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Thirty kilometers in, the voices started, “Are they real?! Did I take one too many Nurofens? Is this what it feels like before you die?!” The road was lined by young soldiers from the South, uniformed, backs straight, armed to the teeth… smiling and applauding. Others, on roller blades, whizzed past with spray cans of Deep Heat, towards runners in need. I’d promised myself that I would never run 42 km again after Inverness and yet, here I was. I had tricked myself into entering because of its location. You don’t get the chance to run a marathon in one of the most dangerous places in the world every day! The DMZ marathon takes place in the demilitarised zone that lies between North and South Korea, two countries technically still at war. Many people would assume that this area is littered with bombs and booby traps. “Never try, never know”, as they say in Indonesia. The day before the marathon, our sightseeing stops included the Joint Security Area (JSA). We posed with the tall, Korean Ken doll-like soldiers in the meeting room that straddles the two countries. Do not speak to the soldiers, touch or distract them in any way. Selfies are acceptable. Outside, I squinted into North Korea, where intimidating men in brown uniforms peered back at us through their binoculars. Do not to make eye contact or wave. I also bought a bottle of North Korean booze at a small, authorised shop. It was clearly exclusive, going by the price. The morning of the marathon, runners were collected from meeting points dotted around Seoul and bused up to the area. The area in which the marathon takes place is made up of small villages. Due to the proximity to such a dangerous border, there are no factories in the area. It is also very flat, which makes it ideal for getting a PB (personal best). Unless you had chicken and beer the night before, slept in a busy Love Motel and forgot to cut your toe nails. Usually, runners receive their race pack before the big day. For this race, I had to collect my race pack from the registration tent. A young girl handed me a very heavy box. I eagerly ripped it open and laughed at the content. Instead of a t-shirt, it was a 5kg bag of rice. The flyer inside explained how special the rice was, since it was grown in an area devoid of industrial pollution. In my hands, I held the best rice I would ever taste! And it was FREE! But there was not a chance in hell I was going to cart rice around after running 42km, so I handed the rice back. I wonder how many bags of rice that girl got that day… Sporting events in Korea are always fun – you can expect to see dancers, singers and cheerleaders before the race begins. Everything started off smoothly, but I soon signalled to my running partner to go on without me. The uncut to nails were beginning to speak to my trainers. Before the end of the race, they would be screaming in agony. I took the first of three Ibuprofen tablets from my sports bra at around the 7km mark, knowing that I was in for a long day. Runners in tutus, men in rollerblades, men with guns, the smell of Deep Heat, the taste of warm Coca-Cola – all blurred into a mind-addled trip. I managed to hobble across the finish line just before the cut-off time of 5 hours. I ripped off my shoes, grabbed my finisher’s medal and started looking for the traditional post-race beverage in South Korea. No, not Gatorade, but Makgeolli, rice wine. I can tell you from previous experience that Makgeolli takes the pain away. But I was too late. It was all gone. No Makgeolli , no noodles. Just empty bottles and red faces. Knowing I had an 8-hour journey back to Pohang, there was only one thing for my stiffening joints and swelling muscles: North Korean liquor. As I took a sip, sitting at the back of the bus, I grimaced: I tried. Now I knew. North Korean liquor was overrated.