Note: For the first time the Marathon Foodie is posting a race recap in two voices. The perspective of the runner and the support crew have been merged to make a comprehensive report. The entries in blue italics were written by Eugene Cabusao who was my "one-man crew" at the BDM.--
Just before midnight of March 6, 2010 the Marathon Foodie along with 142 men and women braved one of the toughest if not the toughest solo running event in the country -- the Bataan Death March 102, an 18-hour ultramarathon covering 102 kilometers from Mariveles, Bataan to San Fernando, Pampanga.
BDM 102 is a race like no other. No frills, no sound system no lights at the starting area, no water stations, no cash prizes, yet it attracts a cult-following among hardcore runners because it is much more daunting than the standard marathon distance and because it is running at its purest form. The BDM is said to be a true test of person’s character and mental and physical toughness.
I signed up for the challenge just to see how strong I was. I was seduced by the fact that out of 82 who joined the first edition, only five were women and only two of them survived. I said to myself, if only women believed in their physical capacities more, they’d make good endurance runners. I am woman, and knew I could make it.
Since runners are only allowed to participate if they have their own support crew, I recruited my husband Eugene. His role was to make sure I follow my race pace of 6 KM per hour and that my hydration and nutrition intake were on schedule.
Being support crew is not an easy task. Being my first time to do it, I had the usual clumsiness and difficulty adjusting to a new task. To add more difficulty to an already critical job, I did it alone.
I showed up at the starting line backed by two marathon experiences and four months of training. I did two 50K’s and one 66K and trained under the heat of the El Nino sun. I knew I was ready physically. What I didn’t know was if I trained well enough to fight the demons in my head when I reach 70 kilometers and beyond.
The bull horn was sounded at 11:30 PM and all hell broke loose.
Learning from the online journals of those who ran the BDM’s first edition, I tempered my exuberance and stuck to my goal of 6-7 kilometers per hour. I brisk-walked the steep portions of the route especially the zigzag pass in Mariveles -- a deserted uphill road with elevation similar to Busay in pitch black darkness. Without a light, you would either slam into the mountain wall on one side or fall off a cliff as high as 400 meters on the other.
Just before midnight of March 6, 2010 the Marathon Foodie along with 142 men and women braved one of the toughest if not the toughest solo running event in the country -- the Bataan Death March 102, an 18-hour ultramarathon covering 102 kilometers from Mariveles, Bataan to San Fernando, Pampanga.
BDM 102 is a race like no other. No frills, no sound system no lights at the starting area, no water stations, no cash prizes, yet it attracts a cult-following among hardcore runners because it is much more daunting than the standard marathon distance and because it is running at its purest form. The BDM is said to be a true test of person’s character and mental and physical toughness.
I signed up for the challenge just to see how strong I was. I was seduced by the fact that out of 82 who joined the first edition, only five were women and only two of them survived. I said to myself, if only women believed in their physical capacities more, they’d make good endurance runners. I am woman, and knew I could make it.
Since runners are only allowed to participate if they have their own support crew, I recruited my husband Eugene. His role was to make sure I follow my race pace of 6 KM per hour and that my hydration and nutrition intake were on schedule.
Being support crew is not an easy task. Being my first time to do it, I had the usual clumsiness and difficulty adjusting to a new task. To add more difficulty to an already critical job, I did it alone.
I showed up at the starting line backed by two marathon experiences and four months of training. I did two 50K’s and one 66K and trained under the heat of the El Nino sun. I knew I was ready physically. What I didn’t know was if I trained well enough to fight the demons in my head when I reach 70 kilometers and beyond.
The bull horn was sounded at 11:30 PM and all hell broke loose.
Learning from the online journals of those who ran the BDM’s first edition, I tempered my exuberance and stuck to my goal of 6-7 kilometers per hour. I brisk-walked the steep portions of the route especially the zigzag pass in Mariveles -- a deserted uphill road with elevation similar to Busay in pitch black darkness. Without a light, you would either slam into the mountain wall on one side or fall off a cliff as high as 400 meters on the other.
Although I found myself alone for long stretches in the darkened highways and towns that were fast asleep, it never occurred to me to be afraid. When running in the dark you learn to engage all of your senses. I shut my MP3 and listened for any sound of oncoming danger – a truck, a bus, ferocious stray dogs, and drunks along the route.
At night a runner doesn’t feel as thirsty as when running under the heat of the sun. You can get dehydrated and not even know it. So Eugene and I made sure to make hydration stops every two kilometers, whether or not I felt the need to drink or not.
The word "crew" by definition is "a group of people working or associated together in a common activity," which means there's no such thing as a one-man crew.
That meant I had to multi-task in order to perform my mission as support - drive, hand out drinks and food, take pictures, apply liniment and massage Haide's legs, refill water bottle, spray water/pour ice water on her to cool her down. I also had to make sure she's following the race plan and adjust the race plan if there are changes in timing.
I gave encouragement and/or threatened her when needed, and held the malong around her when she needed to piss (which reminds me - you owe me a new pair of Sanuk!!!).
I'm pretty used to multi-tasking, since it's part of my profession, but then again I received training for most of the stuff I have to do in my work. This was a new kind of experience. Doing each task mentioned above quickly and correctly takes more than a few seconds for one person, but doing everything properly alone took a lot of time - valuable time which the runner could have used for running instead of staying at the pit stop.
I reached the only aid station at KM 50 in Abucay town at around 7:30 in the morning. After a quick change of clothes, shoes and hurried breakfast, I put on a brave front and braced myself for the El Nino sun. This was where the real race began. KM 50 and beyond would separate the men from the boys, the posers from the hardcore.
At night a runner doesn’t feel as thirsty as when running under the heat of the sun. You can get dehydrated and not even know it. So Eugene and I made sure to make hydration stops every two kilometers, whether or not I felt the need to drink or not.
The word "crew" by definition is "a group of people working or associated together in a common activity," which means there's no such thing as a one-man crew.
That meant I had to multi-task in order to perform my mission as support - drive, hand out drinks and food, take pictures, apply liniment and massage Haide's legs, refill water bottle, spray water/pour ice water on her to cool her down. I also had to make sure she's following the race plan and adjust the race plan if there are changes in timing.
I gave encouragement and/or threatened her when needed, and held the malong around her when she needed to piss (which reminds me - you owe me a new pair of Sanuk!!!).
I'm pretty used to multi-tasking, since it's part of my profession, but then again I received training for most of the stuff I have to do in my work. This was a new kind of experience. Doing each task mentioned above quickly and correctly takes more than a few seconds for one person, but doing everything properly alone took a lot of time - valuable time which the runner could have used for running instead of staying at the pit stop.
I reached the only aid station at KM 50 in Abucay town at around 7:30 in the morning. After a quick change of clothes, shoes and hurried breakfast, I put on a brave front and braced myself for the El Nino sun. This was where the real race began. KM 50 and beyond would separate the men from the boys, the posers from the hardcore.
I didn’t think of the double digit distances. This would only make the suffering seem more interminable. Chopping the distance into bite sizes made me less tired and more efficient.
At the beginning of the run, Haide stayed at each stop for about just about half a minute. She could easily make up the time with a burst of speed. This was okay for about the first 50 km, but then she started slowing. We were both adjusting to the new routine because we didn't practice beforehand. A minute might not seem much, but multiply it by the number of stops, it balloons and soon that unnecessary delay will bite you when you need most.
Sure, Haide practiced her long runs and building up endurance, but I didn't practice the myriad tasks I had to do, nor did we practice the sequence of her coming and going, and the price we paid was extra time spent at the pit stop, which could have been used for running and covering more ground.
At first the goal was to run-walk 1KM every 10 minutes. But by noontime I was overheating and could hardly make it past 900 meters. We were 6 kilometers behind schedule and my legs felt twice as heavy. By the time I reached KM 65, I felt I could not go on anymore and begged Eugene to just call the race director and quit even with still more than five hours to go. Then he told me -- "Death before dishonor!"
Haide hit her first wall at KM 65. When she reached the pit stop she just sat by the roadside, started to cry and begged me for a ride. Bare words of encouragement like “kaya mo yan” and “marami pang oras” would not make her get up from the sidewalk and resume the race. She said she needed proof that it wasn’t mathematically impossible to make it to cut-off at her current pace. So I crunched numbers.
Eugene came up with the brilliant idea of chopping the distance further into 500 meter intervals run at 7:00 minutes per kilometer pace followed by a one-minute complete stop at the back of the car. Those sixty seconds of rest was spent for eating bananas and hydrating (10 sec.), massaging the legs and back with liniment (30 sec.) and sponging the head, armpits and groin with ice-cold water (15 sec.). The pit stops had the precision of a real F1 team. We used this strategy until KM 87, just before the road construction in Guagua town. Looking back, I think this strategy was the key to finishing the race.
I think we finally got through the learning curve after about Km 68. The shorter 500-meter distance intervals made her run much faster. Haide found her second wind and we covered lost ground. Had we not made adjustments to the original race pace plan, the wasted minutes could have cost us her finisher's trophy and medal.
At the beginning of the run, Haide stayed at each stop for about just about half a minute. She could easily make up the time with a burst of speed. This was okay for about the first 50 km, but then she started slowing. We were both adjusting to the new routine because we didn't practice beforehand. A minute might not seem much, but multiply it by the number of stops, it balloons and soon that unnecessary delay will bite you when you need most.
Sure, Haide practiced her long runs and building up endurance, but I didn't practice the myriad tasks I had to do, nor did we practice the sequence of her coming and going, and the price we paid was extra time spent at the pit stop, which could have been used for running and covering more ground.
At first the goal was to run-walk 1KM every 10 minutes. But by noontime I was overheating and could hardly make it past 900 meters. We were 6 kilometers behind schedule and my legs felt twice as heavy. By the time I reached KM 65, I felt I could not go on anymore and begged Eugene to just call the race director and quit even with still more than five hours to go. Then he told me -- "Death before dishonor!"
Haide hit her first wall at KM 65. When she reached the pit stop she just sat by the roadside, started to cry and begged me for a ride. Bare words of encouragement like “kaya mo yan” and “marami pang oras” would not make her get up from the sidewalk and resume the race. She said she needed proof that it wasn’t mathematically impossible to make it to cut-off at her current pace. So I crunched numbers.
Eugene came up with the brilliant idea of chopping the distance further into 500 meter intervals run at 7:00 minutes per kilometer pace followed by a one-minute complete stop at the back of the car. Those sixty seconds of rest was spent for eating bananas and hydrating (10 sec.), massaging the legs and back with liniment (30 sec.) and sponging the head, armpits and groin with ice-cold water (15 sec.). The pit stops had the precision of a real F1 team. We used this strategy until KM 87, just before the road construction in Guagua town. Looking back, I think this strategy was the key to finishing the race.
I think we finally got through the learning curve after about Km 68. The shorter 500-meter distance intervals made her run much faster. Haide found her second wind and we covered lost ground. Had we not made adjustments to the original race pace plan, the wasted minutes could have cost us her finisher's trophy and medal.
The controlled pace at the first 50 kilometers paid off. I had no cramps and the knees still felt strong and stable even after more than 14 hours of running. The only painful parts of my body were my two feet and my abs. I thought I had it in the bag, but then the demons came.
From out of nowhere at KM 97, the pain on my feet seemed to have been magnified a hundred times all of a sudden. It was so unbearable that death seemed the easier choice. I don’t know what came over me but I seriously just wanted to jump off the small bridge just after Bacolor Elementary School. and just end it all here. At least when I'm dead, there was no need to explain why I didn’t make it to the 18-hour cut-off.
This was the lowest point of the race for me. I was so near, but the waning minutes seemed to tick away faster than it should and the distance seemed so interminable.
But then I thought of all those who worked hard to get me this far. I also thought of people back home in Cebu, I didn't want to let them down. It wasn't about wanting to finish anymore. I just desperately wanted to live.
During the Carboloading Party, Sir Jovie warned me that runners become very stubborn as they near the end of the run. I should have listened to him because, at about Km 95, Haide refused to drink liquids, eat food or even stop to be doused with ice water. She started getting bitchy and ordering me to leave her to inform the organizers that she was near the finish. She managed to run the last 7 km without hydrating, but she also ended up frying her brain.
When I reached KM 100 with 40 minutes to spare I told myself this was the biggest race of my life and I had to finish it in style, running on empty I raced the last 2 KM at 6:45 - 7:15 MPK. I reached the finishline in 17:40:08 and ranked 88th out of 104 finishers.
I immediately collapsed from heat exhaustion after touching the tape.
From out of nowhere at KM 97, the pain on my feet seemed to have been magnified a hundred times all of a sudden. It was so unbearable that death seemed the easier choice. I don’t know what came over me but I seriously just wanted to jump off the small bridge just after Bacolor Elementary School. and just end it all here. At least when I'm dead, there was no need to explain why I didn’t make it to the 18-hour cut-off.
This was the lowest point of the race for me. I was so near, but the waning minutes seemed to tick away faster than it should and the distance seemed so interminable.
But then I thought of all those who worked hard to get me this far. I also thought of people back home in Cebu, I didn't want to let them down. It wasn't about wanting to finish anymore. I just desperately wanted to live.
During the Carboloading Party, Sir Jovie warned me that runners become very stubborn as they near the end of the run. I should have listened to him because, at about Km 95, Haide refused to drink liquids, eat food or even stop to be doused with ice water. She started getting bitchy and ordering me to leave her to inform the organizers that she was near the finish. She managed to run the last 7 km without hydrating, but she also ended up frying her brain.
When I reached KM 100 with 40 minutes to spare I told myself this was the biggest race of my life and I had to finish it in style, running on empty I raced the last 2 KM at 6:45 - 7:15 MPK. I reached the finishline in 17:40:08 and ranked 88th out of 104 finishers.
I immediately collapsed from heat exhaustion after touching the tape.
After her dramatic finish, she collapsed and had to be dragged over to a shed. She started asking for help in finding a taxi so she could go home (she must have thought she was still in Cebu). When asked if she was with anyone, she said no. She didn't even recognize me! She was suffering from heat exhaustion.
After removing some of her running clothes and shoes, about 15 minutes of rest, water, a bottle of Gatorade, several wet towels to cool her off and a protein drink (Recoverite) that Bards Bathan and Mesh Villanueva gave her, Haide started asking if she was going to be able to receive her finisher's medal. That meant she was feeling better and back her former self. I realize that I should not have left her at Km 96. I could have stayed all the way to KM 101 and still make it ahead of her at the finish line.
When I woke up, I didn’t even know where I was. I thought I was in a school sports fest and the two ladies who kept asking me to drink water and Gatorade (whom I later realized were Bards and Mesh) were school nurses. I kept seeing the letters BDM all around me and couldn’t recall what it was. BDM. BDM. Why was it so familiar? I saw Eugene and asked him where I was and what day it was.
It was only when I saw my dust covered legs and swollen feet did I realize that I must have run and finished a road race called the BDM 102.
When I woke up, I didn’t even know where I was. I thought I was in a school sports fest and the two ladies who kept asking me to drink water and Gatorade (whom I later realized were Bards and Mesh) were school nurses. I kept seeing the letters BDM all around me and couldn’t recall what it was. BDM. BDM. Why was it so familiar? I saw Eugene and asked him where I was and what day it was.
It was only when I saw my dust covered legs and swollen feet did I realize that I must have run and finished a road race called the BDM 102.
After the dust has settled only 104 survived 9 of whom were women. The only other Cebu-based runner at BDM 102, Bro. Carlo Bacalla of Don Bosco also survived at 14:38 placing 17th.
It’s been days after the BDM and I still can't believe I did it. I put my BDM trophy and medal on my office table where I can see it everyday, to remind me just how strong and weak I can be.
I needed a while to write. Running the BDM has shaken me to the core, its effect too profound for words and too personal to share in this blog.
I don’t know about the others, but the BDM took so much out of me and it feels as if a part of me died and got left behind that tortuous route, only to be replaced with something that is hopefully a much better version of the old. (Think: the old Nike Free “Reincarnate. Leave your old self behind.” ad)
Or maybe I’m just shell-shocked.
It is when you’re dying from inexplicable pain that you feel truly alive. Now that the blisters are gone, I will probably do it again.
Self-doubt saddled Haide while she was out there running, but I had no doubt in my mind that she would make it. She has nerves of steel and she’s stronger than even most men. I’m truly proud of her.
Post Script:
I share my BDM success with Eugene. There was no way I could have made it without him. He was on top of everything and anticipated all my needs even before I knew I needed it. No one could have done it better. It was pure labor of love.
I needed a while to write. Running the BDM has shaken me to the core, its effect too profound for words and too personal to share in this blog.
I don’t know about the others, but the BDM took so much out of me and it feels as if a part of me died and got left behind that tortuous route, only to be replaced with something that is hopefully a much better version of the old. (Think: the old Nike Free “Reincarnate. Leave your old self behind.” ad)
Or maybe I’m just shell-shocked.
It is when you’re dying from inexplicable pain that you feel truly alive. Now that the blisters are gone, I will probably do it again.
Self-doubt saddled Haide while she was out there running, but I had no doubt in my mind that she would make it. She has nerves of steel and she’s stronger than even most men. I’m truly proud of her.
Post Script:
I share my BDM success with Eugene. There was no way I could have made it without him. He was on top of everything and anticipated all my needs even before I knew I needed it. No one could have done it better. It was pure labor of love.
Thank you too to all the support crew that helped me in the last 7 kilometers, especially to Sam the Running Ninja and his support team from Takbo.ph.
I’m forever grateful to Bards Bathan, Mesh Villanueva and Ray Abenojar of T2 Running. They revived me when I passed out and took care of me until I could be on my feet again.
To Jonel Mendoza who selflessly shared his resources and made sure we had a place to stay in Mariveles and whose guidance made me make all the right moves at the BDM. I can only hope to repay him by paying it forward and teaching and guiding others run their first BDM.
Finally, to the Bald Runner, without whom there would be no BDM. I understand now why this race is run like a guerilla war – meaning no corporate sponsors. The BDM is sui generis – a class of its own. Commercializing the BDM would surely leave a bad taste in the mouth. It is first and foremost a tribute to the men (and some women residents who died helping the POW’s) who perished 68 years ago. They will never be forgotten.
Photo Credits:
Ray Abenojar, Elaine Mirabueno Botabora, Estan Cabigas, Eugene Cabusao, Brando Losaria. Thank you for sharing your photos and for memorializing this life-changing event.
I’m forever grateful to Bards Bathan, Mesh Villanueva and Ray Abenojar of T2 Running. They revived me when I passed out and took care of me until I could be on my feet again.
To Jonel Mendoza who selflessly shared his resources and made sure we had a place to stay in Mariveles and whose guidance made me make all the right moves at the BDM. I can only hope to repay him by paying it forward and teaching and guiding others run their first BDM.
Finally, to the Bald Runner, without whom there would be no BDM. I understand now why this race is run like a guerilla war – meaning no corporate sponsors. The BDM is sui generis – a class of its own. Commercializing the BDM would surely leave a bad taste in the mouth. It is first and foremost a tribute to the men (and some women residents who died helping the POW’s) who perished 68 years ago. They will never be forgotten.
Photo Credits:
Ray Abenojar, Elaine Mirabueno Botabora, Estan Cabigas, Eugene Cabusao, Brando Losaria. Thank you for sharing your photos and for memorializing this life-changing event.
