The Road to Sparta: Reliving the Ancient Battle and Epic Run That Inspired the World's Greatest Footrace

PREFACE

Though not much time has passed, much has changed in the world since the writing of this book, especially in Greece, the Middle East, and Europe. During the telling of my story, I wrote of a troubling immigration problem emerging in Greece, a country ill prepared to deal with such an issue. Since that time the Syrian refugee exodus has exploded into a global crisis, one that frequently dominates front-page news. In a single year that trickle of refugees washing upon the shorelines of Greece has grown into a tidal wave of displaced individuals seeking asylum and a safe haven from the brutal Assad regime.

The other unfortunate occurrence that has unfolded over the past year is the full-fledged collapse of the Greek economy. Things were bad while I was writing this book, but they have deteriorated further since then. The country required emergency bailout funding from its EU creditors, and to receive it accepted harsh austerity measures and crushing societal reforms. No age group has been spared. The younger Greek generation is grappling with 25 percent unemployment, and the aging population is coping with dramatically slashed pensions. Many blame the government and the rich for this, calling for higher taxes on the one percent to fix the problem.

But this is nothing new. I could sense these issues flaring to a flash point during my visits to Greece. The telltale signs were everywhere, if one bothered to look. Yet, to claim that I was among the first to notice would be disingenuous. Plato writes of the biggest threat facing the Republic as that of income inequality. And the Battle of Marathon was about the Greeks trying to preserve their nascent democracy from the crushing tyranny of Persian totalitarianism. These events preceded my observations by roughly 2,500 years.

Perhaps the more startling revelation is that in all this time, not much has truly changed. Income inequality and disparities in wealth distribution are still hot topics, and cruel tyrants continue attempting to repress their people to this very day. Given that 2,500 years haven’t fixed this situation, maybe the government isn’t the problem and higher taxes aren’t the answer. Perhaps instead these issues have more to do with human nature than anything else.

That is one of the key insights I have gleaned from penning this work. No governmental policy will solve the problems we face. Unless we change our fundamental nature, these same issues will persist for another 2,500 years, the Greek theater continuing on for millennia.

Plato foretold of these troubles, but unlike so many of today’s leaders, he also developed a solution that addressed the underlying human condition at its core. In place of stitching together an ineffectual patchwork of laws and legislation, he called for replacing the politicians, policy wonks, and warmongers with thinkers, a measure meant to bring about the enlightenment of humankind rather than imposing more rules to regulate the way we live.

There will be no end to the troubles of states, or indeed of humanity itself, until philosophers become kings in this world, he wrote.

It’s an interesting proposition. A world guided by philosophers rather than by politicians—interesting, indeed.

I’ll leave it at that.

PROLOGUE

The story you are about to read has waited patiently for 2,500 years to be told. Doggedly persisting within the annals of history for centuries and millennia, the legendary tale of the first marathon has remained resolute in enduring the test of time, untiringly awaiting the splendor of its full revelation.

Anecdotal bits and shards have surfaced throughout the years—most famously the tale of the fabled run by Pheidippides (fye-DIP-ə-deez) from the battlefield at Marathon to Athens—but a deeper, more investigative assessment of what truly transpired during this very first marathon has yet to be told in a single, unifying narrative.

Until now.

The saga awaiting you tells the remarkable journey of a single, inspired athletic endeavor that forever preserved the course of humanity, the means by which this tremendous accomplishment was achieved being something that all humans, despite our many differences and disparities, have shared in common since the dawn of antiquity: our ability to put one foot in front of the other, and run.

Gus Gibbs, 1927

1

IMMIGRANT SONG

A hulking figure of a man, both in stature and in character, Gus Gibbs possessed the broad-shouldered physique of a Spartan warrior along with an equally domineering personality to match. Now in his autumn years, Gus was gregarious and spirited, but his life hadn’t always been so carefree. Fifty years earlier, at the fresh age of 14, he’d arrived on American shores with 20 bucks in his pocket and not a word of English in his vocabulary. Since adolescence he’d been forced to fend for himself, alone and in a foreign land.

Enterprising and hardworking, Gus followed his instincts across the country, venturing wherever opportunity could be found and eventually settling on the West Coast, in Los Angeles. There, he met a beautiful young lady, Vasiliki, and they fell madly in love. He couldn’t stand being without her. One night he appeared outside her bedroom window. Billy, Billy, he tapped on the pane, it’s me, Gus. Open up.

She heard the rapping and slid the window open. Gus, what are you doing here?

I’ve come to take your hand in marriage.

But I can’t.

He was puzzled. Why? Do you not love me?

Yes, I love you deeply.

Then why will you not marry me?

Because my oldest sister has yet to marry.

Oh. Gus scratched his head as she slid the window shut.

He thought about the situation for a second and then moved over to the adjacent window. He tapped on it, and Eugenia’s face appeared. Gus waved his hand back and forth several times, Sorry, sorry. Eugenia was the middle sister.

He moved over one more time and knocked on a third window. Panayota looked out at him.

Pack your bags, he told her. We’re going to get married.

She did as he asked and then crawled out the window. They eloped to Mexico that night.

Ironically, Panayota’s family (or Patricia, as she was known) had emigrated from a region not far from Gus’s origins. The two of them got along well together. Eventually, they raised a family of three children.

As the years passed, Gus invested his earnings from the restaurant business into acquiring rental properties, eventually building a portfolio sufficient to provide for his family and live a comfortable life in the flourishing metropolis of LA. A proud man who had come from nothing, it was quite gratifying to him to have created such a stable foundation for himself and his loved ones—the American dream come true.

Yet, despite all that he’d accomplished and everything he’d achieved, Gus remained perpetually restless. An incessant fire burned within the man. To him, it always seemed there was more that could be done; there were greater challenges still to be conquered. He would not permit himself to stop or to slow down, perpetually resisting any temptation to rest. His philosophy was: Show me a man who is content, and I will show you an underachiever. Gus was never quite satisfied with his place in the world. He was constantly striving to do more and to be more, though he wasn’t always quite sure how to go about it.

Some of this pent-up ferocity was released through participation in sports and athletics. An avid wrestler, Gus dabbled in the professional arena back in an era when wrestling was a more noble pursuit. Athleticism was important in his ancient culture, and those virtues stuck with him even in America. His opponents used to say that getting in the ring with Gus was like wrestling Hercules. He earned a reputation for being a mighty fighter, fearless, even when taking on opponents twice his size. His colossal chest and huge arms were imposing enough, but his legs, especially his calves, were so shockingly overdeveloped that Gus often had to have the legs of his trousers widened to fit over his calves.

Because he remained physically active throughout his life, the years had been mostly kind to him. Bronze-skinned and chisel-cheeked, with a full head of wavy, silver hair, Gus looked the part of a Hollywood movie star. But like many immigrants, his diet had progressively shifted from one of lean meats and freshly harvested vegetables to one of heavily fatted, fried, and overly salted foods. It was the American way. And besides, it tasted better.

Returning home one bright and sunny afternoon, he burst through the front door and lightheartedly called out, Patricia! Where is my lovely bride?

It was a jovial, good-natured call he routinely sang out upon returning home, even though they’d been married for 32 years. Despite decades together, Gus still maintained a playful side. After all, wasn’t that what life was about? No amount of hard work could dampen this spirit; every glorious day was cause for celebration. This is what he’d been taught as a boy. It was the way of the land he had come from before arriving in America.

Suddenly, something peculiar occurred. The muscles in his left arm started pulsing rather strangely. Gus cocked his head—what was this? The sensation quickly spread to his neck, and then farther up to his jaw. He stood silently, attempting to appraise the situation. Rather abruptly, his arm went entirely numb. He shook it several times, but the feeling did not return. What was this?

In that instant a crushing tightness squeezed his chest, as though an opponent in the wrestling ring had him in a body lock. The iron grip became so constrictive he could barely breathe. Staggering to reach the kitchen, he dropped to one knee. Gus was not a man to be seen on his knees. He thrust his arm upward in an attempt to grab the counter for stability, but his mighty arm did not cooperate, and he crumpled downward.

Now he was furious. Arm, work! he roared. Do not forsake me arm; work!

Blood coursed through his body in anger, but still there was no response from his arm. He would have none of this. He would not have his wife find him lying in an undignified heap on the kitchen floor as though pinned and defeated by a rival. This had never happened to him in the ring, and he would not permit it to happen to him now.

If you do not lift me, arm, I will cut you off, he shouted. Now, WORK!

But his arm would not respond. He could not pry himself off the ground.

The door to the kitchen swung open. Patricia had heard the commotion and dashed in to see what was going on. She found him lying on the ground.

Gus! What is happening? She knew right away that something was terribly amiss.

Patricia, he snarled, nostrils flaring, bring me a knife!

She looked down at him, quizzically. His request confused her. Patricia was a slight woman, of fair olive skin and light hazel eyes. Their union had begun as a convoluted one—after all, he had originally fallen in love with her youngest sister—though she had always found him quite handsome, albeit a bit gruff and unrefined. No matter, she had sensed that their relationship would endure despite their unexpected union, and her intuition had been true. They’d been happily married since the day she crawled out her bedroom window.

Gus broke the silence. Bring me a knife, I tell you. I must cut off my arm!

Now she was concerned. She slowly stepped back. I . . . am . . .

Walking backward, still staring down at him in grave concern, she said, I am calling for help.

There’s no need for that! he yelled, eyebrows furrowed in rage. Just do as I ask. Bring me a knife and I will cut off this uncooperative arm, and we can go about our day.

She started to tremble. Distraught, she didn’t know what to do, which wasn’t like her. She always knew what to do, how to handle things. But this was different. Her husband’s neck was growing increasingly purple, and the discoloration was spreading upward toward his face. Something was horribly wrong.

Come to me, darling, he requested, in a tone that was now softer and more tender. What? She’d never heard such passive words coming from her husband’s lips. Come, hold me, he pleaded.

Never had she seen her husband scared before. Never had he allowed himself to display any overt sign of weakness. His ancestral pride would not permit such. She knelt down next to him, and he noticed that she was whimpering.

Just hold me, he said. After 32 years of marriage, those were the final words exchanged between them before his body went limp.

So ended the life of Gus Gibbs. Just like that, 64 years of highs and lows, good times and bad, dreams realized and dashed, all came to an abrupt conclusion. The death certificate following the autopsy listed occlusive coronary artery disease as the cause, a heart attack. It was an all-too-common affliction cast upon those who’d adopted the new American diet, with its greasy fast food and other unhealthy offerings. Fatty deposits of plaque had literally blocked his arteries.

The only peculiarity on the death certificate was that it didn’t list his name as Gus Gibbs, but instead as Constantine Nicholas Karnazes. Like many foreigners concerned about potentially suffering the stigma that attaches to recent immigrants, he’d chosen an alias in an effort to assimilate more smoothly. Why do I know all of this? I know it because Gus Gibbs was my namesake, my grandfather.

Grandfather Constantine carrying me outside Saint Sophia Greek Orthodox Church, Los Angeles, 1964

2

WHO AM I?

My name is Constantine Nicholas Karnazes, son of Nicholas Constantine Karnazes, grandson of Constantine Nicholas Karnazes (aka Gus Gibbs), and so forth and so on throughout the ages. My grandfather’s family raised goats in a little village called Silimna, located high in the hills above Tripoli on the Peloponnese peninsula of southern Greece. It was a tough existence, which in turn bred tough and resilient people. These are the origins of my paternal bloodline.

The other half of my DNA traces its lineage to the sun-drenched Greek island of Ikaria, situated in the Aegean Sea far from the mainland, a world unto itself. My maternal roots are here, in this unhurried place where food is harvested fresh from the land and neighbors are like family. In Ikaria simple pleasures still bring much joy, stress is unheard of, deadlines are wobbly, and the inhabitants live long, healthy lives. One of the famed Blue Zones, Ikaria has the highest concentration of centenarians on earth. It is an island, it’s been said, where people forget to die.

My mother’s lineage was never lost on her, even though we lived in LA. From the day I was born, we would spend sunup till sundown wandering around outside, seeing the sights, smelling the smells, walking through the park, talking to people along the way, and beholding the cycles of the seasons, just as her forebears had done on the misty blue islands of the Aegean in ancient times. Sometimes she would carry pruning shears and collect fruit and greens for dinner. I couldn’t have known these things at the time, given that I was an infant being pushed around in a stroller, but perhaps these early childhood experiences seeped into my bloodstream, for starting at a young age I began to manifest a rather strong yearning for adventure and a strange penchant for endurance and self-discipline.

Some of my earliest childhood recollections, in fact, are of sitting quietly in the oversize cathedral of Saint Sophia Greek Orthodox Church in Los Angeles listening to an exhaustive Divine Liturgy, largely delivered in Greek, punctuated with endless refrains of "Kyrie eleison (Lord, have mercy), always thrice repeated with the final verse delivered slower, more deliberately and drawn out, Kee-ree-ay e-le-ee-sawn . . . as if to be saying, Okay, Lord, we really mean it this time; have some mercy, will ya please?!" Get a Greek Orthodox bishop going, and you could spend all day and much of the night in church. Endurance events in their own right, these sermons were not known for their brevity.

Yet I would sit there attentively for hours, even as I watched others slouching over and falling asleep in the pews. Many people used to tell my parents that I, the oldest of three children, was going to be a priest one day. But the truth was, I had little interest in the sermon itself (what 5-year-old boy could even understand this stuff?). What intrigued me was exercising my ability to hold steady and keep myself still and attentive while sitting assiduously through something I barely understood, hour after droning hour. I had a deep desire to master my body and mind, and sitting idly within the church’s sacred nave while engaged in protracted liturgical worship was the acid test of willpower and self-command. Above all, having complete discipline of mind and body mattered most to this 5-year-old.

One of my other early memories was that of our Easter Picnic festivities. Greek Orthodox Easter was, from what I could tell, just an excuse to throw one enormous party. Never had I witnessed so much wine, raucousness, and love all taking place in a single location. The quantities of food and celebration were beyond imagination, but what really struck me were the older Greek gentlemen dancing endlessly without rest or tiring. Most of them were recent arrivals from the old country, Greek immigrants whose children and grandchildren had migrated to America and then imported them over to the United States at a later date. These men were distinctive in the way they looked, dressed, and behaved. They seemed less interested in food and social carousing and more interested in moving with incredible form and exquisite mastery to the rhythmic sounds of the Hellenic Tunes, a local Greek band that strummed eight-string bouzoukis and tapped rousing chromatic riffs on the ancient santuri. These instruments didn’t just play music; they infused passion directly into your soul.

Most of the men from the old country were in remarkable shape, lean and fit, with beautifully preserved olive skin and heads full of peppery gray hair. Their faces were chiseled and taut, and they danced with whomever would dance with them, even by themselves when everybody else tired. These were hardy men, resilient and self-reliant, wise in the ways of the world, men who had endured hardship and struggle in the old country far beyond anything their American-bred offspring would ever encounter. Their movements were expressive and stirring. They would dance the zeïbekiko, the hasapiko, and the pentozali, pure emotion bleeding onto the dance floor.

In between sets of music, when the band would take a break, I would watch as they exchanged shots of a clear liquid from little glasses, sometimes hoisting these husky thimbles into the air and cheering "Opa!" before consuming. I later learned that these glasses were filled with an aperitif known as ouzo, or the stronger distillate called tsipouro, unless they were Cretans, in which case they’d drink raki. When the band gathered the energy to resume playing, these men were always the first to head back out onto the dance floor, never stopping, never tiring.

Our family would often leave near midnight, and the only remaining groups of people at the festival were these old Greek men, still dancing as though the party had just begun. The band had long since stopped, and now it was just a scratchy prerecorded sound track playing over the speakers, but the men didn’t slow down. Their endurance was extraordinary.

Why I would remember these particular things as a child, I do not know. But those indefatigable dancing Greek men would stick with me forever.

Another lasting childhood memory was that of a footrace during my kindergarten year. It was an all-school affair that pitted the children in my grade against the older kids in the first and second grades. Judging from my experience during free play at recess, I knew that I wasn’t the swiftest kid around, as other boys and girls could routinely outsprint me. But this was a contest of four laps around the schoolyard, not a quick dash.

The starting gun sounded and off we went. Most kids darted out at a full sprint pace, racing as though they were running a 100-yard dash, not four laps. By the end of the first lap, I was somewhere in the middle of the pack.

By the end of the second lap, many of the initial sprinters were complaining that the race was too long. But the teachers kept telling them it was four laps and to keep going. Most of them quit or started walking.

By the end of the third lap, nearly all of the kids were walking from exhaustion or sitting on the sidelines. But I just kept chugging along, not really paying attention to my position because there were still so many kids in front of me. I was one of the youngest out there, and I remember weaving in and out among the much taller kids as though running through a forest of trees.

Come the fourth lap, something remarkable occurred. Daylight emerged between the trees as I passed the final competitor. Amazingly, I found myself in front of everyone and leading the race. This struck me as odd; it was hardly the outcome I’d expected. Even more startling, I still had lots of energy left. I just kept running along, not feeling tired at all.

I came across the finish line a full half lap ahead of the nearest rival. Not once had I slowed or walked. I just kept going at a steady clip throughout the full duration of the race, and I felt like I could have kept going even after crossing the finish line.

The teachers didn’t seem to make much of my victory, at least initially. They simply congratulated me and then went about corralling all of the other kids back into their classrooms. Later that day, however, I started to notice some teachers having side conversations and then glancing my way. I could tell they were talking about me, but I didn’t know what they were saying. This kept happening throughout the afternoon, and I started to think that perhaps they were saying something good, something positive. I sensed they might have actually been stirred by what they’d witnessed that day on the playground. That was my first inclination that running held the power to move people in unexpected ways. Even though there wasn’t much to it, running inspired.

Not that it really mattered to me. Sure, I’d won the race, but running laps around the playground didn’t particularly interest me. What I really loved was running home after school. This was where true freedom could be found. The heck with running around in circles within the confines of some fenced-off, man-made institution; real adventure took place outside the school walls. Running through the park, chasing the ducks around the lake, breathing the fresh air blowing in off the Pacific, marveling at the great expanses before me, this was the stuff of life. A man’s education shouldn’t be limited to a classroom, not even at 6 years old—especially not at 6 years old.

Why is it that these thoughts and experiences were some of my earliest childhood recollections? Nature or nurture, it remains anybody’s guess. Perhaps we really were born to run, as some have suggested, and certain people feel the pull of this primordial instinct more strongly than others. Whatever the case may be, an adventurous wanderlust seemed hardwired into my genetic constitution, a by-product of my ancestry, perhaps. And so I grew up exploring freely and, in doing so, discovered that my own two feet could carry me wherever I wanted to go.

Perhaps you’ll run a marathon, like Pheidippides,