Antarctica is beyond everything, in earthly terms. It is the coldest, darkest, driest, windiest, highest, continent on earth. It binds up 90 percent of the world's fresh water in it's hard blue ice. To get there, one must cross the world's most treacherous stretch of ocean. It is also called the Loneliest, most God Forsaken, and most unforgiving place in the world. Much is still unknown about it, with wide expanses of unexplored land, ice and water comprising it. At the Amundsen-Scott Research Base positioned at the South Pole, they don't bother to teach survival skills. "If you get caught outside, you die." Don't get caught outside.

Starting with Shakleton and his ill-fated (extremely lucky?) expedition, many are the harrowing, nearly unbelievable tales of exploration and expedition on "the Last Continent."

The Antarctica Marathon was my expedition to the Last Continent. It is one of only two marathons run in Antarctica. Last year, high winds and rough seas prevented the runners from going ashore. Each of the 117 participants had each paid thousands of dollars and traveled nearly a week to get within 100 yards of the starting line. For two days they waited on board their ship. But the weather wouldn't change. Finally they had to turn and sail away, without even setting foot on land.

How could one not be captivated by such a place? How could one not want to go? As some of you well know, I have been fairly obsessed with the idea of Antarctica for quite a while, and out of my mind about running this race.

The Antarctic Marathon is put on by Marathon Tours & Travel, a company out of Boston that organizes trips to marathons all over the world. This event is by far the most difficult to pull off. Thom Gilligan, the head of Marathon Tours, said that every year something goes wrong, and he finds himself shaking his head, saying, "never again." This year, capricious Mother Nature gave us a run for our money with a break just big enough to squeeze though.

Race Day was March 2nd. It dawned miserable and gray. The temperature was 28 degrees F, wind out of the west at 40 knots; snow flurries. The ship, a 384-foot Russian research vessel, the Akademik Ioffe, pulled at her anchor chain. Frothed waves crashed into her steel hull, rocking and pitching the ship.

"It doesn't look good," said Andrew, our expedition leader. "We'll have to wait." They sent us down to eat a breakfast of fried eggs and bacon. Hardly pre-race fare. Certain that we weren't going, most people dug in. The atmosphere was surprisingly merry. It seemed most of us had been mentally prepared for this. Not Miru Kawato of Japan. He stood off to the side, looking uncomfortable. "We must run today," he told me. "I brought special foods all the way from Japan for racing. I've eaten them already!"

I didn't eat, having had a gargantuan dinner the night before. But no way would we be getting off the ship today. Spray covered the portholes outside, already crusted with salt.

Suddenly, Andrew rushed into the room. "It looks good, we're going," He said. "Get your gear on, and be ready to board the Zodiacs in 10 minutes!"

Everybody jumped up and rushed to their cabins to suit up just as the egg yolks were beginning to congeal.

Getting into the Zodiacs and away from the ship was an adventure in itself. Dressed in full foul weather gear and high rubber boots, we hurried down the gangplank, and leapt into the bucking inflatables.

The short trip ashore over the backs of the waves was like riding wild horses. We flew in on these furious little monsters to the rocky shore of Bellinghausen Station, King George Island. I could have flown ashore myself. This cold, wet, sullen-faced day was the great muddy stuff that adventure is made of. It's been a long time since I was so happy.

We landed just outside of the Russian research station, a small collection of bright orange boxes inside of which 5 men managed their lives and work throughout the dark & cold Antarctic winter, fast approaching. They allowed us in, all 110 of us, and we invaded their outpost, swarming the place, stowing gear, and making last, uncertain adjustments to our clothes.

Only 10 minutes behind schedule, the race started at 9:40a.m. With a most unceremonious "On Your Mark! Get Set! Go!" we were off--85 Marathoners, and 20 1/2 Marathoners.

For anyone who has run Tucker, Taylor, or Rock Springs in pouring rain, it was business as usual, just substitute snow for rain. On this chunk of Antarctica, sovereign to no government, we ran between research stations from 4 different nations and were greeted with whoops of encouragement from the dedicated citizens of Uruguay, Russia, Chile, and China.

The course went out 3.5 miles, and back through the start. Out the other side 3 miles, and back again to the start. That makes a 1/2 marathon. The full does everything twice. We ran on a hilly, muddy road out to the end, and continued on, past the Uruguan station. Then 500 yards on a cobblestone beach, seals and penguins included. It is hard to view the wildlife, however, when you're trying to follow little pink flags, and not break your ankle while fending off Skuas.

Skuas are large brown birds who nest about this time of year. They do not appreciate all this human endeavor. They do not rally `round the spirit of the race. They worry about their youngsters, big, downy, and helpless, in nests on the ground. We had been well schooled on correct etiquette concerning these birds. This was their home, and we were to give them a wide birth always, and never venture close to a nest. Ditto for all polar wildlife. The Skuas do not know we won't bother them. They just know about their babies. You have to wave your hand around over your head while they dive bomb you. "Wear gloves," Thom had advised. "Those Skuers (he's from Boston) really hurt if they get raw skin."

Amidst this interactive symphony, I glimpsed the bay. Confused white-crested waves tumbled over each other on a green-black sea, all chaos and sharp edges. WILD!

A mile into the race, we had already spread out. I had steadily passed people while trying to keep my pace under control. 4 miles into it, the lead pack was just ahead of me, bumping over a lateral moraine at the end of the beach. Could I catch them? I struggled over the soft dirt mounds, sinking up to my ankles, and onto Collins Glacier. 3/4 of a mile crunching up the corn snow to the turn around, beyond sight in a near whiteout. A tall Russian eased past me, wearing thin coveralls and Converse sneakers. A crampon was fastened to the soul of his left shoe. The right crampon had come loose and twirled and banged around his ankle.

At the top of the glacier, I was closing the gap on the lead pack. When I rounded the turn-around and headed back, I was treated to the most dramatic view of the day. The glacier fell away before me, a great white hump. The knot of runners moved ghostlike through swirling snow. The sky was a flat, menacing black, utterly without definition or border. Just dark and huge.

Back on the dirt road, I caught up with Philip and Peter. Philip was an adventure racer from Winnipeg, Canada. He has competed in 12 adventure races, including Eco-Challenge Argentina, and has finished all of them. He spoke with quiet pride about "his team," and didn't say much else. This was his first marathon.

Peter Ferris was an Irish guy who has run the 150 mile Marathon des Sables in the Sahara (as have Dave & Debbie Hannaford). He has run the 100 mile Himalayan Stage Race (as has Edda Stickle), the Everest Marathon, which starts at 18,000 feet; the Comrades Marathon of South Africa, and several 100 mile races (as have 1/2 the people in this club). I couldn't believe I was running with these guys, but the pace was almost comfortable.

The terrain consisted of small, steep black dirt hills, patchy with snow. Not a tree or bush, or any vegetation, just a muddy road and gray sky. Coming back to the Russian station, which was the mid-point of the course, start, and finish, there was an exceedingly muddy spot. Eyeing it carefully, I chose my route. Just ahead of me, Peter took a different path. He sank in to his calves and pulled out shoeless feet. He was cussing, digging for his shoes when Philip and I trotted by.

We ran through the starting line, where Thom of Marathon tours and the some of the crew from the ship waited. It was impossible to tell who was who; they were so bundled up in their winter gear.

Around the edge of the orange boxes, we headed up a light grade to Chile. The wind was blowing fiercely against our backs. The Chileans were out in force, yelling at us from the protection of an open garage. Another group of runners was ahead of Philip and me, all entered in the 1/2 Marathon. In front of everyone with a 5-minute lead, was John Gebbie of Scotland, competing in the marathon.

Around the back of the Chilean station, we continued to climb gradually. Lovely with the wind at our backs, and little snowflakes racing by. At the top of the hill, we turned, and ran smack into it. The wind was blowing 25 knots, and our feeling of being billowy kites changed in a hurry. Now we were punching bags, pummeled by the wind and needle-sharp snow. We had nearly 3 miles of this to endure before passing through the Chinese Research Station, and a bit beyond, to the aft-ended turn-around point, at some huge orange storage tanks.

Lynn, the biologist from the ship, was there to take our numbers as we passed. She was absurdly cheery, standing out there, writing down numbers if and when anyone shuffled by.

Peter had caught up with us now, and again it was the three of us. A euphoric -looking John Gebbie now had a 10-minute lead.

The wind was relentless on the back-end of the course. Sometimes it was behind us, but mostly it seemed to be in our faces, peppering us with stinging pebbles, or slamming us from the side, almost scooping our feet out from under.

There was a water station about halfway along this leg. We had all prepared bottles, and dropped them in big blue barrels before the race. The crew had brought them out here in an ATV, and some volunteers (dedicated spouses) had laid them out, and were there offering encouragement.

At the water station, I could not get the lid back on my water bottle, and Phillip pulled ahead. I was glad, as his pace was a little too fast. Somewhere in there, Peter fell behind, and I was again alone. 15 miles to go, I would run the rest of the race alone. That was good. I prefer to run alone in such conditions. It is such an odd and exciting mix of exactly what you love and had hoped for, but are gritting your teeth to endure, and looking forward to finishing…and it's all the same thing. I hoard my energy in those times, concentrating on the absolute now.

By this time, the 2nd place woman was 15 minutes behind me, so I began to breathe a little easier. If I just continued to run smart, I should not have any problems.

The 2nd loop, I see now as a pastiche of wintry images…all the things I've described, swirling around my head at once. In fact, the only things circling my head were the Skuas. Pesky things! They favored a sneak attack, coming from behind, but could not seem to resist a squawk of excitement at the last instant. I waved my hands and yelled odious remarks in their direction. They soared off lightly, as if they never had been interested in making a tartar out of my brain.

As in the Quad Dipsea, we passed everything on the course four times. It sounds boring, but with conditions being what they were (perfect), it was reassuring to know that no matter how hard the wind was blowing into your face, you could turn around before long. There was always something to look forward to, a mile or less down the road.

The 4th time over the cobblestone beach I really watched my step. Most of the marker flags had been blown down flat, so searching out the best route from here to there gave me something to occupy my mind. I'd eaten one GU and wished for another. Tough. I didn't have one. I was beginning to get tired with 9 miles to go. Oh well, shut up and go.

By now, Phillip was well ahead of me, and Peter was gaining. Coming through the Russian station for the third time, the crew began to get excited. They had seemed somewhat blasé and removed before. But their blood was quickening. I went around the hairpin turn that threw me back into the wind. The road I had just come up was clearly visible for about a 1/4-mile stretch. No Peter! He had disappeared.

At that last turn around there was Lynn, being dive-bombed by Skuas, considerably less bubbly, but still in good cheer. Those indomitable Polar Types.

With two miles to go, I was crumping out. I needed fuel, and there was none. People were passing me, going the opposite direction to the final turn around. I saw Peter. He was deep inside his head and struggling.

Since all of us runners had been together on the ship for four days, we knew each other. Some people were so heavily clothed it was impossible to tell who they were. But I knew most of them. We offered encouragement and high-fived each other as we passed. The 1/2-marathon walkers were the most enthusiastic. Still, this far into the race, friends seemed too few and far between.

Then Paul from Colorado came along. This was his first marathon, and he had been seasick crossing the Drake Passage. "I'm a weight lifter," he said. "I run, but I haven't really trained for this. I'm just going out to have fun." I had thought he was going to get hit hard by reality. But no! He was cruising along in 10th place with about 5 miles to go, thoroughly enjoying himself. "Hey Jane!" he said good-naturedly as we passed each other. That was what I needed. Paul was my sudden beam of sunlight, and his spirit buoyed me up for the next mile or so. After that, the smell of the barn pulled me in. My pooped turned to pep as I rounded the last corner and headed for the finish. Thom and the guys held a piece of pink gardening tape for me to break though, first woman. Hooray!

Phillip was there too. "You were 2nd, right?" I said excitedly.

"No," He answered. "First."

"First? What happened to John?" Apparently, with 2 miles to go, John's body gave up to hypoglycemia. He staggered, fell, and began crawling, Julie Moss style. He refused any help. Phillip passed him. Somehow, he fought his way back to his feet, and staggered in 4 minutes behind Phillip. Now he was inside the Russian station, recovering.

I was finished. I went to make a little leap of joy, and my legs crumbled beneath me. A tall Russian grabbed me. He lifted me off my feet. "You are very strong! I love you!" he said, and started walking off with me. I thought, "well, I guess I'm not going back to the ship…" but he put me down by the door of the station, and said, "Go in. Get some tea."

Having made it through most of the run feeling good, my whole body protested as soon as I sat down. My legs wanted to cramp, my trunk to stretch, and my stomach to heave. "Great White," the ship's bartender and the most loved man aboard, walked in. He was a big guy, and wore the most ridiculous hat-a penguin, with legs flopping down around his ears, and a little penguin head bobbing to and fro above his own.

"I'm taking a Zodiac back to the ship. Who wants to come?" Everybody. The dirty linoleum floor and folding chairs were not the most comfortable. "I'm coming!" I sang. "Just let me change real quick." Even the short ride out would be brutal in my wet running clothes. Changing into my dry clothes was no easy task. First of all, I could barely move. Also, there was nowhere "proper" to change, so I announced, "I'm changing, please look elsewhere," and stripped down. I was well beyond caring.

Though the marathon was over, the trip had barely begun. We went south from King George Island, and spent another two days cruising around, kayaking next to, and camping out on, the White Continent itself. Although I had been reading about Antarctica and imagining it, for years, I still found the beauty hard to believe…and impossible to describe. You should go down there and see for yourself. If you have even the slightest interest in joining the ranks of Antarctic Marathoners, check out the site at www.marathontour.com. I have some great photos, and I would be happy to share them with you. E-mail me at janeruns2@earthlink.net. I've been all over the world, and this place is beyond anything I've ever seen.