in under
22 hours. If you feel up to 100 kilometers afoot (May 13‒14) or want
information on saner amateur events you can enter in Denmark this year, write
to K.I.F. Kirsteinsgade 9, DK 2100 Copenhagen, Denmark. As for 453, look for
ol’ Frad out there again May 13. He’s determined to finish better than 10th
from last, even if he can’t beat Jens Jensen. ■
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