What it’s like to run a marathon beyond the end of the world

“Hold on tight. It’s gonna be wet. And it’s gonna be bumpy.” Our Zodiac driver Steven Rose, who goes by Steve, doesn’t sugarcoat it. I grab the line to my left and slide my goggles over my eyes.

The sea is choppy, and the water is a deep, intense blue that sends chills down my spine. The temperature is around 5°C (41°F), but the 30-knot winds hitting my face make it feel much colder.

As soon as Steve accelerates, the swells hit those at the front of the boat. I grimace: Running a marathon is hard enough without starting it wet. But Steve goes full throttle, squinting his eyes against the wind.

It’s 7:48 a.m. on March 28, 2025. After three days anchored in the Beagle Channel thanks to a storm, we’ve finally made it across the Drake Passage. Now, we’re heading on our Zodiac to King George Island. In less than an hour, we’ll be running the Antarctica Marathon.

It hasn’t been a smooth journey. Setting foot on King George Island, the largest of the South Shetland Islands—75 miles off the coast of the Antarctic Peninsula—took nine days, 22 hours, and 57 minutes. For me, the journey began in Switzerland, where I took the first of three flights heading toward Ushuaia, the world’s southernmost city, also known as the End of the World.

Four days later, as I boarded the Ocean Albatros with the rest of the Marathon Tours and Travel group (MTT), which consists of 151 runners from 23 nations (97 men and 54 women). The excitement was palpable. MTT has organized the Antarctica Marathon since 1995, the same year the Seven Continents Club was founded to celebrate runners competing in half-, full-, and ultra-marathons across every continent. This year marked the 30th anniversary of the race, adding an extra layer of celebration.

But the sea had other plans. Category 2 hurricane winds of up to 100-miles-per-hour and waves of 12 meters were forecasted in the Drake, the notorious body of water between South America and Antarctica. Just a few hours after leaving Ushuaia, expedition leader Mike Scotting grabbed the microphone for his daily briefing. “We’ll anchor at the mouth of the Beagle and wait for the system to pass,” he said. The room descended into silence as we began to wonder if we'd be able to make the marathon.

“I don’t believe you need to be a captain to understand that you don’t sail through a Category 2 hurricane. It’s common sense,” says Captain Konstantinos Giannopoulos.

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One day at anchor turned into three, with restlessness growing among the runners eager to stretch their legs. Suddenly, the two treadmills we had on board became the most valuable treasures to seek. But despite, or perhaps because of, the uncertainty of the situation—and the confinement of a 340-foot-long ship—people bonded. We swapped stories of past adventures—and of what brought us to this one.

Lionel Cavalliere from Paris was running a marathon for every single letter of the alphabet. Karen Carter, from Thailand, started running in 2014 and has so far run around 70 half-marathons—now she’s looking to run a marathon on every continent. Wiktor Rozmus from Poland and Kevin Currie from San Francisco are pursuing the Polar Challenge, which involves running a marathon at both poles.

Sudhakar and Tulasi Tolla are the first couple from India to have completed the Five Majors (the most prestigious marathons in the world) together. This September, they could become the first couple to run on all seven continents. “In India, running isn't a major sport, but we want to inspire others,” says Sudhakar. “We don’t have a coach; we just run four times a week and always run together.”

Afowiri Fondzenyuy runs marathons wearing a Toghu, a 28-pound traditional dress from Cameroon. His purpose: Not just highlighting his culture, but raising money for causes. Most recently, he has been raising money to start an intervention center for autism in Cameroon. His oldest daughter is on the spectrum.

As soon as Scotting and Captain Giannopoulos announced that we will cross the Drake at the end of the third at anchor, every marathoner on board looked ecstatic.

Yet when night fell, my greatest fear materializes. A loud bang jolted me awake, followed by a constant slamming of objects in my cabin and throughout the ship's hull. The Ocean Albatros yawned from port to starboard and rhythmically, relentlessly heaved up and down, its bow first banging and then slicing through what felt like a massive body of water. The infamous ‘Drake Shake’ had begun.

The following day, amid the continuous but less violent shaking, the Ocean Albatros was quiet. Most people remained in their cabins, feeling unwell. Nevertheless, our expedition leaders continued their lecture programs, giving lessons on photography, ornithology, and even tectonic plates.

Halfway through the second day of crossing, we spotted the first iceberg, and—at last—by day's end, we cried, “Land ho!” We were now just one sleep away from our challenge.

(Scientists reveal a hidden world beneath Antarctica's ice where rivers flow uphill)

The marathon

On race day, when Steve delivers us ashore, we’re welcomed and escorted to the race start by a group of curious and puzzled Gentoo penguins. We swiftly move toward the bag-drop zone, where a set of large green tarps, secured by a series of heavy rocks on top, serves as a drop zone for our bags and nutrition. Due to the strict no-footprint policy to protect this delicate environment, wraps, plastic bags, and raw seeds are prohibited. All our energy gels had to be transferred into water bottles or flasks beforehand.

These are just a few of the restrictions and protocols necessary for organizing a race in Antarctica. Others include limiting the number of people allowed on landing sites simultaneously to 100 and requiring the organizers to engage with the various scientific bases on King George Island through which the race snakes (Uruguay, China, Russia, and Chile).

“We spent years engaging with regulatory bodies and leading scientists to ensure we operate within the regulations, objectives, and requests of the IAATO, the Antarctic Treaty, and various bases,” says Jeff Adams, president of MTT and race director. As an experienced runner, he completed the same marathon as a client in 2013 and completed the Seven Continents challenge in 2019. On race day, he’s the one who sets us loose.

When we start running, the energy built up during the long days at sea is finally released. We cheer for each other; we are both runners and supporters at the same time. The island is rugged and rocky, except for a few containers and laminated structures near the landing site and research bases. Only the shorelines provide a bit of color to an otherwise harsh landscape.

The first part of the racecourse winds along muddy roads through the Chilean Base and towards the island’s small airport (also used for emergencies). We then turn left and head to the Great Wall Station and the “China Turnaround,” the midpoint of lap one set at mile two. The return to the start line is more challenging and wind-battered, but the out-and-back stretch allows us to support one another through the struggle.

After only one lap, I feel my legs stiffen and a sharp acidity in my quads, likely due to the limited movement on board and the seasickness pills. The excitement had caused us to start running much too quickly for the demands of the marathon, but I still have five laps to go.

But I enter a state of flow: I stop checking my watch and pacing, and everything around me is enveloped in a bubble that exists only in this moment.

I see the other runners striding through the winding course and hear their labored breathing, along with the cracking sound of trail shoes gripping the loose stones. I sense the fabric of my gloves growing damp, and I can feel one of my right toenails touching the front of my shoe as I run downhill. I smell the pungent, briny scent of the sea and the geosmin released as I maneuver through the mud.

I keep running despite the pain. I breathe in, breathe out, open my chest, and look ahead. The mantra takes hold, and I move forward, trying to keep the marathon demons at bay—one step at a time.

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“On lap six, I had this moment of like, can I finish? That was a crack for me, and I'm a crier. That's how I show my emotions. I cried but couldn’t breathe. It was really hard,” says Stephanie Kortan (from Atlanta). “I had to turn inward and walk. I took some deep breaths and told myself you can do hard things. You can do this. You don't want to run 24 miles and not finish. You have to run 26. Two more to go. Two.”

We both finished, and tears filled our eyes afterward. We didn’t just complete a marathon in brutal conditions; we accomplished it in Antarctica at the end of an epic adventure that had transformed us.

At that moment, I understand the addictive nature of exploration. At the end of these odysseys, you’re left on an emotional rollercoaster, filled with a heightened sense of curiosity and a desire for more exploration and adventure.

It’s still cold and windy on King George Island. I’m sweaty and need a hot shower. I zip up my blue parka and put on my rubber boots. I jump onto the Zodiac, struggling with cramps. Someone else is at the helm of the boat, and it’s time to say goodbye to the island. The adventure is nearly over, but I’m sure I’ll return for more. Antarctica is calling loudly.