|
The runners crowd the white line painted in the grass, anxious and impatient as racehorses at a starting gate. They shake their legs, wag their arms at their sides, roll their necks from one shoulder to the other. Some look for family members in the crowd and smile excitedly; others are all concentration, eyes burning down the soccer field, around the white church and up the dusty dirt road that leads to Mount Chirripó.
The gun sounds and the dam of humanity bursts. There are yelps of adrenaline, fists thrust skyward in premature victory and a stampede of anxious feet as the flood pours over the soccer field and flows up and away toward the very tall-looking green peaks.
The commotion is sharp and sudden but over in a matter of seconds. All eyes follow the blur of bodies until the tail of the herd disappears around the bend, leaving a cloud of thick dust in its wake.
This spectacle is none other than the 17th annual Chirripó marathon. Between the plaza in San Gerardo de Rivas and the dormitories three miles from the summit of Costa Rica's tallest mountain and back down again, the runners cover a grueling 34 kilometers (21 miles) and climb some 2,050 meters (6,700 feet).
They follow the same trail used by tourists and Ticos alike who climb the mountain for recreation. Narrow enough in parts to allow only one or two competitors to run side by side, the path follows such steep hillsides and valley walls that often the runners' view is of the canopy of trees rooted hundreds of feet below.
Aside from the daunting display of perseverance by the runners, the most surprising thing about this weekend in February is how San Gerardo has changed. This otherwise quiet, quintessential Costa Rican mountain town has transformed overnight into a hive of activity and the focus of intense press attention.
The soccer field buzzes with movement. Tents and cars cluster along the far sideline because of the sudden overcrowding, and vendors in booths bearing Pepsi, Imperial and Dos Pinos logos push free sample cups to the front of their tables. A 30-foot inflatable bottle of orange Gatorade tilts slightly in the breeze and casts a long shadow across the grass, providing rows of spectators with much needed shade.
“I think what they do is crazy,” says Javier from Cartago, watching his brother compete for the second time. “Incredible, but definitely crazy.” This is a common sentiment held among the spectators gathered here. “I can't imagine running up that thing,” admits a U.S. tourist from Portland. “I climbed it last week and that was hard enough.”
During the lull in action, while the runners are climbing methodically, battling each other and the surely present pain in their legs, the crowd dissipates but the field remains active. Children run amok, a volleyball game rages in the steady sun and a rapid chatter streams from a radio booth broadcasting developments and analyses as the runners advance.
With the inherent risk involved in 200 people running a race on a course of loose rock and generally unstable ground, the Red Cross ambulance is a reassuring presence. Sprained ankles, lacerations and even broken bones are not uncommon occurrences for the event. Medical personnel are placed strategically along the course, as are volunteers manning tables offering water and fruit.
Much of the talk on the field and in the town's lone restaurant is of the five brothers from the Cabécar tribe who walked three days from their village to arrive in San Gerardo by race day. The brothers, all in their 20s, were the odds-on favorites to finish high in the standings. In the end, three would place in the top 20.
Finally, a whistle blows sharply and a bright red flag is raised; three hours and 23 minutes after he sped away from the starting line, the first runner has returned.
Seconds later, his still steady stride carries him into view. Applause erupts from all directions as he picks up speed, the emotion of the crowd carrying him the last 20 yards across the finish line.
Gerardo Mora is a coffee farmer from Coto Brus, in the Southern Zone. A gold medal is placed around his neck as he paces back and forth, breathing hard, sweat pouring from his face. Within seconds he is surrounded by a group of reporters, microphones and tape recorders shoved impatiently under his chin. “I want to thank God for giving me the strength to finish today,” he says humbly, eyes on the ground.
“How did you train?” the crowd shouts at him. “I just ran,” he responds. Three minutes later, the whistle blows again and a second runner finishes the journey, some 10 minutes behind the course record of three hours, 15 minutes. Soon, the flag is being raised every couple of minutes. Competitors throw their arms in the air in triumph and blow kisses to the adoring crowd.
Some arrive covered in dirt, elbows and knees bloodied, having obviously taken a fall. Others collapse at the finish line, grabbing cramped legs, teeth clenched in pain. One man falls to his knees in tears and makes the sign of the cross, overcome by the emotion of the moment. After crossing the finish line, athletes are ushered to tables laden with Gatorade and watermelon, and are urged to keep moving.
Those who request it are led to a group of five tables under a tent, where volunteer masseuses and masseurs stretch and massage sore backs and legs. Sonia Rojas, the first woman to finish, comes in at four hours, 45 seconds. José María Brenes, at 70, the race's oldest competitor, limps across some three hours later. But today, times are not important. As runners embrace each other and family members take pictures, the green peaks loom tall in the distance.
|
