Marathon in Afghanistan
The Runners
Jimmy
Early in 2004, my son Jimmy’s National Guard unit was activated. His wife was expecting their first child in May but fortunately he was able to get leave to be present for the birth. Early in July, he deployed with his infantry unit to Afghanistan.
Pat
Pat and I hung out together in college and were roommates for a few years after school before Paddy went into the Peace Corps. Over the years, Pat and I stayed in touch and Pat and my son Jimmy were close when Jimmy was growing up. Now however, Paddy lives in New Jersey with his wife and two children and Jimmy is married and lives in Virginia. They rarely see each other.
Me
I have completed a total of 10 marathons and saw no reason to run another. I started Paddy running and eventually got him interested in running marathons. We ran several marathons together over the years. The last marathon both of us had run was the New York City in 1999. Although we attempted to get entry numbers in subsequent years, we were never able to win a number in the lottery held to determine runners. That suited me fine.
Pre-race planning and training
Each year, we would talk about getting an entry but neither one of us was running more than a couple of times a week and the talk about entering another marathon was mostly that, just talk. So when Paddy telephoned in August 2004 and said there was going to be a marathon in Afghanistan and we could visit Jimmy, I said it was a good idea. I said I would be willing to do it, never thinking anything would come out of it. We had a few telephone discussions about Afghanistan and exchanged a few emails on the subject.
I was truly shocked to get an email from my son in September referring to the possibility of us going to Afghanistan. It seems that Pat had been sending copies of our email messages to my son. We could not back out now. On September 25, Jimmy sent us an email saying there actually was going to be a marathon in Afghanistan and he was thinking of entering. He said “There are two compelling reasons why I haven't committed yet: 1. We're several thousand feet above Denver. Running sucks the life out of you. 2. There are no hard surfaces for the most part. It's running on the beach or rocks. Having said that I'll still probably run it. Just for the bragging rights to say my first marathon was run in Afghanistan. My advice is to you is don't shave or cut your hair until you get here. You'll look more like a special forces operator. Actually there are enough civilians running around here to blend.”
In October, I emailed Pat and asked when the marathon was going to be held and some other questions about costs, flights, visas, etc. I figured I would leave the planning in Pat’s hands and just see what developed. Later in the month, I got an email from my son saying “The marathon is on DEC 12th. I don't have the details yet as to the condition of the course (paved v. dirt). However, it is at one of the FOBs and will consist of 6 laps for 26.2 miles. They will use the chip system. I'm trying to find out where the FOB is located. Registration deadline is NOV 11. Cost is free.” I didn’t know what a FOB was.
At the end of October, I applied for a Visa for Afghanistan and emailed Pat to do the same. I started to run a little longer and more often.
My son wrote us an email on October 25th saying: “If you guys are serious about coming, we'll need to get down to planning. You need to start coordinating things like shots, accommodations, flights in and out, transportation, an interpreter, and security. Kabul and the surrounding areas are not like a diving trip in Mexico. We do know there are still lots of extremists who are targeting UN, NGOs, and civilians. Good news is winter is coming so things should settle down. I'll try to make it to Kabul, depending on when you get here. I'd say give yourself a week before the race to get acclimated. Worst case, you have to drive a few hours to get where I am. Oh yeah...there are no ATMs here and credit cards are going to be as useful as bringing a can of dirt. Cash is all they understand. The exchange rate is about 45 Afghani to 1USD.If you want, we can get a satellite phone over here pretty cheap. Always good to have commo. Don't forget malaria pills. The marathon is about halfway between Kabul and Kandahar. This is good because it’s not as high up in elevation. I'm still trying to get more details. Let you know what I find out.”
Pat wrote the next day to say he had “run 5 miles the night before and it felt pretty good. After I finished, I felt very solid, strong and ready, and then I thought - Hey, we don't have a prayer in hell!” His next emails concerned the costs of flights, hotels, and travel arrangements. I emailed my son, told him our tentative plans, and asked him for advice on acclimating to the altitude. He replied to both Pat and I: “You may want to give yourself at least 4-5 days to a week. Your body will be totally thrown off with the travel, time difference, and altitude. I'm planning on being up at Bagram so it will be easier to have you around (five thousand people up here). Ran 7.5 today. My legs are aching. The thin oxygen makes it tough on your muscles. In all honesty, I don't think it’s a great idea that you come. As much as I would like to see you, I don't want to risk your getting hurt. Again want to express my thoughts that this is not the best idea. While I would thoroughly enjoy seeing you guys, it does not outweigh my concern about your safety. This happened right outside the Inter-Continental Hotel.” He included a news article about the kidnapping of three western women who worked for the UN.
Pat wrote back to Jimmy: “James Jr, This sounds like just a very creative, but desperate attempt to pick up women to me. We can maybe help them develop more socially acceptable techniques. But in the meantime, does the Inter-Continental have a back door?”
On October 10th, I ran 10 miles. It was my longest run to date. Pat had gotten up to six miles but said he felt woozy the next day. I got the required immunizations later in the month and continued to run about 3 miles, three times a week. I really didn’t think we would ever get to Afghanistan. In the meantime, Jimmy was trying to find out more about the run. In November, we found out the race was to be held in Tirin Kowt at Camp Ripley, a forward operations base (FOB) of the 25th Infantry Division (now I knew what “FOB” meant). We learned from a news article the Honolulu Marathon was going to sponsor its first-ever satellite race in Afghanistan. The Honolulu Marathon Association working with the 2nd Battalion, 5th Infantry Regiment "Bobcats" of the Hawaii’s-based 25th Infantry Division decided to stage a full 26.2-mile "Honolulu Marathon" at a firebase in Tirin Kowt, 75 miles from Kandahar. The Honolulu Marathon is the third-largest in the United States and regularly attracts more than 20,000 runners. The Afghanistan race was scheduled as close as possible to the 5 a.m. Dec. 12 start of the Honolulu Marathon. We now had some details about the race.
You can not fly directly from the U.S. to Afghanistan so we decide to fly to Istanbul from New York’s Kennedy Airport (JFK) on Turkish Air and then fly to Kabul on Ariana Afgan Air, the only airline with regular flights to Afghanistan. I would drive to New York, meet Pat, and we would fly together. We also decided we would not purchase tickets until our Afghanistan Visas arrived. In November, they did and we booked our flights. We were to fly on Sunday, December 5th from JFK arriving in Istanbul on Monday the 6th. We would then fly to Kabul on Ariana’s Tuesday flight. Ariana only flies from Istanbul to Kabul twice a week, Tuesdays and Fridays. The Tuesday flight would give us five days to acclimate to the altitude. My son had explained there is roughly a nine hour time difference between Afghanistan and eastern standard. He said it took some time to get used to. He wrote: “As far as packing goes...travel light. You'll only need the clothes you're wearing, running clothes, and one other change of clothes. Here's what I recommend: Pack in a backpack (not a suitcase). 2 pairs of pants (cargo khakis) 2 t shirts (not white); layered clothing. Don't need heavy winter jackets. A fleece jacket or pullover should suffice. No polo or other preppy shirts. Clothing from brands like Columbia, REI, North Face, or Eastern Mountain Outfitters work well. Earthy colors are the best. Try to avoid stuff that sticks out like Tommy Hilfiger clothing. It’s just like going camping. Two-button front, long sleeve, light-weight shirts are good. Flannels are okay, just not too loud. Don’t forget running clothes. Bring enough cash to support your entire trip. No traveler’s checks, no ATMs, and no Credit Cards accepted here. (Maybe at the Hotel Intercontinental, but forget it on the outskirts). See if the travel agent can book you a pickup (Toyota HILUX) or SUV at the Kabul airport.”
On November 19th, I received an email from Pat with the subject line of “Kabul Heating UP!” The message portion stated “Big trouble brewing in the Kandahar area! Check the Yahoo alert below. Hopefully this breaks before we get down there. Maybe Tirin Kowt won't be so risky with the higher altitude? - Pat” I thought there was another incident in Afghanistan but the link was to a webpage with the weather in Kabul. The temperature that day was over 80.
On November 20th, I ran my first truly long run, about 12 miles. Pat had completed a ten-mile run and was planning a 12 miler on the weekend. He hoped to do 15 miles the next week. Neither of us thought we could finish in less than 6 hrs and we would have to walk a lot if we hoped to finish at all.
We developed a packing list. As suggested, we planned to have no suitcases packing everything in a back pack. cargo pants, shirts, 5 – 6 sets of underwear, hiking shoes, running shoes and sox, running shorts and shirts, running jacket, tooth brush and paste, deodorant, etc., sunscreen; baby wipes, talcum powder, MP3 Player, GPS, camera, and extra batteries. We tried to check out rental cars in Afghanistan but could find nothing.
On November 26th, Jimmy telephoned and said he was pretty sure he could get us on a flight from Bagram to the race. He couldn’t meet us in Kabul. We would have about an hour drive from Kabul to Bagram. The next day he sent links to websites about Kabul.
The Trip
One of Pat’s good friends and a fellow-marathoner, Ray Hauck, insisted on driving us to Kennedy Airport. When we got to the airport, he gave Pat some gifts to give to the runners in my son’s unit and gave me a wrapped present for my son. He wanted me to give it to my son and have him open it in my presence. We put the gifts in our luggage and headed through security. On Sunday evening December 5th, we flew from JFK and arrived in Istanbul on Monday morning. We cleared customs and headed for a hotel. A real problem had developed with our scheduled flight to Kabul. The new President of Afghanistan, Hamid Karzai, was to be inaugurated on Tuesday December 7th, the same day as our flight. All flights to and from Afghanistan were cancelled. Ariana rescheduled us for their next flight, which was on Friday. It would get us into Kabul on Saturday morning, the same day as our flight from Bagram to the race location in Tirin Kowt. Even if we were able to make the connection, we would have no time to acclimate to the altitude at Tirin Kowt. We decided to see if we could fly to Islamabad or any other city to get an earlier flight to Kabul. After visits to some travel agents and several calls to Ariana, we were told Ariana was going to add a flight from Istanbul to Kabul on Wednesday night. It would arrive in Kabul Thursday morning.
We spent the rest of Monday, all day Tuesday, and Wednesday morning touring Istanbul. It is truly a beautiful city. The people are friendly helpful but American tourists have to be wary everywhere these days. We arrived at the airport Wednesday evening about 8 PM for our 11:30 flight. The flight to Kabul was delayed and left at about 1AM Thursday morning. The flight lasted six hours and we crossed a few time zones. We arrived in Kabul, the capitol of Afghanistan, Thursday morning about 8AM. The passengers on the flight were mostly men wearing traditional clothing. They were in the aisles as soon as the wheels touched down. They rushed to be first at the door even though the door was not yet open.
On entry to the terminal, we were given a standard-looking entry form by a man wearing a light green uniform. There were uniformed men with automatic rifles everywhere. We moved to one of the counters to fill-in the required data on the form. As I was completing my form, an old man wearing native garb came up and said something. I thought he wanted to borrow my pen but soon realized by his gestures and expressions, he couldn’t write and he wanted me to help him complete the form. I took his passport and filled in what appeared to be his name, passport number, date and place of issue, and any other data we could glean from his passport. We did not know what occupation to write down and questioning him was not working. We put “laborer” down and gave him back the form. He disappeared into one of the lines to clear passport control. There were two lines but no one seemed to understand the concepts of standing-in-line and waiting-your-turn. People cut in front of each other to get to the head of the line. There was a lot of pushing and loud voices. It was complete chaos. In the end, we wound up at the end of the line.
We cleared passport control and moved to the next room to get our luggage. A young man with a luggage cart grabbed our luggage and put it on the cart. Then the lights in the airport went out. The young man took our passports and handed it to the customs inspector saying something in his native tongue. He gave us back our passports and pushed us through the crowd to the door. He asked us where we wanted to go. We told him Bagram Air Field. He said we should take a taxi and led us to a taxi parked in a dirt lot in front of Kabul’s Massoud Airport, named after one of the leaders of the Northern Alliance who was killed a few years ago. There was a large picture of Massoud on the front of the terminal building. The young man with the luggage cart put our bags in a taxi and told us we could trust this driver to take us to Bagram. We thanked the man, took his picture, and gave him five dollars. It was about nine in the morning the air was hot and dry. An extremely fine dust was everywhere. You could taste it. We still had not fully recovered from jet lag from our first flight. The overnight, 6 hour trip to Kabul only added to our muddled condition. We were not thinking clearly. We got in the taxi.
The taxi pulled out of the airport. The road was pot-holed, dust covered, and bumpy. There were roadblocks and men in light green uniforms carrying AK47s, Russia’s military automatic rifle, all around the airport. The driver stopped to talk to a group of men standing on a corner. One of the men walked in front of the vehicle and got into the left-side passenger seat. Cars in Afghanistan have the steering wheel on the right side. The man was about 25 years old, well-dressed, and neatly groomed. He turned to us and said he was from the tourist bureau and showed us an identification card with his picture on it. The taxi made a right turn and took off down a road. Since we could not read what was written on the ID card and since Pat had used his pictured YMCA card as security for a recorded guided tour of the Topkapi Palace in Istanbul, we didn’t put too much faith in the man’s credentials.
I took out my GPS and turned it on. It started to search for satellites to determine our location. Within minutes, the GPS knew we were in Kabul Afghanistan. The global positioning satellite (GPS) system provides important information to travelers everywhere. Developed initially for military purposes, it is used now by boaters, back-packers, and car and truck drivers everywhere. The GPS can tell your direction, route, speed, distance traveled, and other essential information on trips. My GPS said we were heading south and west. Unfortunately, we wanted to go to Bagram and it was to the north and east.
The man from the tourist bureau asked where we were from. We told him. He asked “Where would you like the driver to take you?” We said Bagram Air Field. “That is a long way” he said. He talked to the driver and turned to us. He said he had studied to be an air traffic controller but the Russian air traffic control system used in Afghanistan, and which he had studied, was being replaced. He hoped he could learn the new one. He wanted to help rebuild his country. He asked “How much are you willing to pay to go to Bagram”. We had been told by a British man on our flight from Istanbul that a taxi to Bagram would cost about twenty US dollars. I responded “$20”. The young man said “That is too little.”
You could see Kabul passing as we drove. The buildings were very run down. Many seemed bombed-out. There was destruction everywhere. As you looked down streets you could see buildings without windows and some even without four walls. Blankets and rugs covered the front of some buildings. Shops and stores had their wears on the sidewalk, if you could call the dirt strand in front of buildings a sidewalk. Usually, a trench ran between the sidewalk and the street. Sometimes the trench was covered by a piece of wood or a metal grate but usually not. There was a haze of fine-powered dust in the air. People wore traditional dress. Women wore berkas, garments which covered their entire body including their faces. There was construction going on everywhere. The road was paved in spots and dirt-covered in others. Cars, bikes, and brightly-painted but dirty trucks, weaved in and out of traffic. There didn’t seem to be any order. Pedestrians walked in front of moving vehicles. My overall impression was desolation but I now had to deal with our fare.
The young man told us the driver wanted $50 US dollars. Having assumed taxi drivers everywhere want to take tourists for-a-ride, I told the young man I made the trip every week and it never costs more than $20. The young man explained the trip would take over one hour and the driver would not have a passenger on the return. I said we would pay him $40 no more. I looked at the compass on the GPS. We were heading west. Kabul was passing on our right instead of behind us. We took some pictures out the window of the taxi and wondered what came next.
The view remained the same: more desolate streets, more collapsed buildings, old equipment littered in the streets, people in traditional clothing. The city was like a dilapidated flea market thrown up without plan. After about 20 minutes, the taxi stopped. The young man turned to us and said: “Here is where I must leave you. The driver will take you to Bagram.” He got out and walked away. We continued west. I was getting concerned.
Finally after about another 15 minutes, we turned right and headed north. The road did not improve and some sections were actually worse. We passed many check-points with armed uniformed personnel but no one stopped us. We traveled about an hour in a northerly direction and finally turned east after the driver stopped and spoke to some locals. We passed many towns which were merely shells of buildings, walls without roofs but there were people and some animals. There was very little vegetation. You rarely saw grass or leaves on shrubs or trees but after all I told myself, it was December. We came to a road block and armed soldiers signaled the taxi to pull over and for us to get out of the car. The driver got out and motioned for us to do the same.
Two Afghan soldiers said something to us which we did not understand. We shrugged. With that, an American soldier approached and said: “What can we do for you?” I said we were going to Bagram Air Base. The American said: ‘This is Bagram. What are you doing here?” I told him who we were meeting my son but used my son’s military position rather than name and rank. It sounded more official. The soldier asked for my ID card and I showed him my military ID. Since I was a retired military officer, I still had status in the Army and could normally enter military installations without much trouble. Military retirees can fly on some military flights, use many military facilities, and get rooms at military guest houses on a space-available basis. They are also authorized to use the PX and commissary (department and food stores) on military bases. The soldier said he did not know where the unit was located and we would have to walk on to the base. The taxi could not enter.
While we were attempting to talk to the American soldier, the taxi driver was looking to get paid. Pat and I each gave him $20. The taxi driver was saying something. One of the Afghan soldiers said he wants another ten dollars. I gave him a $10 bill so I could turn my attention to how we were going to meet up with my son. The American soldier asked how much the trip cost us. I told him $50. He said “You overpaid”. I asked him if he could call my son’s unit but he said he did not have a radio. He said perhaps they had one at the next check point 500 yards down the road. We got our packs, walked through the gate, and began to walk between barbed wire on a path to the next check point. The road leading to the base was on our right. As vehicles passed, a cloud of dust would follow.
We got to the next checkpoint. A young female sergeant inside asked to see our identification. We complied. She said she did not have a radio and we would have to walk to the next check point another 500 yards down the road. She said she did not know the location of my son’s unit. It was a rather large base. The road had concrete barriers across it so that vehicles had to zigzag through them. The path was crushed stones between two 10-foot barbed-wire fences. Pat put his carry-on bag on the ground. It immediately turned white from the dust. We continued our walk. After passing through the next security point, we were told there was a shuttle bus which we could take to any location on the post. No one knew the location of my son’s camp. I did not know it at the time but the name of my son’s camp had recently been changed in honor two soldiers from his unit who had just been killed in an ambush.
We walked to where the shuttle bus would stop. We must have looked comical, wearing civilian clothing, without weapons, carrying luggage. Thankfully, there were a lot of civilian contractors working on the base so we didn’t stand out too much. A van pulled up with three men inside who asked if they could give us ride. We told them the name of my son’s camp but they said they did not know where it was but they would drive around until we found it. We got into the van and eventually found my son’s unit. It was on the other end of the base. After passing through the security checkpoint at the entrance to my son’s unit, we were approached by an officer who said “You must be Jimmy’s father. He is waiting for you at the main gate.” Pat had international calling on his cell phone and we had text messaged my son upon arrival in Kabul but we didn’t know whether he got the message. It seems he had. The officer pointed out Jimmy’s office and we went there to wait for him. We hadn’t eaten or slept and were suffering from jet lag. We must have looked horrible. When we finally met up with Jimmy, he took us to eat and suggested we get a few hours sleep. We ate in the mess hall which was now called a DFAC (that is Dining FACility).
We ate with Jimmy and one of the other officers from his unit. The food was great, prepared by civilian contractors. Jimmy said he got our text message and went to the main gate to wait for us. He told one of the guards at the gate that he was waiting for two civilians carrying luggage. The guard told him we had already passed and were already on the base. Jimmy laughed when he heard about our adventures in the taxi. Soldiers at Bagram are not allowed off-post unless they are on a mission. When they go out the gate their weapons have to be locked and loaded. They don’t get out much. His unit operates both out of Bagram and a forward operations base in another province.
After eating, he took us to his sleeping quarters, which is a wooden hut with eight cots. We slept for two hours, got up, and went for a two and a half-mile run around the airfield. Although we were definitely not acclimated to the altitude, we felt fine after the run. Maybe we could do this. We returned to Jimmy’s office. It was Thursday evening. Jimmy told us the flight to Tirin Kowt would be Saturday morning. There were about 80 people from Bagram running in the marathon. We were manifested with the other marathoners, mostly military but there were civilian contractors, on a C-130, a military cargo plane used to transport troops and equipment. The 25th Infantry Division had arranged for the transportation and sleeping facilities at Tirin Kowt, one of their FOBs. The run would be on Sunday, December 12, the same day as the run in Honolulu.
Remembering the gift Pat’s friend, Ray had asked us to take, and wondering what was in the wrapped package for Jimmy, we opened our luggage and handed Jimmy the wrapped present. It was a beautifully framed picture of my son with a group of Afghan children. Jimmy had sent it home a few months earlier and I had sent a copy to Pat. Ray had typewritten a note for my son under the picture and signed it. Unfortunately, we had broken the glass in the frame but my son was very moved by what Ray had written.
Soldiers in Afghanistan receive many letters from school children and other people in the U.S. they never met, thanking them for their sacrifices. Jimmy told us his Virginia unit gets more mail than any other unit on post. These letters mean a lot to the troops. It keeps them going. On of the sergeants working in the office has several letters posted on the wall by his desk so he can look at them. It is very lonely duty. The U.S. soldiers can’t leave the post unless they are on an operation and operations are normally dangerous. They are not allowed to have alcohol while they are in country. The military tries to provide diversions but nothing cheers them up more than knowing they have the support and thanks of the American people. They go to the gym, run, telephone or email home when they get a chance, play cards at night, and drink soda and “near-beer”. Jimmy took Ray’s gift and put it on his desk saying he would get new glass but he wanted to keep it near. All of us were moved by what Ray had written. I took a photograph of the gift so I could remember what Ray had written. It meant so much to my son. We went to Jimmy’s hut, got soap and towels, and walked to the shower point about 100 yards away. We showered, returned to the hut, got dressed, and went to diner. We then walked around for a while and went to sleep early.
I woke up thinking it was about 4AM as Pat was returning from the latrine. You had to leave the building to go to the bathroom. The closest spot was a porta-potty next to a sand-bagged concrete bunker about 50 feet away. You could not use a flashlight when you went outside at night. All of the windows and doors in the huts were sealed so light did not shine-out. You had to stumble around in the dark and hope the moon would provide light so you could see where you were going. The troops normally carried little flashlights which provided a small circle of red or blue light but we didn’t have one. I thought it was close to dawn and asked Pat the time. We were both stunned to find out it was only midnight. Jet lag is a killer. Neither one of us could get back to sleep.
We spent Friday wandering around post, writing post cards, and catching up on our reading. We did not attempt to run but we walked a lot and packed for the trip to Tirin Kowt. We went to bed early again but had a hard time falling asleep. Jimmy woke us up at 6AM. We dressed in the dark since other people were sleeping, grabbed our bags, which held of a change of underwear, one blanket, and running clothes and headed for the airfield. I had written post cards and I wanted to mail them. There was a post office at the airfield and I planned to mail them there. We traveled to the terminal building in the back of a truck with six members of Jimmy’s unit who were also going to run.
I had finished writing all but one of my post cards. I wasn’t sure of the zip code for an address in San Antonio. I walked to the post office but it was closed. Near the post office, they were constructing a memorial for Pat Tilman, the professional football player killed in Afghanistan. I asked a group of civilian workers if they knew the zip code for San Antonio. Although one of the contractors was from Texas, no one knew the zip code. One of the workers took out his cell phone, called someone, and asked them to get the zip code for me. The contractor said the person would check the address on the Internet and called him back. He did and I completed the address. Technology is incredible. I dropped the post cards in the mail box outside the post office.
Anyone who has ever been in the military is familiar with the term “hurry-up and wait”. We waited in the terminal for about six hours until someone made an announcement saying the flight scheduled for Tirin Kowt has been cancelled because the runway a is wet. It was Saturday afternoon at about 1PM. The race was tomorrow morning and it is a nine hour drive across the desert from Bagram to Tirin Kowt. Things did not look good. One of the officers waiting for the flight, an Army captain, went to the operations desk and started to make phone calls. About 90 people were waiting to fly from Bagram to the race. We sat in the terminal and waited. Incredibly, spirits were high.
About an hour latter, the officer who was making the telephone calls went to the front of the room and told everyone the new plan was to fly the group to Kandahar in the plane which was scheduled to take us to Tirin Kowt. We would stay in Kandahar overnight and fly to Tirin Kowt in CH-47 Chinoock helicopters, the next day, the morning of the race. Since 1969, by regulation (AR 70-28), the U.S. Army names Army aircraft after Indian tribes, chiefs, or terms. A Chinook is an unusually strong westerly or southwesterly wind that sweeps over the Rocky Mountain States of Wyoming, Colorado, and Montana and then onto the plains. The Chinook helicopter is named after the Chinook Indians who lived along the Columbia River, the first people to tell stories of "The Great South Wind", or, in their language, the "Snow Eater". The Chinook can accommodate a wide variety of internal payloads, including vehicles, artillery pieces, 33 to 44 troops, or 24 litters and two medical attendants.
The flight to Kandahar would leave in about an hour. We began in-processing by giving the operations manager our ID cards so we could be manifested on the flight. The plane we would fly to Kandahar was a C-130 Hercules. The C-130 is capable of operating from rough, dirt air strips, like the one in Tirin Kowt. The plane is used by many government agencies for varied missions including: Arctic re-supply, aero-medical evacuation, aerial spray missions, fire-fighting, and disaster relief. The C-130s have been in use for over 40 years and have logged in over 20 million flight hours. We were told “Go outside and line-up when your name is called”. We did.
We walked to the door the plane, entered, and sat in webbed jump-seats that ran along the inside walls of the plane. Our bags, which we had placed on pallets in front of the terminal building, were loaded in the rear of the plane. Most of the runners were soldiers and they carried their weapons and wore Kevlar flak jackets and helmets. Almost everyone slept during the two hour flight to Kandahar. Kandahar is Afghanistan’s second largest city and it is a vital trade link for sheep, wool, cotton, food grains, fresh and dried fruit, and tobacco. The Kandahar Airport was built in the1970s and it is the largest airport in Central Asia. The airport was severely damaged during the Russian attacks on the city between 1979 and 1989 and again during the recent fight against the Taliban.
On arrival at Kandahar Airport, we were driven to a large wooden building with about 200 beds and told we would sleep there. We would have to get up early for the flight to Tirin Kowt. They told us the time they would wake us up. We picked out beds and put down our blankets. In Afghanistan, the military uses what they call Zulu Time. All references to time are given in Greenwich Mean Time or Zulu Time. They do not use local time. There is a five and a half hour difference between local and Zulu time and I did not know whether we had crossed another time zone. It can become confusing when trying to figure out what time something is going to happen. I asked my son what time they were going to wake us up and he said “For you, two o’clock in the morning”.
We decided to walk to the PX to get something to drink. The PX was about a mile away. We passed a large building currently used as a hanger or maintenance building for helicopters. One of the soldiers said the building was the last holdout for the Taliban. There was a hole in the roof and all the windows were blown out. We took pictures and continued our walk.
When we got to the PX, I was surprised to see a trailer with a Burger King sign on it. We walked to the “Green Beans Coffee Shop” to get something to drink. There was a sign on the door which said “Open 24 Hours” but the electricity at the PX complex was out and we couldn’t get anything. We walked back to the billeting complex, found the dining facility, ate, went back to the sleeping quarters, and went to sleep. It was about 6PM local time and I had not been sleeping well. Thankfully, I went right to sleep and slept until they woke us. That was the only full, eight-hour sleep I got on the trip. I would need it.
As promised, they woke us a 2AM. We cleaned up, re-packed, and headed to the airstrip. It was windy and cold. The three Chinook helicopters we would fly to Tirin Kowt were close by but we had to wait on the airstrip in the cold and wind until dawn before the flight crews arrived. Hurry-up and wait. After sunrise, we boarded the helicopters. There were five members in each crew, a pilot, co-pilot, two door gunners, and a crew chief. The helicopters took off with the rear ramps open. The ramp remained open during the entire trip and we were able to look out the back to see snow-covered mountains as we were flew the 75 miles to Tirin Kowt.
About a half hour into the trip, the two door gunners began to fire their machine guns. Whether they were only checking to ensure the guns were working or whether they were shooting at actual targets, we never found out but it woke everyone up. We landed in Tirin Kowt about an hour later and exited the aircraft. The landing zones for the helicopters were metal sheets but the surrounding area was covered by six to eight inch rocks. It was difficult walking over them. A soldier with a bull horn gave instructions for registration and a race orientation. We filed into tents which were labeled “A-M”, “M-Z” and got our race packets. The packet was in a plastic bag with your race number on it. It was similar to the ones you receive in any marathon. Inside you found your race number, safety-pins, timing chip with instructions, official race shirt, course map, instructions, a Power Bar, and Power Gel. The only real difference between this race packet and others I received, was in this one was a hand receipt and instructions for turning-in your weapon.
They then took us to a tent where we picked out a cot and changed for the race. We moved to the Start / Finish line. Start / Finish banners hung between two cannons. Newspaper articles about the race talked about plastic palm trees but I never saw them. Truly, I really wasn’t looking for them. Pat and I decided we would walk and run and not attempt to finish in less than six hours. Our goal was to finish and not be last. We headed to the back of the group and waited for the start, which would be signified by the firing of a canon.
The Race
While waiting for the start, a B-1B Stealth Bomber roared overhead. It did so twice before the start. It was very impressive. The canon fired and we began the run. Pat and I ran slowly behind two young women. The course was five laps, each 5.2 miles. A lap traveled around the perimeter of the fire base, turned passed the finish line, went through the tent areas, passed various operational areas, and headed back to the perimeter. The surface was rock, pea-stone, gravel, dirt, sand, or mud. The dirt or sand was more like a fine talc power. Soldiers assigned to the fire base said normally, when you put your foot down, a cloud of fine dust goes up. Fortunately, it had rained the day before and the ground was not dry. About one mile into the lap, there was a steep hill which was extremely difficult to run up. At the top, there was an armed soldier providing security.
At every mile, there was a water-point and a military ambulance. Some of the water-points had candy you could grab as you ran by. One difference I noted about these water-points was that someone would be walking up and down the course “policing-up” the used cups which were thrown on the ground by the runners. About every half-mile, we passed bunkers and towers manned by armed soldiers. At three miles, there was a soldier playing a conga drum and urging runners on. There were other soldiers and civilian contractors along the route who sat outside their tents and handed out bottles of water or applauded runners as they passed. The fire base is surrounded by mountains. It was getting warm and it was difficult to run and breathe at the same time. We walked a lot.
The projected race winner developed a leg cramp and we passed him on the first lap. After completing the first lap, I realized I had a blister on the arch of my right foot. Since the course passed the tent with our bags, I said to Pat that I wanted to stop and put liquid-bandage on the blister the next time around. My son, Jimmy was running ahead of us but we were definitely not in a rush. We stopped at our tent after the second lap. I put on the liquid-bandage and we both changed our socks. We left the tent and continued the run.
On the third lap, the blister felt much better and so did I. I decided to run ahead of Pat for a while until he could catch up. I put on earphones turned my MP3 player on, and took off down the course. That was the last time I saw Pat during the race. He never caught up even though I really wasn’t going that much faster than he. An A-10 Thunderbolt, the Air Force jet specially designed for close-air support of ground forces, passed overhead and dropped about 30 flares along the route of the course.
When I was finishing the fourth lap most runners were finishing their last. I saw my son. He had already finished. I told him I still had a lap to go. He said he would meet me on the course and run to the finish line with me. Right after passing under the Start / Finish line banner for the fifth time, I passed the two women who were running ahead of Pat and me the whole race.
When I reached the “heartbreak” hill on the last time, the guard flagged me down. I stopped and took off my earphones. I had been listening to Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run”. The soldier said: “Sir, I don’t know whether you heard it but there was just some shots fired and it wasn’t us. Maybe you don’t want to continue running.” I was listing to my music and had not heard anything but Bruce. Pat told me later he had heard the shots. He said it sounded like an automatic weapon firing a blast of about three to four rounds and then two individual shots. An ambulance and a water-point were about 50 yards down the course. The soldiers manning it were standing together and they did not look overly concerned. I decided to run to them.
On reaching the water-point, I asked the group of about five soldiers who were standing there if they heard the shots and whether they were concerned. They said they had heard the shots but they were not concerned. One soldier said “It happens all the time”. I decided a moving target was harder to hit than a stationary target and a running target was harder than a walking one, so I continued to run. I also didn’t want the 22 miles I had just run to go to waste.
My son Jimmy met me at the three mile post on the last lap, mile 24 of the race. He accompanied me to the finish. We walked and ran the last 2.2 miles but mostly ran. After 26 miles, we decided to race to the finish line. It was an all-out dash. I was never so relieved to finish a race. I had run the entire course in six hours, thirty seven minutes, twenty-two seconds. Unfortunately, whether because of the shots which were fired or by pre-plan, the race organizers had stopped the official timing of the race after about 6 hours. The mat which records the lap time was not there and the race clock was turned off. I ran over the finish line and was handed my medal by a race official.
Pat passed the two women who had run the entire race just ahead of us on the last lap. He finished at seven hours, five minutes, 16 seconds. The two women finished after him. Our goal was to finish and not be last. Jimmy said the next morning “You can both take consolation from the fact you both finished first in you age groups”. Of course, we were the only entries in our age group in the Afghanistan run. I guess you could say we won. I promised myself I would write the Honolulu Marathon organizers and get our completion times recorded officially.
Back at the tent after the race, I thought about all the military guys and gals I had met on the trip. It’s difficult to single one out since they are all so remarkable. It was such an honor to share some of their experiences. Everyone we met had extremely high morale and a great sense of humor. I didn’t hear anyone complaining about anything the entire time I was in Afghanistan. They are such a great group of people. I thought about one of my son’s buddies who I had met in Bagram. It seemed so long ago. The young officer was not a runner and he disliked physical training, what the Army refers to as PT. He wore his PT uniform as pajamas. My son told me when he (my son) returned sweaty from a run in the morning; the young officer would say to him “Did you have a nightmare? You’re soaking wet.” While riding with this young officer in the shuttle bus in Bagram, we passed a large tent which the Marines use as a gymnasium. He turned to me and said: “There’s where the Marines have their slumber parties but they never invite me.” Lying there on my cot, I started to laugh. I then became saddened. This was going to end soon.
We slept in our tents at Tirin Kowt that night. Fortunately, the tents were heated. It was cold and we only had one blanket. It was Monday. Our flight from Kabul left the Tuesday morning and we needed to get to the airport early. That meant we had to stay in Kabul Monday night if we were going to make our connection. Before the flight back to Bagram, we went to the Moral, Welfare, and Recreation (MWR) tent and signed-up to use a computer. We emailed the Mustafa Hotel in Kabul to make reservations for that evening and asked if they could arrange for a taxi to pick us up at the Bagram Air Base later that day. We didn’t get a reply before our flight to Bagram arrived.
The C-130 which would fly us from Tirin Kowt back to Bagram Air Field landed. Sore muscles made getting on the airplane difficult for everyone. We talked to two of the reporters covering race for the Associated Press and Reuters. They were meeting a car at the main Bagram gate to take them to Kabul. We asked if they could drive us to the Mustafa Hotel and they agreed. After landing in Bagram, we rushed back to Jimmy’s hut and threw our bags together and rushed back to the airport to pick up the reporters to take them to the main gate. Jimmy drove and we all sat in the back of a truck. Another officer from my son’s unit accompanied us riding in the passenger seat of the truck. When we got to the main gate, Abrim Shaw, the AP reporter with whom we spent the last few days, saw the car which would drive us to Kabul. Jimmy pulled to the side of the road. We were immediately surrounded by children. We took a picture of Pat surrounded by Afghan children. It reminded me of the picture of Jimmy which Ray - Pat’s friend, had framed and asked us to give to my son. Under that picture Ray had typed:
“Dear Captain Tierney:
There’s not much I knew about you except that you are the son of a good friend of a good friend of mine, which is all I need to know to make you aces in my book.
Then your ‘Uncle Paddy’ forwarded this picture of you with a group of locals and I knew EXACTLY who you are.
You are THE ANSWER!
….to the prayers of those who care;
….to those who doubt and those who shout
(I show this picture)
….to those who ponder why we’re there
(I show this picture)
….to those who question what we are doing
(I show this picture)
….to anyone who wonders how we’ll ever win this thing
(I show this picture)
Thank you from a grateful countryman and everyone to whom I’ve shown ….
THE ANSWER
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, Ray Hauck, 2004”
I hugged my son, said good-bye, and glumly got in the car for the drive to Kabul in the dark.