In one month exactly, I’ll be starting my journey south to Antarctica—Missoula to Salt Lake City to Los Angeles to Lima to Buenos Aires to Ushuaia—before meeting the rest of the runners, crossing the Drake, and running on a continent I never imagined seeing in my lifetime.

Quite the approach, right? 

I've been running and racing mountain ultras for over 15 years, but nothing's caused the kind of whiplash and intrigue like it has to train for running on Antarctica. What an absolute novel experience, what a mystery in this approach. "Approach" makes me think of writer and teacher Martín Prechtel's sensitivities to approaching the Other with deep reverence: 

"...learning to approach something respectfully with love, slowly with the courtesy of an ornate indirectness, not describing what we see but praising the magnificence of her half-smiles."

Training for Antarctica

As I approach Antarctica, what, exactly, has training been looking like? I’ve received a handful of questions about this. Honestly, nothing's looked much different than my training builds for previous ultras. What’s in my favor as my training’s peaking this month has been the cooler temperatures here in western Montana and the Pacific Northwest. I’ve completed a few multiday backpacking trips and have camped below freezing a few nights, which seems to be familiarizing myself with biting cold I expect to find down there.

Here's what it's looked like so far...

Running.

I’ve been aiming for 50 miles a week, varying in mountainous and technical terrain and flat road/gravel running. Nothing too specific, but really focusing on consistency. Nothing longer than 20 miles (or 4 hours), and keeping the vertical fairly modest.

Mainly, the task has been to move the body into a place of recognizing and absorbing the regular stress of miles and time on foot, while enjoying the process. I haven't spent conscious efforts wearing all the required gear, but will be shifting to that tactic in the coming weeks. This will look like running first thing in the morning, the coldest parts of the day, and wearing pants, mittens, and headwear.  So far, though, I'm still soaking up these last warm days of fall before the weather really hits. 

Walking.

This year I’ve really focused more on fastpacking, several long and light walks of 80-120 miles through wild spaces. Goals here were simple: to slow down, go longer, and sleep in the dirt more. I can say with assurance that I’ve spent more nights sleeping outside this year than any in known memory.

I bring this up in my training build for Antarctica because I’ve really seen strength gained from these long walks cross over into my running, which was something I didn’t expect. For example, a month ago, I ran a familiar 19-mile out-and-back here in Missoula, after a summer of very low running miles but consistently high backpacking/fastpacking outings, and my finish time was one of the fastest I’ve ever run the route, in ten years of running it! (For the record, I was sore for a solid week afterwards.)

Strength.

Three days a week, I’ve been doing 45-minute strength sessions at the gym (running one mile there, one mile back) that I feel has really been helping with servicing overall musculoskeletal health. With a focus on body-weight and core, every day I self-design a new circuit, low-to-no rest, with core/hip stretching spliced in between sets. I've been going heavier and not neglecting upper body hypertrophy, and have infused each session with spontaneity and diversity.

Yoga.

This has been a game-changer for me, mainly for my nervous system. Weekly, I’ve started to attend a yin yoga class, what I call “active napping.” It’s an hour every Saturday and incredibly low stimulation, low aerobic. What I find it does for me is that it really helps me relax, just as it lengthens/pulls apart some of the contracted gunk in my hips and legs from the week. It helps make for a more pliable and durable body as I continue to ratchet up the miles. And, perhaps, most importantly, it puts me in touch with my own body in an intimate way. Yin is helping me listen more intently to signals in my body, and act accordingly, which will really prove important in Antarctica -- mainly for safety and injury prevention.

So this in my plan. Nothing too complicated about it. Consistency and regularity. Specificity. Strength work and nervous system hygiene. None of my training for these races has ever been very complicated, from road marathons to 100-milers. The proof is really in the doing. (Also, pudding. Mmm.) 

Study and Inspiration

As mentioned in a previous post, I’ve also been really enjoying studying some of the films and books that have been out about the race, and am currently reading two exceptional books on ice and Antarctica:

The Quickening by Elizabeth Rush. This is a very sharp memoir about one of my favorite writers traveling to Antarctica to Thwaites Glacier, sort of ground zero of the most consequential parts of the melting continent. It’s a beautiful and informative book that’s not all doom-and-gloom, but also grapples with the choice of wanting to have children in the face of such planetary instability, what all that that choice entails, and how to love this planet even more through that choice. Here’s a passage: 

“…I can celebrate the idea that to have a child means having faith that the world will change, and more importantly, committing to being part of the change yourself.” 

The Spiritual History of Ice by Eric G. Wilson. I know, this title might draw some in and repel others, but it was highly recommended by a friend and colleague, so I found a copy and have really been enjoying it. What’s struck me most, so far, has been the quality of prose. Written by an English professor from Wake Forest, Wilson takes you on a journey through the most mystical, transpersonal responses humans have had to ice over time. I’m reading about the fascinating relationship with God through the formation of ice crystals, both in literature and scripture, and—though I don’t personally subscribe to any religious denomination—I’ve been transfixed by the book’s writing style and content. Highly recommend. Here’s a taste, as the author writes about the spiritual experience of looking deep into ice: 

“Not simply a translucent window, not merely an impervious mirror, he, crystalline, is both. Somewhat opaque, he reflects the world, merges with it, and relinquishes his ego. Mostly transparent, he refracts the universe, stands separate from it, turns it to suit his discrete disposition.” 

Ice as reflective. Ice as dissolving and complicating Self and Other. Ice as a sort of animate archive of Earth’s most potent dreams, suspended for us to join in on that dream. I think this is what I’ll be carrying with me as I continue to stuff as many miles and hours into my body over the course of this next month as I’m able. Really, it’s so I can be equipped in both body and soul, to show up with a deep reverence, open and willing to listen to this wild landscape and what it has to tell us.

Now that's worth "training" for. 

(Photo: Training in the high country of Wyoming's Wind River Range.)

 
People have been asking me all sort of questions about training, about traveling to Antarctica, about what books I’ve read, what sorts of accommodations I've got, what will it all look and taste and sound like.

It confirms this ubiquitous mystique the continent has -- of course because its prohibitively difficult to travel to -- but also because it holds us deeper in the imaginal realm than about any other place on Earth. A place of ice and desolation. A place where few things can live.

Strangely, a dry place.

As I’ve dropped into training block in western Montana, 9 weeks from the race, I’ve been thinking a lot about this. Out on long runs, as summer turns to fall, as each morning is darker than the next, as the colors of the hills and the trails feature deciduous red and orange fire up, it all feels as though I’m closing a sort of gap between my imagined understanding of a place like Antarctica, and the REAL place.

Because as I write while visiting Alaska, after fastpacking through the Northern Cascades (photo below), I’m about as far away as I can possibly get from the place. Over 10,000 miles!

This gap still continues to baffle me, that in less than two months I’ll be stepping foot onto this frozen continent that, despite all popular notions, is alive, is moving, is breathing, is offering a mysterious animacy to the power of the place.

And as I continue to deepen into my training and reading about the history and ecology of Antarctica, I think about this closing the gap, almost as if I’m off to meet a new friend or lover.

As I run my 15-mile loop around Mount Sentinel in Missoula, I remain intently curious, interested in the surprise of it all. And surprise is something that appears to be increasingly endangered in this world, right? What will find us all down there? What sorts of new friendships will bud. What sort of new thoughts will emerge? What kinds of endurance might we develop after making the huge sacrifice to travel and commit to doing this objectively difficult thing?

Who will we become?

The training has actually been the perfect time in my life to ask these questions. To let them tumble around in my mind and heart. To let the imagination run wild while also being humbled by all that I don’t know will happen down there, and yet trying desperately to arrive as prepared in body and heart and I’m able.

And this, this seems always to be the best approach for just about anything.

In listening to podcasts about the history of Antarctica (Voices from Antarctica, Antarctica Unfrozen), in reading books like The Quickening and The Spiritual History of Ice, I’m slowly beginning to contextualize this place, this myth.

I’m slowly turning this floating hunk of ice into something far more complex, far more respectful for what it is: a living, breathing part of the Earth, and a consequential part at that, a beautiful and harsh and vital part.

And as we approach the start line, I suppose this reflects back to me the small but consequential part I am to play in this planet’s future, this wonderfully complex and mysterious place. Perhaps as we close the gap, I’m realizing that we’re made from the same stuff, Antarctica and me, that perhaps we’re not so dissimilar after all.

(Photo: Training in Alaska.)

I never thought I’d write this in this lifetime, but this is a dream coming true:

In exactly 100 days, I’ll be traveling to Antarctica.

But, wait. First thing's first. My name is Nick Triolo. I’m a 40-year-old writer, editor, and long-distance mountain runner from Missoula, Montana. I’ve been a competitive ultrarunner for 15 years -- highlights include winning the Oregon Trail Series, running sub-19 hours at the Western States 100 Mile Endurance Run, and being a two-time finisher of the the TransAlpine Run. 

In addition, as former senior editor at Outside Online/Trail Runner, I’ve traveled extensively through Asia, Europe, and North America reporting on mountain races. (You can find more of my writing, films, and audio interviews on my website, newsletter, and Instagram.) 

This November, I’m so excited to be embarking on a ship with Racing the Planet, crossing from the tip of South America to Antarctica. I’ll be writing a story about the twentieth anniversary of this race, while also being an official competitor for the one-day Antarctica Ultramarathon.

The opportunity feels like one of the most important decisions I’ve ever made, as if this planet cracked open a little wormhole for me to walk (run?) through, to feel the full spectrum of how alive and dynamic and beautiful this home planet can possibly be, and to report on what I find.

I keep on returning to this quote by author David Abram, one that’s plastered all over my journals and scribbled in notebooks: 

“It is only at the scale of our direct, sensorial interactions with the land around us that we can appropriately notice and respond to the immediate needs of the living world.”

To this I pledge my allegiance during my experience in Antarctica -- to keep my ears indelibly perked, to flare my nostrils and ratchet me eyes open to be fully present and ready for the wild surprise of it all down there. 

Today marks 100 days out, and I’ll be updating this blog occasionally as my training progresses, with specifics on preparations, historical nuggets I find as I research the background of this, The White Continent.

I don’t take this opportunity lightly. To bear direct witness to such beauty and precarity all in one place, to join a group of dedicated individuals as they chase dreams, moving across long stretches of landscape afoot only to fall deeper in love with the animate world. Nothing feels more important right now.

Come with me as I approach this edge-zone, will you?!