dirtanddistance

[dirtanddistance]

Yoga Teacher Training: AKA, Confronting My Running Attachment

There was a lot of thinking about running during this particular side quest, therefore I can expound upon it on this blog. (TW: eating disorders, religion)

If you don't like long winded essays on esoteric experiences, you can scroll away now. If you do, then boy are you in the right place.

A couple of months ago, I signed up for a 3 week 200 hour yoga teacher training in Costa Rica. As far as impulse buys go, this has to be one of my most legendary. Egged on by my husband who agreed I needed to disconnect from civilization and become a yoga teacher already (I didn't think 10 years of a consistent practice was sufficient but I was overruled), I hit register and giddily imagined what those three weeks were going to look like. In reality, I was mostly excited to have more than a week off of work and a facilitated break - I'm very bad at taking a break when left to my own devices.

Before I knew it, the weeks to my departure had dwindled away, and my husband was dropping me off at the airport. One layover and a lavender latte later, I was in San Jose, Costa Rica, getting into the taxi to my first stop, the hotel I'd be staying in until it was time to head to the villa to start the training.

I wasn't entirely certain what I expected to get from this experience. I knew that I felt like I had been spiritually 'alone' for a long time. I had left a formal church environment years ago after it had no longer felt like a community of people I could relate to spiritually. I never felt like I 'lost my faith' in any true sense, but often felt like it was something that only existed in my imagination, isolated from everyone around me and something I could never share or even articulate. It had become such an eclectic mishmash of Catholicism and Eastern spiritual traditions and my own musings that I imagined that there was no way it had any real validity outside of my own mind.

Entering the world of this yoga teacher training completely changed my mind. I had never met anyone outside of my own family who had read Anthony DeMello's work. I had never met anyone outside my own family who held an open ended Christian belief system that held no issue with other practices, that happily adopted other ideas and practices that felt comfortable or aligned into their own. I had never met another Catholic outside my own family who had left the Church for something that felt more aligned. I did not find anyone else with the exact same combination as me; I found something better. I found individuals who followed a similar path, who validated that I was not alone in my seeking and synthesizing and constant adjustment of my path. Who followed the same template in seeking truth, union, yoga. And more than any asana, any sequence, I discovered true Yoga - union. The notion of "many paths, one truth" finally came to life in front of my eyes. I finally found my voice to share what it was I believe, and how I got there, and my ears had the joy of hearing the same from others. Faith and spirituality are such deeply ingrained and personal experiences with the power to bring us closer together and also to divide us more deeply than any other force in this world. I don't know much, but I do know that as long as you are seeking union, you are likely on the right path.

Dancing through the meditation sanctuary and backyard of the villa with a cadre of lovely, curious, and strong women, feeling like perhaps it is okay to be seen after all (even if what is being seen at times is my inner wacky waving inflatable tube dude), is an experience I will carry in my heart forever.

Not to neglect the running part of this story, this was the longest I went without running that I can remember since I started running. I would be lying if I said I wasn't a bit scared about it, but that fear pointed out to me an attachment I decided needed to be investigated. I did try running within the first couple of days of the retreat... and discovered that the infrastructure San Jose, Costa Rica is not particularly friendly to runners. After a harrowing experience on the side of a very busy, narrow road with a steep camber and no sidewalk, getting chased by a (friendly, but startling) dog, and inclines that I typically would only see in the mountains, I determined that perhaps this running environment was not for me. I managed a few hill workouts on premise over the ensuing two weeks, but never more than 20 minutes and only two or three times in total. I surrendered to switching my activity to yoga asana for the duration of the retreat, and discovered that the world did not end. In fact, not much changed at all. I did 90 minutes of typically pretty intense asana practice plus our little workshops during classes, which pretty well tuckered me out most days. Despite a very regular asana practice, I will say I do not do 90 minute practices... ever. I thank running for keeping me in good enough shape to ensure I could endure more yoga than I think most people with day jobs would ever normally complete during these three weeks. And to my surprise, getting back to running upon my return has been less of a disappointment than I imagined. Sure, I'm a bit slower, and feel a bit of soreness after runs that might've not even gotten me short of breath before, but it just doesn't seem that important to be 100% in the best running shape of my entire life at all times anymore. I can accept that it comes in seasons, and that taking a step back every so often isn't just healthy, but necessary to maintain the joy and humility that fuel a healthy love affair with running.

10 years ago, this kind of disruption in my exercise might have triggered a relapse of anorexia. Not having those thoughts return, to be able to trust my body and mind to work together to stay in equilibrium and remain healthy, is nothing short of a miracle to me and something I attribute in large part to my yoga practice. What was once the only 'exercise' I was allowed to do while recovering from my initial eating disorder diagnosis (in high school, that I didn't even stick with at the time) has evolved into such a huge part of my life and carried me forward often without me even noticing until after the fact.

No matter your spiritual persuasion, or if you run, I hope you find a collection of beliefs, values, and practices that serve you mind, body, and soul and help bring you into closer union with your fellow humans and the world around you.

Love, J

[dirtanddistance]

The Entire Universe in a Piece of Moss: Run Ridge Run 25k

A secret, and a tl;dr: I went to Catholic Jesus camp in high school. I don't go to church anymore. I have been chasing the spiritual high of that bizarre experience ever since. Going outside has consistently scratched that itch for me.

During my Jesus Freak era, I attended the ubiquitous Night of Joy at Disney World and left with the requisite Night of Joy soundtrack CD, which introduced me to the song Captivated by Shawn MacDonald. This is the only song I remember from this entire experience. I cannot name a single song by Newsboys or TobyMAC. I have no idea of this guy even performed at the event, but that song put to words an experience I'd had that never seemed to be reflected to me in my church or camp forays. It voiced the idea that nature itself is the ultimate expression of God, and beholding it in all of its glory is really looking upon the true nature of the creator. This was a feeling I'd had all along, but was never validated by the religious machine with their cathedrals and stained glass. I had been baffled by the notion that Catholic weddings could only be performed inside a church; churches can be beautiful, but the most glorious cathedral couldn't possibly compare to the splendour of the natural world, could it? Why would an infinite and omniscient creator demand that we celebrate matrimony in a cage of our own design when the nature he produced is RIGHT THERE?!

I put away those musings, and went on with life. I stopped going to church, I hadn't listened to that song in well over a decade. However, I never found myself fully cutting the emotional tie to something-greater-than-myself. I'd make a terrible atheist; looking at a sunset over the freeway from a strip mall parking lot brought me to tears at how absolutely majestic the universe is, and how fortunate I was to be a tiny blip existing in this very place at this very moment, and that no matter who or what was responsible for it, it was certainly a form of magic. Pausing on a snowy trail with no one around and listening to the absolute silence, wishing I could just bottle up that exhilaration of the cold, the sparkle of the snow in the moonlight, the glittering stars above me, and keep it forever as a reminder of the perfection that exists in glimpses and moments.

Fast forward to a few weekends ago, and I grumpily shed my warm sweatshirt and plodded to the starting line of the Run Ridge Run 25k on the shore of Sasamat Lake. The weather called for rain, it was a miserable 40 degrees Fahrenheit, and I had a slog ahead of me that I had not trained for in the least (contrary to popular belief, running 50 miles one time the summer before is not sufficient training for spring trail racing). My mindset was certainly more of a grindset, bolstered only by the knowledge that I had a few friends out on the course.

As you might have anticipated, things changed for the better in my little world after I fought past the Diez Vista overlook, the biggest climb of the day. The rain miraculously held off for most of the morning, leaving me in a misty wonderland of dripping trees and moss and lively coursing rivers, some of which were the trails themselves. As I wound my way through the forest, I watched the droplets of water drip from the tips of the tufts of moss that are ubiquitous in BC's rainforests, and got my toes wet in countless puddles and rivers. I crossed a boggy section jumping from floating log to floating log like I was Link somewhere on the Breath of the Wild map. And my heart filled with wonder at the aching beauty of the world I was existing in for those brief hours, and a familiar song I hadn't heard in ages crept into my mind like a long lost friend. Every moment of my life that had led up to this one was perfect, because it had delivered me here to this immaculate experience of nature, of beauty, of complete and pure joy.

I don't know what my time was or if it was better or worse than last year. I don't know how much vert I covered. I do know I obtained one (1) Gary Robbins hug for my efforts, and that changing into warm clothes and finding that one of my friends had successfully crossed the finish well ahead of a dreaded cutoff evoked a similar joy and peace within.

Sometimes, what we seek so fervently is all around us, if we care to open our eyes to see.

[dirtanddistance]

Valley Vertikiller 30k: Good Soup

Back when I was in college, I learned I had a knack for something: pressuring my peers to run races. It started with convincing my college bestie to run a beach 5k with my family when she came to our house for Easter Weekend. That 5k spiraled into multiple half marathons, and 13 years later she continues to update me with the latest races on the calendar. I ran my brother's first 10k with him 5+ years ago and, fast forward to now, we put our third marathon together in the books this past summer.

Last year, a friend in my running club introduced me to the Valley Vertikiller, a 30k trail run with a mile of vertical climb with the option to register as a team of 5+ runners, cross-country meet style. As a counterbalance to my ability to drag others into running shenanigans, I am also very easily dragged into running shenanigans. You can read that race report back in the timeline, but long story short, one vegan grilled cheese and bowl of butternut squash soup later I was sold on registering for the next year as soon as it opened.

Thus, we find ourselves in July 2024, signing up for Vertikiller as soon as it opened and making a team in the hopes of convincing enough minions to join me. Quickly one registration turned to four. We would languish being one down from a full team for months, constantly begging everyone around us to join our delusional antics, until all at once it seemed we were ten instead of just a few.

Race day finally came, on Canadian Thanksgiving weekend, and we all rolled up to the mountain in our race day best. This squad had everything: the first time trail racer, the 'definitely a top finisher', the 'this is the farthest I've run', and a handful of 'we're just here to have a nice trip through the woods'. We had goals ranging from impressive finish times, to personal bests, to 'just finish the course' and 'beat the cutoff'. Hopes and spirits were high, and I managed to convince the majority of the team to don a few face gems which would later become the talk of the aid stations. After a blessing by a member of Semath First Nation, we were off into the woods!

The journey to the first aid station was uneventful; I remained fairly close to my trusty running buddy and face-gem originating accomplice (side story: the face gems originated when we ran Diez Vista 50k, which happened to coincide with Coachella this year. We joked about DV50k being our Coachella and staying festival ready, and the rest is history). Pulling up to aid station 1 a few k's farther in than advertised, I was greeted by latin dance music, a friendly face from the run club, and more Fireball than could reasonably be consumed by the entirety of the team. I browsed the plentiful non-alcoholic offerings and snacked on assorted unlabeled candy until one friend, then my run bestie, filed through. Reunited with my ride or die, we took off back into the forest and left the scenic overlook behind.

The jaunt from the overlook aid station to the second one was, again, farther than expected and involved a decent amount of walking up hill, and sometimes walking not uphill, and an incident of 'oh is that the photographer? Nah that's just a guy with binoculars. Wait no he's the race photographer start running!'. Eventually, we traversed through sufficient gorgeous fall foliage and reached the second aid station, where the harbingers of bestie's doom were first encountered. I will not go into detail, but waxing poetic about how you did not get a food aversion after the last time you vomited up something you were eating at that aid station is now officially added to the official race day taboo list. Let's just say there was some extra sauce left on the appropriately named trail Extra Sauce. We stumbled on together (grateful to not be reenacting the infamous Family Guy contagious vomit scene), Garmin ticking ever higher mileage with each passing minute. The minutes were hours, the hours were days. An entire lifetime passed in the span of a moment. The Squid Line trail, I have determined, must pass through multiple dimensions as that is the only explanation for how long one spends trying to get to the end of it. At what would have been half a mile from the finish if Garmin and the course distance and the stars aligned, we parted ways as I could not be separated from the finish line by another moment of walking, and bestie unfortunately still had a bit of extra sauce. Alas, Garmin readings and stated race distances are not what they seem. Nearly 20 miles from where I started and yet exactly where I began, I was abruptly delivered unto the finish line and a gaggle of the most enthusiastic friends. We awaited the final three finishers from our squad eagerly, and enjoyed the long awaited and highly hyped grilled cheses, soup, and pumpkin pie while sitting around and toasting to our conquest. The entire team had met their goals, and as we were packing up to head home after a day well spent, one of the race coordinators commented on how lovely it was to see such a supportive group of friends, hanging around until every one of us finished, and having such a nice time together. I was too high on the joy of the day, but ordinarily that is the kind of sentiment that would leave me in tears. Moving to a new place, never mind an entirely different country, is kind of a terrifying proposition. Never in my wildest dreams when I got in the car to drive from Florida to BC did I imagine that two years later, I would be sitting on the ground on a mountainside with 9 people I call friends after persuading all of them to run 20 miles up and down a mountain with me. Moments like this are what running is all about to me these days; a fast time is a noble goal, but sometimes it's not the destination, but the friends you make along the way that make the journey worthwhile. Thank you, run family, for another lifelong memory and for making every mile sweeter <3

[dirtanddistance]

Squamish50 Race Recap: Fool Me Twice, Shame on Me

"Won't make my mama proud, it's gonna cause a scene // she sees her baby girl, I know she's gonna scream // GOOOOOOOODDDDD WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?! You're a Coast Mountain girl, and you run in the woods // oh mama, IIIIIIIIII'M JUST HAVIN' FUN, on the trail in my vest, it's where I belong, down on these // COAST MOUNTAIN TRAILS, I'm gonna keep on running on these COAST MOUNTAIN TRAILS, I'm gonna keep on running out in WEST CANADA, I'm gonna keep on running on these coast mountain trails, coast mountain trails"

Phew. Now that that's out of my system...

When I was growing up, the concept of 'peer pressure' never made much sense to me. I was not intrinsically tempted by drugs, or alcohol, or skipping class, or the social points that might have been gained by participating in such shenanigans. Outside of what that might say about me as a person, it led to an interesting revelation as I got older: my so-called peers back then just weren't doing anything interesting enough to make me feel compelled to join. All of this changed the moment I encountered my first overnight relay race in college. I was sold. Things would only escalate from there. My mama was not proud. There were actual fights over these endeavours. It culminated in me running my first ultra before I even had a bachelor's degree, setting my life in a direction no one predicts for their child.

It would come as no surprise to find me signed up for a 50 mile race eight years later in an entirely different country, if you had much of a background on ultrarunning. And after watching the 'vlog clip' my husband so charitably took of me at the finish line vowing that I would never do such a thing again, a seasoned member of the ultra community would have laughed and said 'see you next year'. Which is where our story begins, one year after the infamous 'never again' caught on film.

I did not feel an aching desire to run farther than 50 miles again, or even to do that particular event again. I had achieved my Gary Robbins hug and shiny medal, I had proven whatever it was that I needed to prove (see, dad? Not all ultras are just 'a few more miles than a marathon' AND I'm alive to prove it!). Cue, peer pressure. I wrote a silly little race report talking about how much I cried and a few of my friends read it and talked about it and were like 'that sounds great I'm in'. And if there's one thing I can't abide, it's my friends and peers going on an endurance adventure without me. A whopping three or four months had passed by the time it was sign-up day so there I was at 7am on a Friday before work on Run SignUp and the group WhatsApp open as we all digitally shared the high of registration day and collectively ignored the implications of signing up for a 50 mile race.

Fast forward to last weekend and we're all at the starting line hemming and hawing about how we didn't sleep so well last night, and we're scared, and 'just gonna go out there and have a good time'. My little brother was texting me, because unlike here in BC it was a godly hour of the day in Florida and he was at the ready to remind me that he had gone to a T-Pain concert the night before, and that T-Pain is a resource in times of need (?). This is salient because one time in high school, my cross country coach told us to do a particular warm of exercise with the kind of energy and enthusiasm we would have if we were rushing the stage at a T-Pain concert, so referring to Tallahassee Pain when I am going for a run will always resonate. Yes. The T stands for Tallahassee. Not Tylenol extra strength, which may also resonate during long runs. Anyway, I put all my worries away in a mansion somewhere in Wiscansin, we snapped a start line selfie, and off we went into the brief dark.

The first couple of miles slipped away as I kept up with a few much faster compatriots. I got Travis talking about his upcoming trip to Japan, which is a subject I can listen to/speak about endlessly. Alas, being the personality hire of the run group meant that I would fade to the back fairly early, and eventually we reached the first climb of the day, DeBeck's hill. This was where I broke last time. I was crying. This isn't even to the second aid station. Full blown tears, panic attack. I was determined not to break this year. I made everyone I knew very aware of my goal for this year: do not cry before aid station two. I'm very happy to announce I did achieve this goal, but was almost brought to ruin on the Midlife Crisis trail as I discovered TRAIL LORE. Trail lore is in fact the best part of not being a complete hermit during your race, which was my other, unspoken goal of the race - interact with fellow runners enough to become emotionally invested in the outcome of at least two other participants beyond just 'wow I hope everyone has a nice day'. The fellow behind me as I was hot stepping from rock to rock about to throw up and/or throw myself down the hill goes 'don't rush! I'm not trying to pressure you! Don't fall, my friend built this trail and he wouldn't want you to fall!' Right there we almost got the first cry of the day. Not because I was panicking or sad but because THAT WAS SUCH A NICE THING TO TELL ME! PEOPLE ARE LOVELY! I was then provided the added details that this friend designed that particular singletrack run when he turned 50 to prove he could still do hard things. Which, if true, is way more wholesome than my interpretation of the name Midlife Crisis, which was that the trail is so stressful that 31 is going to be my midlife with the years this trail is taking off my life span.

I rolled into aid station 2 at Alice Lake without a tear having been shed, and ready to hit the bathroom. I ran into a fellow trail homie from the run club at the bathroom line (so, like a regular club? Very brat.) and rolled on. I thought briefly 'wow, I wish my husband hadn't had a combination migraine-food-poisoning-slash-general-itis and thrown up last night making it very unlikely that he'd make it to the first crew aid station in time' but mostly I was proud of myself for not crying and it was time to carry on to my previously favorite section of the race.

Corners is the best trail ever because it's pretty and flowy and there are wildflowers everywhere and fun signs that say that you might get zapped by the powerlines overhead. It's also where the professional race photographer hides out and catches you when you're running at a decent clip with a pretty background. I was so confident going into these parts. Then I watched the gal ahead of me almost eat some dirt. Not too bad, she recovered quick. Couldn't be me. Except a few minutes later it was me, fully supermanned out on the ground, covered in the gritty sandy stuff and bleeding. I hopped back up and kept moving, knowing that sitting around evaluating myself would probably just make it all hurt more. Blood streamed down my leg, but it seemed nothing particularly important was hurting as I resumed my journey. Ah well, I thought, maybe this will just make my race pictures look more badass. Another familiar face caught up to me, which was quite a surprise because I do not have any idea how anyone I knew could possibly be behind me at this point in the race. It was nice to have someone to whine about my fall to, and who also admitted to having taken a little tumble himself. We rolled into Aid Station 3, and I declined having anything done about my bloody leg because, well, what was there to do? Fall on the ground or not, everyone is coated in layer upon layer of dust and sweat out here anyway. We trekked on to the little loop that would eventually lead back to AS 3 and slowly parted ways as I kept a conservative pace. Then it hit me - the ground again. This time, not only was the knee bleeding again but I got my left hand pretty good, with blood streaming across it from a few difficult to evaluate spots. At this point I was big sad. I let myself cry a little. My finger HURT where it was cut. I gimped along feeling sorry for myself until my brain generated the thought 'you're having an Eren Jaeger moment' while looking at the blood streak across my palm. I had the power of God AND anime on my side now. I dragged my sad little self back to the aid station when miracle of all miracles occurred. There was a familiar face with a volunteer vest on on. I don't think I'd ever been so happy to see someone in my life. Before I could say anything, I was pushed into a camping chair and another volunteer was swiping away at the blood and dirt with a paper towel and some saline spray. Not exactly how I would do it, but hey. It became obvious that while gnarly, these injuries were probably not life threatening and I was probably gonna make it. After a little bit of whinging and snacking and the affirmation of 'see you at the finish line' (this will come in handy later), I wandered back into the woods for the trek up Galactic.

Galactic is, like, the most fabled section of this race. If you look at any race report, or even the race description itself, this is described as kind of a piece de resistance. It's a hella long incline is all it is. You're in the woods, walking upwards, for longer than you would like to be. It's just inclined enough that an amateur like myself does absolutely zero running for like, half an hour straight. It's a drag. It's also not particularly 'hard' in the sense of being technical, or super steep. Last year, this was an unremarkable section of trail for me. I was feeling pretty okay having conquered last year's Most Wanted incline on DeBeck's and thought nothing of the trudge up the hill. And then my subconscious came out to play. Covered in blood and dirt and with like, half the race or more to go, the 'why are you doing this' crept in. Now, I also faced down this question last year, starting like 15k into the race, so not having to wrestle with it until several aid stations in is actually a good thing. However, I was out there with my little vest and my little philosophy minor degree ready to Conquer The Question of Purpose in Ultramarathoning, and the answers were not looking good for me. I was deconstructing with every footstep forward. Is there intrinsic value in pain? And if there is, what is it? Why am I out here alone? Time doesn't exist and I have no concept that it has probably been less than an hour since I spoke to a friend and would probably either find more friends or make more friends as the day wears on. I am alone in this forest, and I am going to cry about it. Like, ugly cry. Sobbing, gasping, this-character-is-being-hella-overacted crying. I want to quit RIGHT NOW. But I told Tam I'd see her at the finish line. And like, it'd look kinda lame if I DNF this for no good reason besides getting too sad. At this point, I determine that it's probably time to Eat Something, so I pull out the super dense gel sugary thing I picked up at the aid station to avoid eating my own carefully curated snacks. And what would you know, approximately 5 minutes after consuming 200 calories of pure maple syrup with added salt, the world suddenly seemed less bleak and finishing this race seemed like a less awful proposition. My new attitude and I finally rocked up to aid station 4.

Aid station 4 was uneventful until we heard over the radio 'first female has cleared Smoke Bluffs'. Oof. The aid station volunteers graciously reminded those of us who had just been confronted with our weak paces that those who are finishing now did not get to spend time having snacks at the aid station. I took off, and found myself chatting with a fellow from Squamish. It was his first ultra, with an eerily similar story to my decision to run this race the year before - the 50k sold out too fast and thought, 'eh, how bad could 50 miles be?'. Officially invested in my unknown friend's fate now, we eventually rolled up to Aid Station 5, which I refer to as the family tailgate aid station. At first, I looked about helplessly for my husband without the faintest clue whether or not he'd even gotten out of the house. I wandered over to the medical tent where the nice medic scraped the hell out of my knee using alcohol swabs. Honestly, this might have been the worst part of the whole day if not for what was in store between aid stations 5 and 6. Finally I caught site of my spouse and parked myself in the grass to eat a sandwich and whine some more while he recorded it as a 'vlog' to share with everyone else I know. He had in fact remembered to bring the Scandinavian Swimmers I had emphatically requested the day before, but I ended up forgetting about them moments after he told me he had them. I considered letting them squeeze the cold water sponges on me before I headed out, but thought better of it when I contemplated the water cleanliness and the oozing scrape that we decided against bandaging for the sole reason that no bandage was going to adhere to me at this point in the day.

I rolled out of the aid station around the same time as my new friend, and we continued on our little trek. At this point, my right knee was starting to do The Thing. Previously, only my left knee had been known to do The Thing. It's a sharp sharp pain on the outside, near the knee cap when I land on that side. Sharp enough to make you not want to land too hard because that leg might buckle from the pain. It wasn't so bad, and only every few steps, so I got by just fine walking more than I wanted. Until I didn't, and it hurt with every downhill step I was taking and I started crying again because THIS TRULY SUCKS. I didn't even do anything to that leg! I did not bring this upon myself except by maybe having been born with kinda messed up legs that turn inward instead of straight ahead but I DID NOTHING WRONG! I will add at this point, this section of the run (despite being reassured that all distances are as marked and completely correct) at least FEELS exceptionally long compared to how it's advertised. You think you're almost to AS 6 for a VERY long time. As I cried about the unfairness of life, I remembered I had put every kind of OTC medication one might even think about needing in my vest, so I popped a couple of ibuprofen and grumpily walked on. For some reason, despite being an entire doctor, I never believe that ibuprofen could fix MY problem. It is a solution for someone else. Fortunately for me, ibuprofen doesn't care about my skepticism and went to work, rendering my knee functional and capable of being run upon and allowing it to carry me to Aid Station 6.

Aid Station 6 is kind of a letdown. Not because it's not fully stocked and staffed by fantastic volunteers - it absolutely is. Every aid station is a 10/10. It's just wedged between two very exciting aid stations where you get your crew and there is generally a lot of activity and cheering. However, a familiar face again saved the day when I realized the ice water bucket manager was in fact another run club friend. This friend in particular I had pressured into running the Valley Vertikiller as a fairly new trail runner. I was not, in my current state, doing a great job of selling the idea that trail running is a fun and safe activity, but his enthusiasm and selfie taking renewed my spirits and made me believe that I could make it to the next aid station, which would in turn mean that I could make it to the finish line.

It was at this aid station that I started to chat with a couple of ladies; the conversation with an aid station attendant about the insanity of doing this race multiple times had come up, so naturally I was prepared to contribute to this conversation and inform them that I was, in fact, completely unhinged. As we rolled back into the woods, these ladies were talking in miles which was my second cue to start talking, because where there are miles there are, typically, fellow Americans. These lasses were from Colorado; when I mentioned I was originally from Florida but had moved out to BC, they, without skipping a beat, went, 'wow so a total upgrade'. Ahhhh, to be amongst my kind of people. This was not their first 50 miler, and had come all the way out here to run it. I passed my original compatriot somewhere during this phase, which flew by in good company as I pulled ahead and in to aid station 7. Aid station 7 has you run across a bridge and going downhill for a bit. I saw a few folks standing before the aid station on the sideline; I assumed it was just course marshals or someone taking down bib numbers for checkin. I spotted my husband with his Real Camera, and as my brain slowly processed the blonde girl cheering for me by name (as an Experienced Runner, I am now conscious of when I have my name printed on my race tag and no longer become completely frozen in horror when I hear my name called by enthusiastic strangers) as not just a random volunteer with a lot of energy, but my BC Bestie Elise! And then as I got to the aid station proper, I realized that I was in the presence of my husband, BC Bestie, AND my Aid Station 3 trail angel friend! As disoriented and overstimulated as I was by this, it was honestly magical, I almost cried, and I reluctantly accepted/delivered the most disgusting hugs I've ever been a part of. I was truly ready to tackle the final 8 miles now.

The last section of the race includes an additional unpleasant climb that kinda never ends, but did include an exceptional sunset. As much as it meant knowing I'd be rocking up to the finish line in the dark, the striking purple and orange on the horizon as I crested the false peak on my way up Mountain of Phlegm was first class. As we finally neared the stairs, I chatted with a woman who was here from Alberta to do the 50/50 (for those of you fortunate enough to not know what that is, it means running the 50 mile race on Saturday followed by the 50k race on Sunday). It rained just a little bit, and I wished her good traction and tacky surfaces for Sunday (and warned that if it rained too much that slippery might be a concern to monitor). When we reached the stairs, the course marshal eagerly assured us that we were done with the stairs! Which was quickly disproven upon reaching several smaller flights of stairs... sigh. After this betrayal, we eventually made our way out of Smoke Bluffs to the sight of a disco ball and Von Dutch blasting on a bluetooth speaker in the parking lot. Fortified by the power of brat summer imbued in that melody I took off onto the pavement princess section of the race. Several very, very enthusiastic high-five soliciting children ambushed me with their excitement and encouragement as I ran past the hostel I was staying at, onto the final stretch of road.

You might be thinking to yourself at this point, wow, she's run 50+ miles in the woods without encountering a single bear! What luck! And you'd be right, except then I encountered a bear. On the street. Walking down the opposite side of the road. This is an inconvenience, and I suppose I should have exercised better bear manners. I gave it the little bit of 'hey bear!' I could summon and basically hoped it would continue on its way down the street because nothing was going to delay me from reaching this finish line right now, not even this unbothered black bear. Fortunately, he or she seemed utterly unmoved by my antics and continued on down the street as though they were also a taxpaying member of the community and I barreled down the street and into the finish chute where I was immediately granted my second Squamish50 Gary Robbins hug and the attention of many friends who had to witness my (again) overstimulated and disoriented presence. After a finish line group photo, it was time to start recombobulating, relaying stories to Toby and Elise, and drinking an orange juice juice box like any good Floridian would.

While I haven't quite sorted out my running purpose deconstruction, being reminded that I was the reason someone else signed up for something challenging or ridiculous seems like a good enough proxy for now. I hopped on the results page as soon as it was up to ensure my Squamish and Colorado friends also made it across the finish line (yes, they did!). I only made it four days before I was talking about signing up for my next ultra (not alone... not ready to do that again), which may be a new record turnaround time.

I cannot sign off without reiterating how absolutely blessed and lucky and fortunate I felt to have so many familiar, happy faces out there on the course last Saturday. From my other pals running the race that I felt I couldn't be the only DNF of the crew, to the volunteers and friends that came out to cheer me on and my ever-attentive forever race crew member Toby, this race reminded me that no matter if you're racing or just out for a run, going fast or taking it easy, the real magic of running is the folks you meet along the way. Without this sport, I honestly don't think I would have had some of the most important relationships and experiences I've had in my life.

Tune in next time for my musings about my mid-race existential crisis and the ever elusive 'why do I run?'!

[dirtanddistance]

Grandma's Marathon 2024 Race Recap: Sometimes, you PR. Other times, you're just trying to stay out of the ER.

A wise woman once told me "a marathon in 20 miles of hope and 6.2 miles of truth." At the 2024 Grandma's Marathon in Duluth, Minnesota, I can confidently say I did not get a full 20 miles of hope, and certainly got more than 6.2 miles of truth.

The first question you might be asking yourself about this race report is, "What on Earth were you doing in Duluth, Minnesota? You live in Canada. Your brother who went with you lives in Florida. You are not trying to qualify for Boston. If you were trying to qualify for Boston you are a day trip away from any number of other net downhill qualifying races. Explain yourself." Dear reader, winding up spending a long weekend in Minnesota with my brother is the consequence of a pact that we made last year to run a destination race (a marathon - this detail will matter later) together every year now that we do not live near each other, and we both are very much into running far. We both compiled wish lists of sorts for marathons we thought would be great adventures to go on together, and after running the Vancouver Marathon together last year, it was my brother's turn to choose. I honestly do not know what exactly made him select Grandma's Marathon, but of course as it is a very well reviewed and beloved event in the marathon world, it made it onto his list. I did not check his math on this decision. We signed up when registration opened, virtual high fived at our brilliant decision, and carried on with our lives.

We were not fully aware of the logistics that would come for us in the ensuing months. As you might have noticed, there is no mention of 'booking flights' or 'reserving hotel rooms' in our initial description. And that would be because we did not do any of those things until about 2 months before the race. I can confidently tell you that everyone else on the internet is right when they tell you that you should be booking your hotel for Grandma's the day after the previous year's race. We were ready to book an RV 38 miles outside of town on AirBnb before I finally found a hotel room with a much more reasonable location and amenities. Holding my nose and paying for the hotel room aside, it was time to book flights. Duluth, Minnesota is conveniently located pretty much between Florida and British Columbia, which sounds like a good compromise for two people 3,000 miles apart seeking a destination to meet in. What this does not mention is the fact that flying into the Duluth airport is prohibitively expensive, and you will be flying into Minneapolis, renting a car, and driving two and a half hours to Duluth instead. Now, for two siblings who haven't caught up in a minute, this is not a massive imposition and allowed for a memorable side quest for tacky souvenirs at the Mall of America. However, it is a less charming feature when you have to get back to the airport for one sibling's 9am flight on Monday morning after the race. All of this to say, if you are considering Grandma's Marathon, do not overlook the logistical details.

Warnings out of the way, I rolled out of bed at 3am on a Thursday morning and dragged myself through YVR onto what was thankfully a direct flight to Minneapolis. After an unremarkable plane ride (as unremarkable as hurtling through the sky in a metal tube to a destination over a thousand miles away), I landed in the Land of 10,000 Lakes and lumbered off the jetway to the sight of my little brother, clad in a matching pickleball jacket and shorts set with his Pit Viper sunglasses and a coffee in hand. We found our way to the car rental counter, where we discovered our first hurdle of the trip: some kind of crisis which resulted in us standing in a line for about an hour to pick up the rental car. This left us plenty of time to commiserate about air travel and snap a selfie for our ever-concerned mother. Car keys in hand, we rolled out to find some lunch at the famed Mall of America. Now, the Mall of America is the largest mall in the United States, maybe all of North America, I don't know. I find this claim a bit spurious because while it is a very big mall which contains an entire theme park and aquarium, a number of the retail stores are DUPLICATES. Which, fine, maybe you do need multiple Caribou Coffee locations in case fatigue strikes while you're several floors and a couple of wings separated from the coffee shop, but I will draw the line at multiple Bath and Body Works location in a single mall. This is the American Excess they warn you about. Anyway, we wandered the Nickelodeon Universe and wax nostalgic about the icons of our childhood before finding our way to the food court, the ultimate lunch destination for diametrically different dietary needs travel parties. I snagged the largest acai bowl I've ever seen (it was called 'yacht' size and while I don't think it could fit an entire Leonardo DiCaprio and whichever model he is currently dating, it was still a formidable opponent even for as hungry as I was) and waited up while my brother fetched a fried chicken sandwich meal from Popeye's, which he would later admit to regretting. We then proceeded to put in our first 10,000 steps in the land of 10,000 lakes by wandering every wing of every floor of the Mall of America in search of the perfect tacky treats to bring back to our loved ones and also so that we could say we'd walked the entire Mall of America and seen everything it had to offer. As someone who grew up in a state known for its endless theme park offerings and moved somewhere known for its endless natural amenities while also having tons of large and vibrant indoor shopping malls, I can't say that the Mall of America was for me, but if you ever happen to find yourself in the Twin Cities it was an interesting stop (and there is a food for every appetite in that food court).

Several hours, a stop at the oldest Target location, and numerous gossip topics later, we found ourselves at the hotel in Superior, Wisconsin. When the race materials suggested that the entire surrounding area was really invested in this event, I was not prepared for the random Holiday Inn we were staying at to be completely decked out for marathon weekend. Balloon banners, buckets of bananas and water bottles, little party favor bags in the rooms with more snacks and sunscreen and race-day instruction printouts. I have never been to an event where the city so thoroughly embraces the race weekend energy. We settled in before exhaustedly conceding that we did in fact have to eat dinner, and dragged ourselves to the Perkins across the street where we reminisced about our family's long abandoned ritual of weekly dinner at Perkin's after church on Sunday while I picked at a rather sad collection of side dishes (eating vegan in the Midwest isn't that hard. Eating vegan at Perkins on the other hand...).

Friday dawned and it was time to hit the race expo and check out a bit of downtown Duluth. The race expo had everything you'd expect... many booths hawking Gu and related products, headbands and shirts with cheesy slogans, booths touting methods to 'reset your nervous system' and 'refresh your blood'. After doing a maple syrup shot and drinking a few different flavors of Celcius, we grabbed our packets and were struck with immediate concern at the lack of t-shirts. As it turns out, Grandma's Marathon gatekeeps its finisher shirts and you will not be collecting one unless you cross that finish line yourself.

Friday evening brought the highly touted Michelena's All You Can Eat Spaghetti Dinner. I'm not certain I've ever seen so many people eating in one location, not even in a university dining hall. The quantities of pasta served were gargantuan. You are by default presented with two dinner rolls as your starting portion, with entire loaves of bread out on the table to follow up. Choccy milk and ice cream also abounded. For the low price of just under $20, there was truly no excuse for not being properly fueled for race day.

Speaking of no excuses, we arrive at race day (yes, I know, we're far into a race report for only just getting to the actual race now. Sorry not sorry). After being rudely awakened by two iPhone alarms perfectly in sync, we dragged ourselves through a semblance of a morning routine. Being so early, and being the more morning-oriented sibling of the two of us, I did succeed in convincing my brother to adorn himself with stick on face gems, as is my custom for races these days. He quite appropriately selected two teardrop shaped gems, "one for every marathon I've killed". Boys will be boys (wholesome) I suppose. We rolled up to the parking lot at the University of Wisconsin - Superior, and beheld the bus line to get to the starting line. This is another quirk of Grandma's Marathon - it is a point to point race, and you get to contemplate the full gravity of your decision to sign up for it on a half hour or so bus ride to the start line. I cannot imagine the logistics gymnastics required to get 9,000 people to the start lines via school buses, but after waiting in line for a bit in the misting rain as busload after busload ahead of us were ferried off, we got onto a bus and the journey truly began.

The starting line was a gauntlet of finish line drop bag collection trucks and porta potties, and a nervous huddled mass praying that the rain would continue to hold off on such a gray and dismal morning. We did our rounds of bathroom and stand-around-observing until it was time to surrender our jackets to the drop back trash cans to be reclaimed at the end of our Ordeal.

We shuffled into our packed corrals, and as the countdown proceeded and the gun went off, we trotted over the start line and down the highway. Now, I will say that the marathon course is quite pretty. You run along a two lane highway for miles and miles, sometimes getting a glimpse of the (angry and gray, on our race day) lake. It is a bit repetitive. You run along Superior for... well, basically the whole race. We were running along at a brisk clip, beating our pacing recommendations without much effort, chasing PRs (for us, sub 3:56:30). We made it to the half marathon point and continued along, but I quickly started to feel the pace catching up with me. By mile 15, I was starting to feel a bit dizzy and nauseous. My brother was doing ok, and he started to pull ahead. By Mile 17, we were officially separated out and my new goal was to stay out of the med tent and avoid an expensive trip to the emergency room. I was thirsty the entire time despite everything feeling sloshy and adhering religiously to my nutrition plan. My brain was simply not prepared for the reality of grinding out 26.2 miles as fast as I could manage on the road. I was quickly discovering that sandwiching a 'fast' road marathon between two trail ultras, without doing any speed workouts and avoiding road running to the greatest extent possible, was simply not something I had cracked this time around. I patted myself on the back metaphorically for coming to terms with my failure rather quickly and for deciding to grit my teeth and get to that finish line no matter how undignified I felt about it. This is where thing became surprising. Despite the pain, and the rain, and the fact that it was kinda cold (too cold to walk for the entire rest of the race for me), the entire race flew by. Even the miles I had to walk some of. I never was out there thinking, 'how much longer?! HOW WILL I ENDURE?!" It just... went by. It didn't matter that the course was kinda boring. It didn't matter that everything hurt and I didn't feel so good. I recalibrated my expectations, trucked along, enjoyed the silly signs and cheers of the spectators (they are just as enthusiastic after hours in the rain. Duluth has an A+ cheering section for sure). I paid attention to all of the makeshift aid stations with juice or beer or fruit. The sign that said "all toenails go to heaven". The fact that from what I could tell, the same spectators were moving from point to point, which is a feat of dedication in and of itself.

As I closed in on downtown Duluth in the final mile, the desire to just walk it in mounted. It was cold. It was rainy. I was over it. However, the spectators mercilessly encouraged anyone who dropped pace and I simply could not handle being yelled at to keep running, so I trudged along. Meters from the finish, the fellow next to me goes, "we're here! We did it!" in awe, and damn if I didn't kinda start crying because yeah, we are here, and we have done it. I have no idea what kind of journey it was for him (but from his tone I might guess it was his first marathon finish), and he had no idea that I too was feeling fairly awed by my ability to drag myself all the way to the finish line in spite of the many things that fell apart for me that morning. We both made it across the finish line, me with a new personal worst marathon time, and my new compatriot very dramatically dropped to his knees with his hands to the sky. I very quickly hobbled away at this point as that was not a narrative that I wished to be included in, and finally the pain and discontent had their chance to hit me full on. As I gimped along with my medal, a photographer flagged me to "Pose with your medal!". Which I totally did because no is not in my midwestern pedigreed vocabulary, but I quickly started crying seconds after that photo was taken. I was handed a mylar blanket (or 'heat sheet' as they called it) and continued my sad, damp, sniffly shuffle to find my brother. At this point I was aware of a new dire issue, which is that the empty Gu wrapper I had shoved in my side pocket under my phone felt as though it had chafed a hole through the side of my leg, and my only remaining consolation was that seeing as I had not passed my brother on the course, it was possible that he was having a slightly better day than me.

This hope was dashed as my eyes alighted on a sad red-headed boy sitting wrapped in a heat sheet under a tree. I hobbled over and also took a seat, at which point he says "I was going to go get my drop back but I can't get up". As the rain continued to fall, we looked forlornly at the lineups of people waiting to collect their drop bags. The competing desires of 'sit forever because wow my legs hurt' and 'I am going to freeze to death if I keep sitting here soaking wet with only a mylar blanket to my name' roiled in our heads until finally, the need to get dry and warmed up won out. While we did have to stand in line for a bit to finally reunite with our jackets and some dry clothes, I will say (full offense intended) that it was more organized than the Sun Run drop back pick up.

I will not go into graphic detail about peeling off clothes that are both sweat and rain soaked in a tent full of other sticky sweaty damp people, the floor blanketed in abandoned heat sheets. I was impressed to discover that while the wayward Gu packet that I was too polite to toss on the road did not bore a literal bleeding hole in my leg, I did have a chafe so bad that in subsequent hours and days it would scab over and make it difficult to sleep. Just when you think you've mastered your chafing prevention routine, nature finds a way.

The trial did not end with getting changed, however. Now that we were warm, dry, and in pain, it was time to hobble the quarter mile or so to the finish line bus stop. Finally checking our phones, we saw our mom's request for additional photos and snapped a very grumpy selfie on the way. Every foot step was a new nightmare as every few seconds one of us thought aloud, "are we there yet?" Finally we reached the buses; I will be the first to tell you that there is nothing more enjoyable than riding an un-air conditioned school bus packed full of sticky, sweaty, damp adults.

We finally made it back to the hotel in a torrent of vague discomfort and grumbling, cleaned up, and landed in the Nirvana that was the clean hotel beds with our respective Nintendo Switch/Steam Decks and snacks. When dinner time rolled around, we ventured back out (full of complaints) to a well reviewed Mexican restaurant. When I tell you this place was sketchy as hell to find, I am not exaggerating. We got lost on a 5 minute drive to the place. The windowless venue on the side of a larger warehouse type building was menacing and did not look like a promising place to find a post-marathon meal. However, upon opening the door, we were greeted by a delightful interior and more tortilla chips than either of us could safely house in our GI tracts. Sometimes, there are secrets to be found in the unlikeliest of places.

The remainder of the trip involves BOGO sourdough loaves, 'vacation coffee', and limping around Duluth the following day which was miraculously sunny. More important than any one thing we did on this trip, though, was the chance to just hang out together. We hadn't gotten to go on a sibling side quest that wasn't a funeral or funeral-adjacent in... well, a very long time. And while those tough experiences brought us together and shaped who we are, it's only in quiet moments of mundane togetherness that you truly get to enjoy who another person is.

In conclusion, our pilgrimage to Duluth taught me a few things.

Always check the full logistics before signing up for a race.

I have to do speed workouts if I want to run PR times. Lame.

We would've crushed a half marathon. Too bad we were signed up for a full marathon.

You should consider cherishing and curating your personal worst performances with as much love and care as your personal best performances.

Just because you hit a physical wall does not mean you need to build a mental wall to match, and your ability to scale your mental walls directly correlates to how you will navigate your physical walls.

The refried beans you eat after a marathon are the best refried beans you will ever experience in your life.

Consider travel insurance if you want to embody the PR-or-ER ethos.

Having a buddy, whether or not you run together, can very easily help you find a 'why' on a tough run. And that 'why' can be 'I need to not keep my brother waiting so long that he loses any remaining respect for me so no more walking'.

Road or trail, rain or shine, PR or ER, there's always more to learn about yourself and others out there.

[dirtanddistance]

West Coast Running Odyssey - Alternate Title, How to RunMaxx a Three Day Weekend/Bay to Breakers Race Recap and More

Some weekends were made for running, and for this BC runner, Victoria Day Weekend was without doubt that weekend for me. Saturday morning started with an early alarm drawing me groggily downstairs to make a cup of tea and grab a bagel. I could hear the ominous beating of the rain outside. Checking my messages, it quickly became apparent that the group planning a run up to Tunnel Bluffs would not be convening. I texted Elise to check if she wanted to bail, and thankfully, she was prepared to get out there still. We enjoyed the meandering drive up Sea to Sky and got to trekking. Calling this a run may have been a slight exaggeration, seeing as we were hoofing it uphill a good amount of the way up. However, the trek paid off as we reached the bluffs to a view out across the sound. Perhaps not as majestic as a truly clear day, but braving the rain on the sparsely traveled trail up was worth the extra care scrambling up the final rocky sections. We logged our names on the little message station and beheld a soggy plush dog stationed in a stump overlooking the water, pondering his role and how he reached this place. Is he meant to tell us something? On the way back, much faster and with higher spirits, we gleefully ignored the building fatigue in our quads as we pulled into the parking lot with jelly legs, feeling incredibly fortunate to have not gone back to bed. And, because I have no chill when it comes to maximizing my run opportunities, I hopped on a plane to San Francisco shortly after.

Bay to Breakers is an event without comparison in North America. I'd participated around ten years ago, and would describe the event as a 12k long party rather than a 'race'. Between the costumes, the absurd spectators, the flying tortillas in the staring gate, the adult full frontal nudity, and the centipede category, you are guaranteed to see something you've never seen before. This year was no exception. We rocked up to the starting line as a party of three; two of us dressed in a rather obscure pop culture reference duo costume as Taylor and Matty for our best Tortured Poets Department impression. We'd ordered our race packets to be mailed to us, but when there was no hint of them the day before the race, I frantically emailed the help desk and was told I could pick our numbers up morning of. This went quite smoothly, if it was slightly disappointing to not have had the pre-event mailing work out. The starting corrals were well organized, but within moments the trademark ridiculousness took root with fajita size tortillas flying through the air. After being buffeted by a number of the delicious discs, I flung one back into the void, promptly striking someone in the face (sorry!) and earning a high five from my compatriots. As they released us into the streets through the starting gate, the real adventure began. I can confidently say that the sequined shorts were perfectly fine to run in with their protective nylons guarding them from my skin, which was possibly the largest surprise of the day. The first entertaining stop was a reverse piñata station, in which two rows of people dressed up like piñatas with inflatable sticks wallop runners passing through. After that, we encountered an entire crew dressed as crabs. This would turn out to be the most resilient and entertaining group of the day. The swarm of crabs would later be seen partying long into the afternoon in the park, absolutely in sync and on some kind of divine crab wavelength that the rest of us could only imagine existing within. As all three of us were originally from Florida, Hayes Hill was the most fretted portion of the event, and where we began walking. The amount of concentrated hype attached to this portion of the course is understandable given the mild elevation profile of the rest of the course. I quickly discovered as I forced us back to running on the downhill that my legs were not particularly pleased to be doing another downhill run after yesterday's blitz back from Tunnel Bluffs, but I ignored this inconvenient fact in favor of pressing onwards. We passed a Pit Stop in which a crew of spectators dressed in race car pit crew outfits slammed runners into camp chairs, poured some beer down their throats, and then shoved them back onto the course in a brutally efficient demonstration of debauchery. We walk/ran the remainder of the trek out to the Pacific, and even had someone recognize our costume along the way. Finally, the finish line and the breaking waves beckoned, and we collected our pretty sick finisher medals and oodles of snacks. 10/10 event, did 0/10 serious racing.

Why stop at two back to back days of iconic running destinations when you can stack up three? Only someone without a searing ambition to add a trail run to their San Francisco weekend would leave their Monday bereft of more miles. That, and I really didn't want to do another long run on my usual home route. Desperation leads to curious destinations, and that curious destination for me was the top of Hawk Hill via foot from Haight Ashbury. Like any sensible person who never drinks coffee, I decided that morning was the perfect one for my caffeine sensitive self to slam a soy latte before taking the 7 bus with my husband into town proper. After he picked up a bike and we picked out some waypoints, I was off and running. I have to say, I was running up inclines I would never even consider runnable during the first hour of this journey. I bounded up the stairs to Inspiration Point before bobbing down again to the start of the Golden Gate bridge. In my caffeinated stupor, I thought to myself that I might not be so pleased on the return route going back up, but decided that was a problem for mile 17 me and instead tackled the puzzle that was 'how to get onto the sidewalk that would take me across the bridge to the sweet sweet dirt and plants on the other side of it'. Now, I would understand if you were expecting me to have some kind of awe inspiring account of what it's like to run across this iconic piece of American engineering. This instantly recognizable more-orange-than-red bridge is the default bridge emoji. It links a storied American city with a massive national recreation area. Running across it, therefore, must be a religious experience. Perhaps it is, given that most of what I hear of religious experiences in America are filled with rage, inefficiency, and lack of consideration of anyone other than oneself. It was an infuriating experience. First of all, it's loud. Many cars and big water means much sound. Second, it's packed. This was a non-holiday Monday and it was packed. That's enough of a challenge, but I've been to Tokyo and seen that humans are capable of being very concentrated and also very orderly. This bridge traffic did not get this memo. Not a soul on this sidewalk had ever conceived of a single file line. The existence of pull-off areas for photos and pausing was completely ignored in favor of random stopping in the most congested sections. As someone who very minimally experiences what one might consider 'road rage,' I was shocked at the internal frustration building within me. Thankfully I refrained from externalizing that experience and made it to the other side, where I again had to go full Dora The Explorer to find the way to the other side of the bridge and finally get to the promised land - TRAILS.

The trails did not disappoint. As a friend pointed out to me later, Marin was the location of the North Face Endurance 50k years back, and understandable why they chose this location. Although most of my journey out was uphill, it was gradual enough to be fully runnable, leaving my cycle-bound husband in my dust. At the top of Hawk Hill, I enjoyed a fresh jam sandwich I'd bought with my coffee and ferried all the way up with me, in true trail run fashion. The trek back down became a bit more interesting as I took a different trail back along the ridge instead of along the road. I spotted a couple ahead of me, and then promptly tripped on almost nothing and ate dirt, in front of the only other humans I would end up seeing on the trail that day. I quickly waved them off in my embarrassment so I could cry quietly about it for a few minutes, and then hobbled along with the sad acknowledgement that I would not be flinging myself back down the hill with the ache in my knee now gnawing away. Each time I stopped it got a bit stiff, so I quit doing that and dragged my dusty, bleeding carcass back into town to meet my husband back at the Whole Foods, which seems like the only appropriate post-run meet point in San Francisco, for a post run kombucha (I kinda would have done anything for a classic Red Dye 40 packed Gatorade, but I was also not willing to expend any more effort than necessary seeking one out in my condition). While I felt bad for myself in my sticky and bloody state, I have to say I've been pretty fortunate to have made it about a year since my last dirt-eating debacle. I can't even mitigate it by saying it was super technical, or a dicey downhill. I was going uphill. There was probably some tiny rock. I'm going to take it as a good omen that I completed my mandatory knee scrape early in the season and that it will again bless the remainder of hot trail runner summer.

Looking back on the absurd trifecta of runs I was lucky enough to get to do, I was reminded of just how awe inspiring running can be - from the bonds we form with those we run with and friends we make along the way, to the absurdity one can witness from the vantage point of the street, to the majesty of the places our feet can take us. No matter the place, no matter the pace, going for a run is always a good idea.

[dirtanddistance]

King of Pain and Festival Ready: Diez Vista 50k 2024

10 years ago, I decided to run my first 50k. As all good running ideas are, it was a suggestion from a friend and running partner. While she did not end up on the starting line with me, it was the beginning of a path that would lead me to the start line on Sasamat Lake, far from alone this time. The 50k distance has always been special to me. It was the race that made me an ultramarathoner, it introduced me to trail running. Every 50k I’ve done has been so deeply impactful on who I have become as a person; from that first race in Florida, to the 50k I ran while I was in podiatry school in Ohio that showed me that I had no idea what a trail race actually entailed. The 50k back in my hometown, a repeat of my first that I signed up for because I knew that I needed it to force myself to keep eating, keep taking care of myself while my dad died right before I graduated. I can still feel how disconnected and lonely I was out there that day if I think about it for too long. How miserable, numb. I won my gender division and felt nothing. I didn’t touch a 50k for years after that. Partially because I was in residency and had no time for that level of training, but also because I just… couldn’t, not after I dragged myself through it just to stay alive that last time. It wouldn’t be until last autumn that I would tackle that specific distance as an event again, this time with a group of fearless friends in my local running club on their run around the perimeter of Burnaby, BC. While I never mentioned it to any of them, getting to run that distance with them, sharing the joys and the pain, helped put together a few little broken pieces I’d forgotten about deep down in my soul somewhere. And along this path, I was delivered at the moment when I would ask Elise if she would like to run a trail ultra.

Convincing Elise to sign up for a trail ultra was actually a pretty easy sell. We’d done some exceptional leaf-peeping trail runs earlier in the season, and a pretty spectacular group trail run up to Panorama Ridge the summer before. We’d gone backpacking together and determined we could wander around in the backcountry for days on end without it getting too weird. More importantly, we’d bonded over our mutual burnout for road racing. It was nerve wracking, worrying about paces and times, comparing ourselves to others and to previous versions of ourselves who we knew deep down shouldn’t be emulated but damn, they put down some good times. Trail runs were a chance to escape that. You’ve never run this course before so you can’t really decide what a good time for you is. It might be the same distance as another one you ran, but the terrain makes them completely incomparable. Only the top three people get awards, so as solidly average runners there’s no need to wonder if you could have nabbed the podium in your age group. Most importantly, it’s far enough of a distance over challenging enough terrain that simply getting to the finish line feels like accomplishment enough, time be damned. So on entry day, one morning in I think December, I woke up an extra few minutes early and texted my running buddy, and signed up for the 2024 DV50. Minutes later, I got a text back confirming it. We were both really in it now.

As an aside, there is nothing I enjoy more than getting to do someone’s first [insert race distance here] with them. Even better if we’re running it together; I highly recommend trying this strategy for joymaxxing your race. You get to turn your competition brain off. Your only job is to shepherd your companion along this journey that you’ve gone on before. You don’t really think about whether or not you can do it or how you are feeling at any given moment. You’re concerned about how they’re holding up, if they’ve got enough water or slept well the night before. Some of my most treasured running memories are watching a friend finally take a crack at a race. You know you can do it. And you know they can do it, and that you’re gonna do it with them.

Race day dawned without a raindrop to speak of. Apparently this was only the 3rd time in the 26 year history of Diez Vista 50k that there was ‘good’ weather on race day #luckygirlsyndrome. I was infinitely thankful for this, if only because I’d already spent hours upon hours trudging up and down Diez Vista completely saturated and covered in mud while training for this race and emotionally I wasn’t sure how much more of that I had in me. We arrived pretty much in perfect timing to park, apply face gems (one must be festival ready when your race falls on Coachella weekend) get our drop bags situated, hit the bathroom, and take a couple photos before the starting gun (except there is no starting gun. This is British Columbia not a Florida high school track meet). As we started to pick up our feet and cross over the starting line while AC/DC’s Thunderstruck blasted, it really, well, struck me that we were really in it now. 

First half of the race was well trodden ground after Run Ridge Run a little while back. We fell into a groove, the mass of participants still fairly thick as we crossed the bridge and started our ascent. We ended up near another run acquaintance I hadn’t had a chance to chat with since before Squamish last year, which broke up the first bit of the climb before we all became a bit too winded to do much more talking. The DV climb, which had been the bane of my existence up until today, went by faster than I could ever recall it passing on previous jaunts. There was nothing but the relentless desire to be done with it, to be over the (big) hill and on with the rest of the race where we could actually chat and enjoy ourselves.

Finally, we were past it and pulled up to Aid Station 2. AS2 had impeccable vibes. First of all, we ran into our friend Keri working as a course marshal on the way in, and seeing a familiar face is always a surefire morale boost. There was Dua Lipa playing on the speakers. A woman dressed up as a shark complimented our festival-ready face gems, and another volunteer told us we looked fresh (if anyone reading this has ever wondered what you should say to a runner when you’re volunteering at a race, anything along the lines of ‘you look fresh/strong’ is 10/10). We loaded up on snacks and headed back on our journey around Buntzen Lake. 

The toddle to the third aid station was uneventful; once more we were rewarded with a volunteering friend sighting (hi Clarence!) and the Big Fuel waiting in the drop bag - a PB&J and some apple sauce. This aid station had everything, and it was far enough into the race that I was starting to want exactly none of it. Fortunately, the PB&J went down the hatch without much protest and there was a real bathroom on the way out of the aid station to boot.

The next chunk of the race was a bit uneventful; these miles kinda just slipped by, along with aid station 4. We finally ran into another pair of pals course marshaling before the split to head out along the powerline trail, bright eyed and optimistic. We’d run this trail by accident before, not realizing it was actually part of the course. It had been pouring rain that day, in contrast to the blazing sun spilling over the undulating path ahead of us, visible snaking infinitely into the horizon. With no concept of what was about to happen to us, we plodded off in decent spirits. We got to the point in the course where we saw everyone ahead of us passing back and coming back; the quantity of ‘way to go’, ‘looking strong’, and ‘good work!’s that were offered to increasingly bleak-faced compatriots ticked up and up, punctuated with bursts of more heartfelt excitement when we saw faces we recognized charging back towards the finish line. It was during this trudge that I was asked by a physically unflagging Elise, ‘what do you do when the mental game goes south? Asking for a friend.” I realized I was deeply lucky to not be too deep in a psychological rut despite the never ending uphill trudge we were on. The answer to that question is that there really isn’t an easy way to force your way out of it when you have that much race left to run. I let my brain empty itself out and start offering me its very questionable Pandora channel, flicking between songs whose places in my brain I couldn’t even begin to explain. Sometimes it kinda works, but more often you just kinda hang out there and then it shifts. And soon after that conversation, the uphill trek shifted back downhill and the passers by in the opposite direction began to say, ‘you’re nearly there!’ with a sincerity that was not to be questioned. Two course marshals with more enthusiasm than an entire high school cheer squad were all the confirmation we needed before we turned the corner to the shouting and a massive “Swift Kelce 2024” flag. 

When I say that Aid Station 5 was a transcendent experience, I am not exaggerating in the least. I hadn’t been so excited to see more people I knew since the last time I’d seen one of our friends on course and the taste of the Sour Patch Kids and peach rings I ate out there will never be matched by any other candy experience in this world. I had no idea how far the power line trail went on before I got to that point, but finally could rest knowing that it did in fact have an end and that we could now spend the next few miles floating back downhill. Which we did, but maybe a little bit more stiff than graceful, filled with candy and lifted spirits. Spirits that were light enough to muster up a jump-for-joy when we ran past the course photographer again. Spirits that were ready for the final push to the finish line.

The final section of stairs before the finish line was definitely an insult but was certainly less than the 200 stairs that were described at the pre race briefing. At the top of the stairs, I caught sight of my husband parking his motorcycle (or doing his best to in the busy labyrinth of the Sasamat Lake parking lots) and remarked that he wouldn’t make it down before us as we made the final descent towards the lake, looking out onto the beach and holding back tears as I said “we did it, we made it!” to Elise. We dodged the children on the beach as we traversed that final gauntlet to cross the finish line together, hitting Gary with that double high five and reuniting with all of our run club friends.

While this was one of the less intensely-trained-for ultras I’ve completed, it was by far the most fun one I’ve done and mentally the strongest I’ve had. An emotional redemption of this distance, and an unforgettable experience with a beautiful friend. There is nothing quite like sharing months and miles together working toward a goal, and getting to cross the finish line with someone who knows exactly what it took to get there. With our sparkly face gems intact, we finished as the kings of pain, and also ever festival-ready.

[dirtanddistance]

Halfway There: Run Ridge Run Race Report

Race: Run Ridge Run by Coast Mountain Trail Running

Distance: 25k, 3200ft vert

Location: Port Moody, BC

Time: 4:18:48

Goal: Don't cry, have fun - ACHIEVED

Sometimes, there's no amount of repetition that makes a challenge easier, and I'm starting to think that the Diez Vista ascent portion of RRR 25k and the DV 50k is one of those things. Having run the course twice already this winter, my trusty run buddies and I were excited to tackle it for time.... and also dreading that grinding ascent.

As any good running pod does, the three of us set out the night before for packet pick up, and a stop by Rocky Point Ice Cream for some cones before dinner in the hopes that a little treat would fortify us for the next day. After a series of road races over the past couple of months, I was itching to get back to the trails for a formal event. While the grind of an uphill slog is soul crushing, I don't think I would trade it for the nausea and occasional asthma attacks of trying to run as fast as I can down some flat pavement again any time soon. Race bibs and ice cream cones in hand, we were ready to take on whatever Saturday morning was going to bring us.

The morning was mild, and we lucked out on the rain holding off until well into the race. I had a feeling my husband was going to drop me and our other run buddy in pretty short order despite his Charlie-the-Unicorn caliber complaints that "three cheesy eggs was probably an excessive breakfast for race day", but he was still near me by the time we had dragged ourselves all the way up to the Diez Vista sign. However, the blue babbling unicorn to my pink rambling unicorn was nowhere in sight. Upon questioning, my husband reported that she'd "dropped" a while ago on the climb and then sprang off into the distance, unperturbed by the treacherous descent ahead of us and seemingly unfazed by the grueling ascent we'd just made. As I meandered along, carefully avoiding slippery spots and gingerly placing my feet to avoid sliding down deceitfully slimy rocks, I realized that 'dropped' could mean multiple things. I did not want to believe that she could have quit the race (but honestly I wouldn't have blamed her - that climb is no thoughts just vert), and vowed to wait up for her a little farther along the trail when it opened up. My relief was palpable when a familiar headband appeared in my peripheral vision, confirming the presence of my long-suffering, peer pressured companion.

Speaking of, the reason I was not at this event alone was because I had peer pressured my husband and running bestie into doing this with me, as preparation for the other race I pressured them into, the Diez Vista 50k in April. This course is essentially the front half of that race, so of course we should do it! They were probably questioning this reasoning on the way back off the ridge, but didn't voice any complaints. These are the kind of people you want to pressure into trail running with you. Absolute yes-people.

A hobby that running bestie and I have gotten into is describing our very lengthy training runs in terms of an open world video game. Being out in BC, you quickly realize that you've been dropped into an IRL Breath of the Wild type map to run around in. It starts raining sometimes. The weather shifts. You're out long enough that the daylight changes noticeably over the course of the run. There are NPCs that join you for short periods and at the aid stations that you can interact with. You're running a side quest to pick up enough trash to merit a free pair of socks at the finish line. You're snacking on health-restoring elixirs imbued with arcane energy. On this logic, you quickly devolve into letting your brain go completely feral. Thoughts enter and exit without rhyme or reason. Your internal monologue is feeding you random early 2000s YouTube video quotes and songs you haven't listened to on purpose ever in your life (I have not even once listened to Beauty and a Beat by Justin Bieber and Nicki Minaj intentionally).

It's been years and years since I ran a race with a friend, and never a trail race. This is the cheat code. I think that with a good run buddy you could probably cover untold kilometers as long as you both were prepared to feed each other the most absurd thoughts from the depths of your meme stuffed Millenial minds. We decided that the Brightline train line in Florida was a worthy topic of conversation and speculation for a nontrivial quantity of the course. I have a feeling that my husband raced off from us is because he knows that he is the Charlie the Unicorn to our pink and blue unicorns, and that if he sticks around we will eventually tell him to put a banana in his ear. However, it was his words at the finish line that sealed the experience for me: "You two just looked like you were having so much fun when you got to the finish line. You looked so happy." After hours of running through mist shrouded forests, up and down hill after hill, dodging rocks and roots and small rivers, telling ourselves we were graceful fae princesses frolicking through our kingdom, I arrived at the finish line incredibly tired, incredibly ready to be done running, and happier than I though you could be at the end of a race. I collected my hard-earned Gary Robbins finish line hug, and the three of us grinned, dirty and tired, ready to tackle the second half of this training cycle and face the final boss - the Diez Vista 50k.

Bonus Chapter: The Juice Vendor NPC

Running Bestie and I finally peeled ourselves away from the refreshment tent to go get changed after finishing, leaving our partners to discuss whatever it is that brogrammers discuss by a fire on a gloomy beach, but were quickly arrested in our path by an older fellow beseeching us to wait as he had blueberry juice for us. I do not know how we managed to spend five minutes discussing how many samples each of us were to collect, but we left that baffling conversation with about 6 locally made juice pouches each. All this to say, you should always hit the dialog button to engage because sometimes, the merchant characters have elixirs imbued with arcane energy to give you.

[dirtanddistance]

Running and Identity: or, Coming Out to Your Road Runner Family as a Trail Runner (TW: eating disorder)

From the outside, running looks like a fairly homogenous pastime. It's not until you really get into things that you realize that 'running' means a number of things to different people, and what your running life looks like can change dramatically over its lifespan.

Going home to be with my family for the holidays put this into stark relief for me. I started my running career (?) as a very humble road runner. I had no speed to speak of, and would ensure that remained the case for years (thanks, anorexia) before realizing that maybe I could run some zippy times after all. Growing up in Florida, the opportunities to participate in 'trail running' are few and far between, and those few times contain a cumulative zero feet of vert. Running on a trail back home felt like a bad reprise of a cross country meet (in fact, my first ultra included sections of the old high school district meet route). And all of this was just fine with me. I had a mom who had gotten me into running who was an avid PR seeking machine who I've had to talk off a cliff when her times slowly stopped getting faster as time went on, and has offhandedly told me after a track meet that I just 'didn't look like I was trying that hard' at the end of my 1600m PR. Running on flat, fast courses and always reaching for a faster time was the standard; even if you never competed against anyone else, the clock was there to prove your progress or lack thereof. It didn't occur to me to question any of it. It would take years of experience and months marinating in a more active ultra community to realize that it didn't matter that my second 50k was over an hour slower than my first, not for the least reason because the terrain profile was completely different. This was the running world that I, my brother, and my husband (important side characters in my running saga) inherited.

With that background, you might imagine that morphing into a trail runner was quite the transformation. While it wasn't fully intentional, I wanted to run another ultra (see https://www.tumblr.com/dirtanddistance/727596212894793728/squamish50-race-review?source=share), and where I'd moved (British Columbia), that meant your race was gonna be on some actual trails, with some actual mountains thrown in for interest. Never mind the fact that my first trail run ended with me in actual tears at how hard running uphill was, I was determined to do it, ego about my pace be damned. I quickly learned that doing a trail race entailed less running than road racing, and, in my amateur case, significantly less pace consciousness. It was time consuming, and exhausting... and more liberating than I ever imagined going for a run could be. It reminded me of a conversation I had when I ran into an old (and very fast) track teammate in the local Target after we'd graduated, and he said he was savoring running as many ten minute miles as he wanted. I'd grinned and agreed - there was a joy and freedom in not having to be fast anymore. Trail running is that feeling, multiplied by a thousand.

Imagine trying to explain the ocean to someone who had never seen it before - they know that oceans exist, but they've never even seen a picture of one before. That is what trying to explain an alpine trail race to a Florida road racer who hasn't run much anywhere else is like. The responses you get are the spectrum you'd imagine. There are some who hear your description and find it completely captivating. Your mom, nursing a knee injury and accepting that her fastest times might be behind her, asks you if you don't have to worry about how fast you run at those races. You tell her no, you don't, because none of them are the same, you can't compare 50k to 50k in a lot of cases, and even then, to you they're so challenging that completing them feels like enough of an accomplishment. She smiles and says idly, 'that sounds nice, not thinking about how fast you're going'. You agree, realizing that life has enough pressures and arbitrary benchmarks and you don't need to be adding to them in your off time.

Others hear about it and it sounds like a foreign religion. Interesting perhaps, but not for them. For good reason; if trails aren't convenient for you, or you are starting to get really fast at road races, there's joy and senses of accomplishment to harvest in those fields. You can run slow up a hill later, after you've assured yourself that you can actually run a 20 minute 5k, or qualify for Boston (or not). Not everyone has that potential in them, but you'll never know if you don't try. I think about the road marathon I signed up for with my brother, wedged between this season's big trail races, and both wince at the though of pushing myself to run 'fast' and grin at the chance to get back to where this crazy journey started - can I run that far? And once I can, can I do it faster? Trail running is really just an extension of those questions - can I run THAT far? Can I run UP that far? Inside any runner, road or trail, is a quiet voice which asks them to see what they have in them.

Transitioning over to trail runs from road racing felt like a rebellion against the neurotic constraints of the sport I have come to love, but in writing this, I've come to the conclusion that it's actually just a transmutation of the same drive that was there from the start. The 17 year old blasting Florence + The Machine on her iPod under the canopy tent at the track meet before a second to last place finish at the 3200m is the 21 year old bumping FloRida in the car to the 5k, where she'd PR in the 5k and 50k in the same week, is the 30 year old zoning out to The 1975 on local trails and having nightmares about Matty Healy before every trail race that year, and all of them are just a manifestation of summoning the courage to, in the words of my sleep paralysis demon himself, 'give yourself a try'.

[dirtanddistance]

Bill's Beer Run Race Report

Date: 29 October 2023

Location: Casey Key, Florida

It’s been said before that you can never go home again. Nothing is ever quite the same, including you. On the other hand, I would suggest that this is a cynical take that only looks at the merits of being able to return to something wholly static. As I learned this past weekend at Bill’s Beer Run, you can go home and find yourself grounded in all that has changed since you were last there.

I’ll begin this race report with the disclaimer that I have not run it since I was perhaps in high school. At least 13 years ago. I certainly was not running with my brother then, and my mom could still beat me on a good day. Dad was alive, and largely uninterested in road races (or cross country races, or track races - to be fair, these are not spectator-friendly events). Walking into the New Balance store near the bridge to the beach with my mom and brother was like walking into a place frozen in time; the merchandise on offer had changed, but the store itself was ever the same, as were the faces of the volunteers checking us in. Friendly faces from a different lifetime asked where I lived now, excitement growing in their eyes as they told me how much they’ve always wanted to visit Vancouver. We drifted off to the Mellow Mushroom nearby for dinner, another place seemingly untouched by the passage of years since I had last been inside. I wasn’t entirely sure when I was here last or with whom. I can still remember the first weekend of October 2018 when my dad and I sat in the patio section, splitting a veggie pie; he told me about his Parkinson’s diagnosis with his cane (a new accessory) perched against the table as though I’d never have guessed anything had gotten worse since we’d last met. Being in the Sarasota Mellow Mushroom is not a glum experience for me, despite that memory. Weirdly enough, I consider this place to have some weird energy that somehow brings my family closer whenever we are there. I digress, however; this is supposed to be a race report and musing on the passage of time, not a deep dive into my experiences in a local chain restaurant.

The weirdest part of this race is the complete staticness of the course. Bill’s Beer Run has a very straightforward format; you run 2.5 miles, turn around, and run back. The start and finish line has been in precisely the same place since the dawn of time. The scenery of houses and hotels and occasional glimpses of the beach look identical year in and year out. They claim that there is a ‘hill’ at one of the curves in the road; however, after living outside of Florida for more than 15 seconds I can arrogantly confirm that this is not, in fact, a hill but rather an excuse for a disappointing split. Running it 10 years ago or one week ago is the exact same experience visually and physically. You drown in the humid air whether you are acclimated to it or not. I imagine whoever ran the first one had a nearly identical experience to mine last weekend. The flora and fauna of Florida are also very static. Palm trees and scrubby plants that hardly budge and have no seasonal alter-egos stande firm through storms and hurricanes line the way and contribute to the sense that parts of Florida must exist outside of time itself.

The last time I ran this course as basically a child, I was with my mom. Running a race with my mom during her racing prime was one of the most obsessive experiences a human being can ever have during their mortal coil. You arrive at the location no less than 1+ hours before the starting time. Back in the day of race-day packet pick-up, you would need to be at that check-in desk at opening time and not a moment later. Numerous trips to the bathroom would occur, with much hemming and hawing about when to head to the start line (at least 20 minutes before start time) and how much water to drink before the final trek over. There is absolutely no science to any of these decisions. Once I went away to college, I was finally able to work out that this plan was actually absolutely insane and figure out something a bit more reasonable. Running a race as adult-me with my brother after going to bed at 3 a.m. (Halloween Horror Nights was fantastic, thanks for asking) is a much more zen experience. Get up 30 minutes before you need to leave the house. Leave the house at most one hour before the race starts, arrive no more than 30 minutes before the gun goes off. Slam an energy drink and some water, maybe a protein bar. Time your fluid intake so you can go to the bathroom within 15 minutes of the race starting. Run as hard as you can without either throwing up or passing out. High-five each other while staring blankly at the ocean, and then spend the following hours politely entertaining your mom’s friends who remember when you were 10 years old, reflecting on how as much as things may seem static here, you have changed and grown in ways you haven’t paused to notice.

Now, you’re probably wondering ‘Where is the actual race report?’ and that’s a great question. After writing up a couple of wild trail adventures, I can’t say I have much to tell you about running 5 flat miles out and back on a two-lane road in coastal Florida. I will tell you that an energy drink can absolutely make up for the fact that you didn’t sleep the night before but you will trade some of your sanity for that optimization. I can also say confidently that I would have rather been doing Squamish50 instead of redlining my system trying to go sub-40 in a road 5 miler. Racing in an area where the demographics skew older, they tend to do the age group awards in descending order. Which, for me and brochacho, was torture. This race also did age group awards 10 deep. We might be millennials, but we certainly sounded like boomers complaining about too many awards basically being participation trophies. I’m just deeply grateful that I somehow did not get a sunburn waiting around for them to finally announce my age group so I could claim my second-place pint glass and go home (and resist the urge to explain the UTMB-WAM/CMTR debacle to anyone who would listen).

Towards the end of the morning (as I was explaining the UTMB-WAM discourse to my mom, and breaking the news that I would, in fact, register to do Squamish 50M again), she asked if that was my thing now, if I was a trail ultra person. I hadn’t really thought about the ‘types’ of running being separate identities very much before then; I’ve never exclusively done one or the other on purpose, and even this past year in which I returned to the ultra scene, I maintained a few road races on the schedule. Being somewhere where trail races and ultras are not only accessible but same-day sell-out events, was not something I had ever conceived of before I moved to BC. The same scene simply does not, and perhaps cannot, exist in Florida. Watching the community here respond to the corporatization of the trail running scene, I realized how pure of a sport the trail offshoot can be and how the potential ramifications of ‘selling out’ isn’t really a thought in my hometown running scene, for better or worse. I am thankful that I get to have a foot in multiple communities, with distinct flavors and histories, and that I get to experience the very unique pleasures and pains of absurd community driven trail ultras as well as those of obscure hometown road races. Every mile we run takes us to a new place, whether physically or just within ourselves, and with every race or run we become a little more of who we are, no matter where in the world or the terrain underfoot.

[dirtanddistance]

Valley Vertikiller 30k Race Report

Race: Valley Vertikiller 30/20/10k Distance: 30k Date: 10/07/2023 Location: Sumas Mountain, Abbotsford, British Columbia

I'll let you in on a little secret: I signed up for this race solely due to peer pressure. A bunch of folks from my running club were talking it up and signing up, and I, not wanting to miss out, signed myself up. I told myself I didn’t need to worry about it because it was a long way out, and that training wasn’t going to be a concern as I'd ‘have a good base’ after Squamish50. I brushed off any sense of impending doom as the group chat buzzed with discussion of past years’ DNFs and weather-related disasters, and reassured myself that after a 50 miler, a 30k couldn’t be much of a fuss for me.

Turns out, these assumptions were more or less correct and it was wildly fun to run a shorter but very challenging trail race shortly after a longer and very challenging trail race.

Conditions for race day were pretty much as perfect as possible - no rain, a bit of sunshine on a course with heavy tree cover, but not so dry that things were sandy and slippery. While some might have argued it was a bit warm, the course is so forested that it was hardly noticeable to me. The race swag was also top-tier, with snazzy running hats and stickers. The real treat, however, was the course - one of the most thrilling I’ve encountered in my short time here in BC. Much like Squamish, singletrack MTB paths were the stars of the show, and the routine of uphill grinds and flowy descents was one I found comfortingly familiar, if not any easier for having done a lot of it before. The mental boost of having just done something similar and in much greater volume was incredibly apparent to me, as there was no segment of this event during which I cried or contemplated quitting (progress!).

As the name implies, a lot of upward-going travel is required to complete the Valley Vertikiller. With about one mile of cumulative vert, you’re climbing for a massive chunk of your time on the course. This may seem like a fault rather than a virtue, but for me going in with the expectation that there will always be another climb made the experience much easier to handle mentally (and made it much easier to enjoy the pretty leaves). The first third of the course (roughly 12k to the first aid station) featured plenty of climbing; after a tight starting section, I eventually found myself more or less alone. Naturally, my brain went to its happy place, reciting Replay by Iyaz as I marveled at the crimson and gold leaves around me. The most memorable portion of this chunk was a narrow section with a steep drop-off to the left and views of the surrounding area through the trees. It felt stunning and life-threatening at once; much of that section was not terribly technical, yet I found myself taking it quite slowly out of fear of what might happen to me if I accidentally took a tumble over the side. This is also where the top 20k racers started blowing past me, which I imagine was as irritating to them as it was a little bit terrifying to me. Eventually, the climb resumed and brought me to the first aid station. It was on a bluff with quite a view, making it an enjoyable stop. I met up with a teammate but soon headed back out on the trail for the middle segment.

The middle section of the race is where the black hole of my experience began. I had forgotten to charge my Garmin the night before, and somewhere after about 10 miles, it shut off and left me floating in a liminal space where distance and elevation no longer existed. I was on my own to finish this undertaking. Had I already accepted that the distances in trail races mean next to nothing and that I had no idea what this course really involved? Sure, but having the Garmin ticking away on my wrist at least could ground me, could give me some indication that time had passed and that I had moved since my last glance down at it. In this new, uncharted territory of watchless running, I was truly adrift. Alas, that is a story for another time. I knew I was at least 10 miles in and had done a decent chunk of the climbing for the race by that time. This section included the biggest and baddest climb of the entire climb. It went on forever. It was relentless, unforgiving, and so steep that I thought my already angry Achilles tendon would resign at any moment. I began to lose my naive enjoyment of the pretty leaves and a coherent repetitive song in my head. Finally, the climb ended with no real immediate payoff at all; I had to be satisfied with the mere acceptance that I was no longer clawing my way up what felt like a sheer cliff face and would, in all likelihood, get to run down something at some point to get to the finish line.

I had no idea how long it took me to get to the second aid station, or where it was on the course. The second aid station was a bit more muted in energy and ambiance than the first, but I gladly ate an obnoxious amount of watermelon and filled up on water and Tailwind before trotting off to part three, which I reminded myself was the last section I would have to do before I could be done and never run again.

The first section of part three has been erased from my brain by the sands of time and probably the fact that I had no frame of reference for what was happening in this race, but I do remember reaching a course marshal who told me that I was going to ‘just take Squid Line back down and I’ll see you at the finish’. This statement was only partially correct. I did in fact take Squid Line back down. However, the ‘just’ combined with the fact that I, again, have no concept of distance or the passage of time without something tracking me, made Squid Line feel like a small eternity. But it did more or less lead to the finish line and the section of trail between it and the end was gentle enough that I did not begrudge its description as basically the last thing I would need to do to get out of this forest. The lie was that this lady was not at the finish line.

The benefit of having the name of the trail pointed out to me was that saying the word squid immediately funnels all of my thoughts to SpongeBob. My brain rewarded this with a loop of the jellyfish rave song, which carried me throughout this final ordeal. I did pass several people on this section and the final portion between there and the finish, which mostly made me concerned because you are probably hurting if I managed to catch you in a trail race. The finish line sorta jumps out at you as you get spit out of the woods and under the archway. As if purposely continuing my purgatory, the finish line clock was not running, leaving me in a continued state of mystery. I knew I was not the last of my teammates out there, but I had no clue how far behind the others I was. Alas, my finish time became the least of my concerns after spotting my darling husband sitting in the medic tent with his ankle wrapped up.

While my team placed 5th out of 5, this race was still better than any cross-country meet I’ve run. Post-race we were treated to homemade soup, grilled cheese sandwiches, and pumpkin pie. While that spread is impressive enough on its own, I was thrilled when I discovered that there were vegan options for ALL THREE of these treats. I was a bit disappointed that I had overdosed on Tailwind to the point that I was not in any position to eat pie, but the butternut squash soup was a religious experience.

The real lesson I learned out on the trails that day was that I do need to wear my orthotics. They are not optional for trail running. I do not have them and run in them just for fun because I am a podiatrist, I apparently “actually need these” because my feet “actually kinda misbehave when I’m running and it starts to hurt in additional ways that they don’t need to”. I am the kind of non-compliant patient I shake my head about (but also have proven to myself and hopefully others that good orthotics - not the ones they tried to sell you on a cruise once - are real and not a scam).

There was much debating among my teammates as to whether any of us would do this race again. As tough as the course is and as much as I do not foresee myself ever racing this thing for time, it was such an enjoyable experience and fun challenge that I can’t see myself skipping it next year.

Next up, an expanded musing on the joys and terrors of running into the unknown without your Garmin!

[dirtanddistance]

Squamish50 Reflections

Now that the afterglow of the 50-miler has faded and reality sets back in, I’ve had a moment to reflect on some of the lessons and oddities I encountered during and after the race, and am ready to share them with the internet void (and you, dear reader)!

Appetite woes: A common joke in the running community is the idea of running a lot so you can eat a lot. While I try not to fall into this mindset, I 100% expected to feel pretty famished within 24 hours of finishing a 50 miler. I was surprised to discover that I was wrong, and that it actually took two or three days to really feel hungry again. I panicked during the first day and had to google if this is normal. At least two other people on the internet said it was.

I have no control over the inside of my brain: This is a lesson I should have learned from my 3 prior ultras, which, although they were all 50ks, were all over the spectrum in the mental aspect. I already had experienced that you can do the exact same race twice and have dramatically different experiences despite having trained pretty solidly both times. All of these experiences were conveniently not in my brain when I panicked about 15k into this race and alternated between a steady negotiation with myself about quitting and the song ‘Replay’ by Iyaz on loop in my head.

If you run long enough, your brain will generate thoughts you no longer thought you had access to: see above, having ‘Replay’ stuck in my head for at least 35% of my course time. I had not listened to this song since I was in high school. It does not resemble anything currently on my very carefully curated training playlists. I had meticulously groomed my listening habits during my training runs with an agreeable mixture of Rich Roll podcast episodes and music which I thought would be okay to have stuck in my head during a race. None of this was remotely useful during the actual race. I did not draw on any deep inspiration I may have gleaned from my podcast consumption, and the only thing I accomplished by listening to The 1975 for hours each week was to have a recurring nightmare featuring Matty Healy. Not a singular controversial groovy bop remained in my head to console me as I plodded along. Only Replay by Iyaz, and the specter of giving up and going home.

People will think you’re crazy for not listening to anything during the race: I listened to music, podcasts, or the voices of my friends during literally every training run for this race. I listened to absolutely nothing besides whatever was going on around me during the race. I have never listened to music during a race. My mother thought I was a raving lunatic when I informed her I was not going to listen to anything during the race. Now, was it a good decision to listen to nothing? I think the fact that my brain spontaneously reintroduced me to a total banger of a throwback jam was worth it, but there is always the possibility that I could’ve drowned out the quitter-itis with bops. The fact that I had no bops and still did not quit may deserve a medal of its own, and at minimum gives me a mild air of smugness about my mental game for surviving like it did.

The voice that tells you you’re never doing this again will go away alarmingly fast: I was completely ready to say I was never going to do any race ever again when I crossed the finish line (we can ignore the fact that I was already registered for another race less than two months out from the ultra). I proceeded to register for an 8k in my hometown within the week, and within about two weeks was ready to sign up for at least another 50k in the coming months. I don’t offer much unsolicited advice about ultras, but one thing I do think is really important is to have fun and follow your heart about them. You might have periods where you’re really enthusiastic about running real long, and seasons where there’s just no pull to register for an event. My experience is that listening to that is a really good idea. The drive to get out there again will come back, even if it takes longer than expected, and you’ll have a much better time training when you’re feeling ready to go again than if you are trudging through because you feel like you ‘have to’ do another ultra. The trails will be there waiting when you’re ready, take your time.

Next up: Valley Vertikiller 30k Race Review

[dirtanddistance]

Squamish50 Race Review

Last fall, I decided it was time to sign up for another ultramarathon. It'd been 4 years, and the time just felt right. Unbeknownst to me, trail ultras are extremely popular in British Columbia (for those who are not aware, ultras in Florida do not tend to sell out in advance, or at all), and by the time I had done a little research to track one that hadn't completely sold out down, all of the 50k spots had sold out. My one last option was to go ahead and sign up for a 50 mile race instead. Part of me thought 'no way in hell'. However, the part of me that had really wanted to do an ultra said, 'well, that's the next common distance up from 50k, guess it's time to move on up finally'. And that is how, on August 19, 2023, I found myself standing in the dark at the starting line of the Squamish 50 Mile race.

For additional context, I moved to British Columbia about a year before this. Prior to that I was living in pancake flat Florida. We did some trail races out there… with an approximate cumulative elevation gain of about 0 meters. Two out of my three prior ultras were run under those conditions, including my most (not so) recent finish four years ago. As such, I was starting from scratch, which I learned after I did some reconnaisance of the course (after I had already signed up, naturally). I had no concept of what 11,000 feet of gain over 50 miles meant in a physical sense. I could not tell you how much vert there was for any of my prior races, or even how much vert there was to the top of the little mountain near my house. I read the scarce race reviews I could scrounge up for this event on the internet and started looking at the results from prior years. Another Floridian had done it the year before… DNF. I started wondering if I had gotten in over my head, and then promptly decided that none of this was now-me's problem. I had the Vancouver Marathon to train for first, and the ultra marathon was a problem for after that.

The Vancouver Marathon came and went, along with the serotonin from the shiny new PR that came with it. Suddenly I had to face up to the rash decision I'd made months before when I signed up for a 50 miler. I was gonna have to train for this thing. How do you train for a 50 mile race? I did what any self respecting young adult would, which was Google '50 mile training plan' and printed out the first one I found. It suggested I tackle terrain similar to the race course, and demanded that I run a nauseating quantity of miles. This is where I learned rule #1 of training for anything over 50k, namely that it becomes your entire life. You will tell yourself that you will live your life this summer no matter what the training plan says. You might, but it will be under the ever-watching eyes of the training plan. Girls' weekend will become a strenuous backcountry hiking trip. You will run far enough to need to bring a snack and your hydration vest on a Tuesday night after work. You will start to resent this entire undertaking despite it being completely voluntary and entirely your idea.

After a few months of living under the watchful eye of my training plan, appeasing it with mile after mile and climb after climb, race day finally rolled around. I had slogged through two of the three recommended 'orientation runs' and felt better than I expected after the second one. There is no training run or preparation that makes you feel like you can probably make it through 50 miles of mountain terrain in under 17 hours when you've only ever done 32 miles of hilly midwestern terrain in one go. No matter how many miles of trail you've chewed through, or how many hours of shonen anime you've consumed to persuade yourself that anything is possible with your inner strength and the support of your friends, you will feel very inadequate at the starting line.

The race itself is something I would describe as a religious experience, or maybe what Feyre saw in the oorouboros, if you're a fan of A Court of Thorns and Roses. I had half jokingly told friends that, at worst, I would get to cry in some really scenic places during this race… which I did, within the second 10k of the event, and I dutifully told myself it was just a temporary feeling and would pass. This was correct, but it comes with the caveat that the not-crying portion passes too, and there may very well be more crying to come. Despite knowing the entire course intellectually and in many parts physically, I was not emotionally prepared for the first climb of the day. I bumbled into the second aid station and told Toby for the first of numerous times that day that I wanted to quit, and that I wasn't so sure I was getting to the end of this. He told me he'd be at the next aid station that crew was allowed at, and after a few watermelon slices I trudged glumly off into the next section. My saving grace was someone dressed in a pinata suit who told me to have fun out there, which carried me for a solid hour.

The next portion of the race was a bit of a blur; all I know is my left knee started hurting (anyone who has ever watched me walk or run has no question why my left knee might start hurting 'out of nowhere'). Usually, this phenomenon, which appears around 20-21 miles into a run, disappears within 10-15 minutes and takes the accompanying tears with it. However, today was not my lucky day, and the seemingly randomly timed twinges continued to sear my knee every few strides, or, when I was lucky, every few minutes. This is generally a painful inconvenience at worst at the end of a road marathon, but when you are trying to bomb down some single track descents, having a knee that you cannot be certain will be happy enough to catch you every step becomes a roulette game which could see you coated in dirt and your own blood at the bottom of a mountain bike trail. Well, if you're me, at least. Thus, I became a much slower entity that I was at the outset of this journey as I walked the dicier downhill sections and delicately jogged sections where I didn't think that dropping to the ground would cause any catastrophic issues for me.

I will add that prior to my knee, I was fully convinced that I was ready to quit for no other reason than the fact that I was straight up not having a good time. Was that mostly just in my head? Yes, absolutely it was, and I'm not ashamed to say that my mental game was pretty weak and saved only by the fact that I had a stretch of aid stations without crew support and a dead phone, so if i did decide to quit, I would have no way to contact Toby to tell him I was a a quitter and wanted to go home. When my knee started hurting though… suddenly I had a reason I could quit. That thing was hurtin'. It wasn't going away. What if it slowed me down enough that I missed a time cutoff and was, through no mental or emotional failure of my own, relieved of the burden of finishing this race that several months ago I eagerly signed up for and paid money to do while dreaming of the accomplishment that completing it would be?

I trudged up the (in)famous Galactic climb for what seemed like an eternity, bolstered only by the fact that I had someone to briefly talk to and distract me from my own despondence, and that my knee didn't hurt on uphills (cruel).

Sadly, I had been making decent time before that point, and while I was no longer turning over quite as I would've hoped, I was not crippled to the point of being anywhere near missing a cutoff. However, by this time my free-range brain had moved along and now saw the cutoff times as a game I was ready to beat. As much as I told Toby I again wanted to quit at aid station 5 (Quest), I forced my third PBJ of the day down the grocery hatch, commented on the exceptional doggos in attendance, and limped on down the road. I cannot tell you what happened after that. There was a climb. I got to aid station 6 and let someone dump icy water on me that was regretted immensely but was probably for the best. I briefly contemplated quitting (again), realized I logistically could not because Toby's phone was also dead now, realized I probably couldn't miss a time cutoff if I tried to at this point, and trucked along to aid station 7.

Aid station 7 was jubilant. Toby was there. There were so many snacks. They had bug spray. Our friend Justin was there. And I was well ahead of the time cutoff. I was told that the last climbs were unpleasant but short, which was accurate. I plodded off into the last 10k of this disaster show, ready to be done.

There are only three things I remember about the last 10k. One, it felt way longer than 10k and I was thinking 'are we there yet' like a petulant child most of the time. Two, there was a dude absolutely RAGING in the woods about this race not being over yet (I do not think he had thought about how far this race was as deeply as I had). He apologized when he realized he was not alone and in fact had an audience of one slowly gaining on him. He bashfully offered, 'I don't know, like doing this makes me really happy but like also so, so frustrated and mad. That probably doesn't make any sense.' I just offered, 'nah, that's how it goes man. Highest highs, lowest lows, you'll be done soon.' This seemed to be effective. Three, there was a staircase I had to go down with a precious couple at the end of. They cheered the entire time I was hobbling down those stairs. It bordered on absurd but thruthfully, I needed it. I hope to be able to garner their level of enthusiasm for the mundane in all future ventures big and small.

The final section on the road leading to the finish line felt like I had entered a new world and different timeline in which I had not just spent the last 15 hours fighting for my life in the woods. I looked up at the rock face as I turned through the urban park and thought to myself that I really am the luckiest person in the world, getting to live and run in one of the most gorgeous places in the world, married to the love of my life who also turns out to be a very good ultra crewer, and healthy enough to be able to still be running with less than a mile of this thing to go. I would have cried there, but I was too done with being out on this course and needed to be on the other side of the finish line.

As advertised, every finisher gets a hug from Gary with their finisher's medal and, despite not being a hugger, I was elated to get that hug. 15+ hours later, I had met my goal of 'finish this race before the cutoff time' and had a waiting audience of Toby and Justin to complain to before I was finally physically competent enough to go get ice cream and head back home.

Would I do it again? August 19th me would absolutely not do that again. Two plus weeks later… I'll definitely sign up for the 50k next year. Maybe we can think about another 50 miles or a 100k next week.

Stay tuned for 'What no one tells you about the aftermath of a 50 miler'!

[dirtanddistance]

Getting Jump Scared by a Random

Most runners have some experience with unpleasant encounters while on the road or trail. I think most of us have been catcalled, whistled at, verbally assaulted, physically assaulted, followed... the list (unfortunately) goes on.

However, today I experienced a brand new form of unwelcome but surprisingly benign experience with a fellow human while on the trails. A dude straight up jumped out at me from behind a tree to scare me. Except, he wasn't trying to scare *me* at all, he had run ahead of his child and wife and was doing this to scare them, but had no idea that I would come trotting along from another connecting trail at a faster pace than his ambling toddler. I had watched him run ahead, adorable child toddling along after him, and when I caught up to the wife and kid thought to myself, 'certainly I saw a dude here too, and unless he's hiding in the woods so he can jump out at his kid, there is no good reason I can't see him right now'. But I promptly tossed this thought aside because no thoughts just vibes, and about thirty seconds later I was proven right.

Naturally I just ran away because, like, I'm already running, I do not like this interaction, I want it to end, and this is a rare instance in which there are no barriers to me just literally departing. I felt a little bad though, because, like, I could hear him saying 'I didn't mean to do that!' and I was just like NOPE GOTTA JET without providing proper closure for the awkward situation. Tree fella, if you're out there, we're cool, it's aight, and your hiding place was actually hella good.

[dirtanddistance]

Nature bike found on the trails in Squamish, BC.

Major nutrition takeaways from O-run #3:

Campfire S'mores Gu is the G.O.A.T. of the 'indulgent' flavors. It has the texture of the fruitier ones (like, it's a smooth gel) and not the grittiness of the regular chocolate flavor (which IMO tastes like the Pillsbury canned frosting, which is great and all, but a little much for me while I'm running). I can't totally say I'd never consume a chocolate mint Gu again, but now that S'mores is on the scene I cannot justify the cake frosting flavors.

Cola flavor Gu, on the other hand, was possibly the worst flavor I've tried yet. It's redeeming quality was its lack of aftertaste, which is my main gripe about some of my other less loved flavors, but I was pretty surprised that I found a flavor I just straight up didn't like. Better to find out now than on race day.

Salted Watermelon Gu is surprisingly good? I have to make the disclaimer that while I was pleasantly surprised, I was also washing it down with extremely watered down watermelon flavor Naak, so YMMV. I'm not mad that I bought multiples of it.

Nothing will ever beat the taste or performance enhancement of potato chips and full sugar Coke at an aid station in the middle of the woods. I do not have any studies to support this it is simply a fact of nature.

Keep checking in if you like Gu flavor reviews, aid station food discourse, and general running-around-in-the-woods content.

[dirtanddistance]

Squamish 50 orientation run #3. I don't quite know what I was expecting going into this one, but I did know that I was scared. 21 miles later, I can say that I was pleasantly surprised that the absurd training I've been doing these days might have actually done something, and that I might just make it to the finish line come August.

Today was one of those days where the blurriness of long-distance trail running really was in full play - that sense that you are both very happy and very miserable at the same time, and it's just a question of what you're having to pay more attention to at any given time as to how you're feeling at that moment. One of the most valuable things I've learned on the trail is that nothing is permanent. If you're having a really great time and everything is beautiful, the terrain will probably change and become a bit too hot, or too cold, or something will start to hurt a little; but also, if you're hurting a bit, or struggling through a section, something will come along and distract you from your hurt, or the trail will carry you along to the next part if you keep plodding along and before you know it, you'll have a new set of different challenges, perhaps ones you enjoy more. Everything is temporary, but you have to cultivate the patience to pick up on and enjoy the good and to carry yourself through the not so good.

Now, time to finish this training cycle and figure out how to strategize for the logistics of running 50 miles... drop bags, clothing, nutrition... stay tuned for race prep highlights!

[dirtanddistance]

Vancouver Marathon 2023

PRs, first marathons, and a good time all around.

When I signed myself (and my husband, and my brother) up for the Vancouver Marathon, I had low expectations. I was hoping it would be a nice, fun excuse for my brother to come up and visit and finally convince my husband to make it to the finish line of his first full marathon. It was the first time Christian and I have ever trained asynchronously for a race; our last big race together had been the Moon Over Croom 14 mile trail race in Brooksville, Florida, and we would link up to log some miles together at least a couple of times per month. Toby, on the other hand, had made it partway through a marathon training cycle about a year earlier, but elected to drop to a half marathon after a stubborn injury knocked him out of the running (pun fully intended). Getting all three of us to the finish line, with the added pressure of a time goal from Christian, was going to be a interesting logistical challenge. After months of training, the three of us finally arrived at the starting line together to test our limits and our luck.

One important detail about the race this year was that there was no start line gear check, meaning you had to check anything you wanted to be waiting for you at the finish line during the race expo the day before. Ordinarily this might not have been a huge deal, except we were all taking race day shuttles to the start line and would need to stay warm while waiting for the race to begin. Fortunately, Value Village came through with the inexpensive sweats, which according to the marathon website could be abandoned at the start line to be donated.

The weather on race day could not have been more perfect. It hovered at a cool 60 degrees F or so, partly cloudy - not too hot for those of us who had trained through a BC winter, and not too cold for Floridans coming up for the week. The first couple of miles involved a lot of dodging, eventually leaving Toby behind at a bathroom stop. We knew he probably wouldn't have wanted to stick with our goal pace, but were sad to leave him so early and crossed our fingers for a surprise reunion.

The course itself is a gorgeous tour of some of the highlights of Vancouver. After working through some neighborhoods, the route brings you to Pacific Spirit park, with views of the pacific to distract you from your early race jitters. Winding north along the coastline brings you to Stanley Park, and eventually into downtown to the finish line. As impressive as the expansive water and mountain views from the course was the energy of the spectators. I have been to few races with as much community participation as this, and positivity and enthusiasm was exactly what I mean when I had told Christian that there isn't really anything like running a city marathon. An especially fun touch was the 'motivation station' located around mile 20. My sister in law had told us to keep an eye out and that we would 'know which one was from her,' but we were skeptical. Upon reaching this point in the race, a chip detector on the course brings up virtual cheers onto a huge screen which correspond to the runners passing it at any given time... and we were greeted by enormous photographs of Christian and his wife's dog with encouraging taglines attached. It was certainly a unique and memorable moment, and at a perfect time as you enter a somewhat quiet stretch along the Seawall before exiting the park and re-entering civilization near the finish line. At this point in the race, Christian and I were right on track for our finish time of 3:56:??. Both of us encouraged the other to drop each other to get a better time, but both of us were at capacity and hanging on as it seemed. The final 1000 meters of this race are uphill, and in general the longest 1000 meters I have ever completed. Honestly, my only big complaint about this entire race is that you can see the finish line from SO. FAR. AWAY. It was like being in some kind of nightmare where no matter how hard you run, you never get any closer to where you're going. However, this nightmare turned out to be a pleasant dream after all, with both Christian and I crossing the finish line a second apart and within our goal to PR. Phew!

Then, the panicked post race phone checking to see if Toby had texted me to let me know he had DNF'd. Never have I ever been more thrilled to have no notifications on my phone screen. Sure enough, less than 30 minutes later, Toby was a marathon finisher too.

Without further ado, we found our way to gear pickup to retrieve changes of clothes and get cleaned up before making the trek back home.

Stumbling through downtown Vancouver to get on a train home was probably not the most glamorous way to end the day, but it was certainly more glamorous than stumbling even farther through Downtown Vancouver to whatever parking garage the car could've been stashed in and fighting traffic back home.

All in all, the Vancouver Marathon was one of my favorite marathon experiences to date. Between the gorgeous course, infectious spectator energy, hitting a PR after years and multiple attempts, and the special experience of getting to be part of Christian and Toby's first 'real' marathons, this particular race is a strong contender for favorite race of all time.

TL;DR - Vancouver Marathon comes with a gorgeous course and amazing energy. Downsides include no day-of gear check and the challenging logistics of a point to point race course if you are not savvy with using local transit options.