LESS IS MORE

I walked into the banquet room of the Marriott Plaza Hotel in Buenos Aires. It was February 21, 2005. Around 250 people had gathered for a welcome reception and dinner and were mingling around the tables, getting to know each other.

Excitement filled the air.

There were slightly over two hundred runners in the room, plus a number of spouses, partners, and friends. I’d suspected this race was going to be different than anything I’d experienced so far. But joining an intimate gathering of, oh, sixteen or seventeen dozen runners was so different than jumping into a surging sea of twenty thousand marathoners that the contrast felt almost surreal.

Plus, if the group seemed intimate now, what would it feel like after we spent days traveling together on a Russian icebreaker ship to and from Antarctica?

I spotted my friend Mike, who had flown in from North Carolina that afternoon, and we greeted each other with grins and bro-hugs. A tall English guy with a shaved head and dry wit, Mike and I had known each other for ten years, working together on various projects and taking the occasional guy-trip to play golf or ski. We’d always had great competitive camaraderie. For example, the day I called to tell him I’d run my first marathon, he boasted that he’d just finished his first triathlon. On a ski trip to Utah, he showed the steepest slopes who was boss, while I struggled to master the art of skiing and staying upright at the same time.

But Mike doesn’t always come out on top. I made sure to call him on my cell phone from Stockholm’s Globe Arena in the middle of a performance by U2, his favorite band. And thank goodness I’m a much better golfer than he is. (Although he got an eagle before I did, calling me from the golf course so he could gloat!)

The adventure on which we were about to embark, however, was unlike anything either of us had ever tackled—together or on our own.

Throughout the evening, I got to know many of the other runners. And as we mingled, the reigning question of the evening was twofold: “Where are you from, and why are you here?” The answers, as it turned out, were as diverse as the group appeared to be.

Ian, fifty-eight, had started running just four years earlier when his divorce became final and he couldn’t decide whether to take up drinking full-time or to start running. Luckily, he’d laced on a pair of running shoes and never looked back.

Alyn and Jay, also in their fifties, hailed from Colorado. The couple were on the same mission I was: to run a marathon on all seven continents. Alyn, vivacious with short, spiky, blond hair, told me this was their sixth marathon. They had one more race, in China, and their quest would be complete.

William, a neuroscientist from Singapore, had been paralyzed from the waist down since contracting polio when he was two years old. Having fitted his wheelchair with knobby tires and custom crampons to tackle the icy course, this would be his second marathon in an attempt to raise money for cancer research by participating in seven marathons on seven continents in seventy days!

Mark, a twenty-four-year-old from England, was also running to raise money for a cause, already securing over 40,000 British pounds for a crippled children’s society.

I had met Wendy two years earlier when we enrolled in the same executive program at Harvard Business School. A serious runner, she’d been intrigued by my seven-marathon goal and had e-mailed me a few months later to tell me she’d signed up for the Antarctica Marathon too. She was here with her boyfriend, who confessed that he hated the cold but was nevertheless committed to supporting Wendy in her running goals.

Suzanne was a thirty-something political consultant from New York. When I asked her why she was here, her answer was unexpected and delightful. She told me, “When I was a little girl, I spotted Antarctica on the bottom of the globe, and it intrigued me because it had no cities on it. I decided then and there I would come here one day. And with this marathon, I’m fulfilling that promise to myself.”

All in all, we were as eclectic a bunch as you can imagine. Dominated by Americans, the group also had a fair number of Europeans, a sprinkling of Asians, more women than I’d expected, and a surprising number of folks in their late forties, fifties, and even sixties.

Two days later, we flew to the Argentinian city of Ushuaia and boarded a ship for the two-day crossing of the Drake Passage. Some of the roughest seas in the world, Drake Passage is a surreal seascape of towering sculptures of snow and ice. Our destination? King George Island, just off the Antarctic Peninsula.

On the morning of the race, I dressed in layers so that I could start out warm yet have clothing to shed as my body heat rose from running. The skies were overcast at eight o’clock as we climbed into inflatable Zodiac marine boats for a wild ride from the ship to the shore, bouncing through choppy gray waves as the wind pelted us with horizontally driven sleet and snow.

Climbing over the rim of the boat, I stepped onto the island. Everywhere I looked was breathtaking untamed terrain. The course—a double loop in the shape of an 8, which we would run twice—wasn’t completely snow-bound. In fact, we would be running half the time in snow and half the time in mud. The course went past isolated Russian and Chinese outposts and research bases, and also boasted a steep glacier we would have to scale—not once but twice!

The starting shot was fired and we were off!

The first quarter of the race went uphill and downhill through mud, rocks, and streams. Some of the hills seemed nearly too steep to scale, especially since the thick mud made traction nearly impossible!

As I approached the glacier, I gave up running altogether. It was so steep that the only way to scale it was to lean forward and climb. I climbed a mile up, and then suddenly I was running—flying even—down the other side. Exhilarating!

Despite the impossible terrain—and the intermittent driving snow and sleet—I have to tell you that I had a big smile on my face most of the time. This was a challenge unlike any of the others, and I was up to it!

I was heading into the second half of the course when I took a wrong step and suddenly fell, writhing in agony, to the frozen ground. My thigh muscle had completely seized up in the worst cramp I’d felt in my entire life! I took three Advil and waited for what seemed like an eternity. When I tried to stand, I fell over again, yelping in pain.

Was this race over for me? Was this how two years of planning and training would come to an end?

When you’re facing a monumental challenge, there are things you can control and things you can’t. While something like a muscle cramp isn’t entirely within your control, there were things I could have done to lessen the likelihood of getting one. I should have taken more potassium, eaten more bananas, and carried salt tablets with me. Instead, it cost me time (and it hurt like hell) until eventually I was able to stand and, ever so gingerly, begin putting weight on my leg again.

Something that had been completely within my control, however—and something I definitely didn’t manage well—was how I shed the layers I’d worn for the race. Considering this was my fifth marathon, I still wasn’t very advanced in some of my knowledge and gear. That morning I’d put on shorts and a tank top, then a ten-dollar sweat suit, then a layer of fleece/polypro pants and jacket. As I ran, I peeled layers aside, leaving items of clothing at various checkpoints along the way. Not the smartest thing I’ve ever done.

Toward the end the race was a blur, but I do remember running with that big smile on my face and even singing to songs on my iPod. I remember passing other runners and calling out their names with a word of encouragement, as they were doing for me.

“Way to go, Suzanne!” “You’re doing great, Mark!” “You’re almost there, Wendy!”

William, of course, was unmistakable in his racing chair. Any time our paths crossed, I could see that the mud was playing unexpected havoc with his progress. He had ingeniously equipped his chair for snow and ice (as much as you can equip a wheelchair for that kind of thing), but shoe-sucking, quicksand-like mud . . . that’s another story.

Toward the end of the race I was running in shorts and my sweatshirt, not feeling much in my fingers, but my legs and my spirit were strong. I remember intentionally drinking in the views of the mountains, the sea, our ship, the glaciers, lakes, and streams that I would probably never get the chance to see again.

As I approached the finish line, it all seemed a bit unreal. I was going to make it! Amazing! I ran through the finish zone with my arms raised in triumph. Various photographers were taking photos of the finishers, and cameras flashed. I saw Mike among them, snapping my photo. The big goof had finished three minutes before me!

Because I had shed too many layers of clothing, I was treated for hypothermia, as were many of the other runners. The doctor gave me warm soup, and as I put on dry clothes I thought about hypothermia and hyponatremia just three months apart. Then we bundled up for the long Zodiac boat ride back to the ship. And that night back on the ship, over carved meat and potatoes and many congratulatory toasts, spirits were high.

I kept thinking, If I can do this, I can do anything!

Two days later our ship docked back in Ushuaia, Argentina. Mike and I carried our bags off the ship and back to the hotel. Sitting in the bar, which was in a great room with wooden beams and a massive A-frame window, we looked out past an old fishing village nestled at the edge of the sea, at jagged peaks and an expansive orange twilight. We had a couple beers, toasted our accomplishments, and then gave each other bro-hugs.

“I’ll call you when I get my next eagle,” he said.

“And I’ll send you a photo next time I grab lunch with Bono.”

Mike headed home to North Carolina. I stayed in Argentina. There was one last thing I had to do.

Six days later I ran my sixth-continent marathon, the Fin Del Mundo Marathon in Ushuaia. I was joined by a handful of other runners also fresh from the Antarctica Marathon, including Alyn, who had won the Antarctica race for women with her time of 4:33:28.

William was there too, competing in his third marathon on his way to his seven-race goal. It would only be his second finish, though. Turns out the mud had proven to be a formidable opponent in Antarctica. It took him fifteen minutes to navigate the first three hundred yards of the course. At one point his chair sank literally two feet into the hungry muck, and nearby runners had to push and pull him out. Later a lost screw in one of his wheels forced him out of his racing chair and back into his regular chair, a virtual nail in the coffin of his dreams of finishing the marathon. He remained determined, however, despite the fact that given the mud and mechanical problems his current pace would leave him struggling on the course long after sunset. Race officials eventually convinced him to nix the full marathon for a half-marathon, which he completed in 5:50:41–an accomplishment of epic proportions.

And now here we were—William, Ian, Alyn and Jay, myself, and others—six days later, taking on yet another challenge.

When I registered for Fin Del Mundo, I wasn’t even sure it was possible to run two marathons that close together. I not only finished, however, but my time of 4:49 was a personal best.

As I crossed the finish line, Alyn, Jay, and others were waiting for me, and we wrapped our arms around each other in a massive hug. Each one of us had accomplished so very much.

I’d just completed my sixth marathon. One more race and my goal would be finished!

The realization was both thrilling and sad. When it was all over, what then?

It was also bittersweet heading back to Jakarta, where I would spend three weeks cleaning out my office and packing my bags. I would leave, then, for California to begin my new position with the start-up in Sonoma County. Linda would follow in three months, after she had closed up the house, found a good home for Kiki, the scavenger monkey she had adopted, and said good-bye to friends.

Talk about a transition! In Indonesia, Linda and I lived in a massive house and had servants, drivers, bodyguards, seven dogs, two cats, six chickens, and Kiki. I had a huge paneled office, a staff of secretaries, and the title of president of an operation of five hundred employees in a company of one hundred thousand. In Sonoma, we would move into a one-bedroom apartment until we could find a house, and I’d have the corner cubicle in a start-up with one hundred employees—not one hundred thousand.

And yet if the intimacy of the Antarctica Marathon had taught me anything, it’s that sometimes less is more. The camaraderie of two hundred runners facing an extreme challenge had forged a depth of friendships and richness of accomplishment unlike any other marathon. Was the experience a portent of things to come? I’d soon find out.

The following months were busy and exciting. Several months after Linda joined me in California, we bought a house. My career, and the camaraderie of my team at work, was consuming and satisfying.

One thing, however, nagged at the back of my mind. I had yet to run my final marathon. But once I did, what then? Once my four-year, seven-marathon goal was realized, what was next?

The answer came unexpectedly. And it came wrapped in foil and a bow.