I did my best to convince myself that I’d be fine without water or liquid calories. Over the past few days I’d carb’d up, and soaked up liquids like a sponge – I could easily survive a 1 – 1.5 hour run on that pre-fueling (I’d done so countless times in training). Still, I decided that the safe bet was to be even more conservative, start hiking every incline, and let this front group go a bit (fully confident that I’d be seeing them again when I had my triumphant resurgance over the final 10–20k).

Around a kilometer before the Mt. Finlayson climb begins, you re-cross under the highway via a (dry) tunnel. This was pitch black, so I was glad I had my headlamp in my pocket to shed a quick ray of light. From the tunnel I followed the flat and fast gravel trail to the main Goldstream parking lot, briefly onto the road, and then sharply up to the right to begin the climb.

Due to my inability to abandon fear on treacherous terrain, I loathe racing up Mt. Finlayson, especially in the rain.

The first two thirds of the climb (in terms of distance) are fine, just very steep, often very rocky and rooty trail. The final third however, is all scrambly, smooth granite slabs. Hastening up it the rain, while stressed about conserving energy due to a lost bottle, while wearing my most worn out trail shoes (my plan was to change shoes at Rowntree each loop after having done the river crossing, and after over a year of use this particular pair was better suited to a bowling alley), was not a fun experience.

I started Mt. Finlayson in sight of the entire lead group, but reached the summit completely alone in the rain and fog, stumbling around trying to figure out where the route continued (tip: run up and over the top and you’ll decend down the backside. As far as I could tell the flagging slightly assumed that you knew this, but I might have missed a couple in the mist). The summit is also where I decided that it was high-time I start pounding Clif Bloks (without the recommended water to wash them down), and had about four.

The descent down Finlayson wasn’t memorable. I recall it being fairly technical, but nothing compared to the steepness, technicality, or length of Jocelyn Hill and Mt. Work. Once you reach the bottom, you begin the only paved section of the entire course – approximately 1km on winding, undulating pavement, before a final ~500 meter gradual ascent up a gravel path to the (much longer awaited than anticipated) Rowntree Aid Station.

The tabby that thinks he’s a tiger

The transition at aid station #1 went exactly to plan: add the two pre-filled 350ml soft flasks to vest; change shoes and socks; re-apply Body Glide; learn that I’m about 12–13 minutes behind the leaders; realize that the first place female caught and passed me while I was fiddling with my wet laces; begin chugging my Tailwind stores like I’d been stranded on a desert island for weeks, pop back even more Clif Bloks because who’s counting calories anymore…

At last I found myself in a section that I had covered fully in training. Despite a growing bloating from my frantic replenishing, I set forth confidently on the grueling 12km trail to aid station #2. Between Rowntree aid station and the tippy top of Jocelyn Hill is about 5km. In the middle is Holmes Peak (a relatively simple climb), countless false summits of Jocelyn Hill, and many sections of exhaustingly steep and technical rock that is best “dance hopped” over. On the plus side, the views down to the ocean along the way would leave you speachless if you had the energy or wind to talk. Seriously – the views in this section are worthy of pulling one’s self out of race mode to pause and take in (ideally everyone other than me would do this, to help me catch up, but it turned out all the front runners this year were a bunch of nature-hating monsters). Throughout this section I didn’t feel amazing, but was still moving steadily yet conservatively, and enjoying being alone.

After reaching the top of Jocelyn Hill, comes a plateau-y run across the summit, before beginning the 6km descent down the opposite side (down, all the way down, and then down some more, until you reach the ocean). It’s not a straight descent the entire way, as there is plenty of climbing too, but by the end your legs will certainly know what you’ve been up to. Yet again, this section is also very technical, meaning you can never truly let go or feel like you’re really flying.

During this roughly 45 min – 1 hour descent is when the sun finished setting, and when I first heard the sound that would track me for the next 10+ hours. I can only describe it as a “bellow from the deep”.

In reality it was another runner burping. But when it’s dark, rainy, and foggy, you’re not sure where it’s coming from, and you’re running in a semi-trance – it sounds like much more.

That other runner was part of a threesome that I first noticed gaining on me shortly after beginning the descent. I used their presence to keep my pace honest, and tried to stay just out of their reach while remaining “conservative”. This continued for a good half hour before the two non-burpers at last caught and passed me. But oddly, literally seconds after they ran passed, both abruptuly stopped, stepped to the right of the trail, and started peeing. I never saw either again for the rest of the race.

The descent went on, and on, and on, until finally it went on some more. Then after going on and on, it turned left for the final (even steeper) section down to the ocean. I was alone again at this point, but could hear the consistent belowing not too far behind, and I probably exhausted my quads a bit by moving quickly and heavily down the sets of stairs and last bit of steep trail (both trying to stay ahead of the burps, and just wanting to get to the f&%$ing water already).

The pleasure of reaching the water is short lived, because you immediately head straight back up a steep (but thankfully non-technical) trail to reach aid station #2 (Durrance). One of my key workouts during training was to run from this beach straight to the summit of Mt. Work, and then bomb back down the descent, and repeat. I knew I could run the rest of the way to the aid station in 8 minutes, or power hike it in about 12, so to remain conservative I hiked it at about 80% effort.

I was expecting this aid station to be in the Mt. Work parking lot, but it actually comes a tad sooner, being just off the side of the trail about 50 meters before you cross the road to head up the mountain. By now the night was pitch dark, and it was warming (and eery) to see the trail completely lit by white christmas lights leading up to and surrounding the aid station. This was my first time meeting my crew (my girlfriend plus a friend, and both my parents were waiting here) which gave me another boost of energy (or at least led me to pretened like I had one).

Before the race I’d asked to be updated on my gap to the leaders each time I saw my crew. It had been 12–13 minutes back at Roundtree, and now my Dad held up his phone to display a stopwatch that read “35”. That’s more than I was expecting.

In training I had never run the backside (Munn Road side) of Mt. Work, but I’d run up to (what I thought was) the summit on the Durrance side countless times. The whole over and back loop is 10k, but given my experience in training I was confident that it wouldn’t take me much more than an hour. I ditched my pack for just a handheld, took off my raincoat, swapped my headlamp (now using my main headlamp, which I hoped would survive 5–6 hours, at which point I’d go back to my less-bright backup), and naively told my loved ones that I’d be back to them shortly as I trotted off to go and have a pretty miserable time.

Oops, miscalculated

In short, Mt. Work did not summit where I expected. In fact it was nowhere close. Instead of the 20–25 minute effort I was anticipating, the path branched left near the top to continue on for another 10–15 minutes of highly technical, confusing, and demoralizing false summits. To this point I’d been propelled up the mountain by a stubbornness to not be caught by the chasing belches, but at last their creator tucked in right behind me (this runner and I would go on to yo-yo back and forth for the next ~50 kilometers, and share some of my favourite times of the entire race. Turns out he’s a really nice guy named Brandon, but I wouldn’t learn his name for several more hours).

Fog had settled at the top of Mt. Work, and Brandon and I moved along frustratingly slowly trying to discern where the trail led next. Between the fog dispersing the beam of my headlamp, the flagging being further spaced than I would like, and a continued bloating rising in my stomach – I was having a bad time. I said as much to the first place runner, who we saw re-ascending the mountain shortly after beginning our first journey down, and as he powered past us he called out that he “hoped I feel better” in far too chipper, kind, and sincere a voice compared to what my current mood desired.

Throughout this descent we saw the rest of the runners ahead of us spaced apart evenly, and again everyone was friendly and supportive with none looking much stronger or more exhausted than the rest. At some point during this descent I re-gained my gap on Brandon, which was further increased by my decision to run straight through the Munn Road aid station, and immediately begin my climb back up and over Mt. Work.

The second climbing of this mountain in such quick succession was rough. For most of it I tried to simply picture time passing, and how nice it would be to soon run into my girlfriend’s arms back on the other side, have a good cry, and go home. Unfortunately, I started feeling a bit better during the charge down the Durrance side of the mountain (likely the route I trained on most), and when I arrived back at the aid station my crew had dried out all my gear, prepped my bottles perfectly, and were acting all supportive.

And so, after a few pity-seeking hugs, I was ready to head back out for my most dreaded section of the race. Just as I was leaving my Dad put his phone timer in front of my face: “45 minutes”. “You can stop showing me that for the rest of the race.” I told him with more acceptance than disappointment, as I trotted away from the lights into the literal and metaphorical dark.

Finding new goals

Thankfully, I don’t remember much of the journey back from Mt. Work. However, I do know the route well, so I can describe why I dread it.

I mentioned that the descent from Jocelyn Hill to the ocean seemed like it went on and on forever. Well in this return direction, you have to cover the exact same path, only uphill. And it’s not smooth, fun, “oh yay it’s just like I practiced on the treadmill” uphill either. It’s “this is so steep that every step is something I have to think about”, and “this is so technical that my brain feels like it’s doing math”, and “this has been going on so long that this might literally be limbo” kinda uphill.

My strategy to survive it was to promise myself that “no matter what, this will eventually end.” I just needed to transport my mind out of the present as much as possible. Unfortunately for most of the ~2 – 2.5 hours it took me to travel the 12km to Rowntree aid station, all I could think about was how I was having a really hard time breathing, and how my heartbeat felt like a doctor should be telling me to stop.

I was throwing my pre-race goals and aspirations in the garbage, and asking myself what reason(s) I had to continue. The best answer I came up with: solving this challenge.

Why was I feeling so awful? My fitness is great and I’d run much farther than this in training. How can I possibly get my body to the finish line? Inconceivably and laughably, I was not even close to halfway yet.

It worked to keep me moving. Regarding my current state, I diagnosed by process of elimination. I hadn’t overexerted myself to my knowledge (in fact I’d be running overly conservative). I wasn’t behind on calories (I’d been popping Clif Bloks and chugging Tailwind like a fiend). I wasn’t dehydrated (thanks to the rain and night I was barely sweating, and I’d been pounding Tailwind and water like a……………………. dummy).

As I laboured to inhale each breath, and winced in discomfort with each heartbeat, I realized that I’d been overwhelming my stomach with fluids that it didn’t need, and pumping it full of Clif Bloks that it clearly wasn’t enjoying.

With that epiphany, I stuffed a Gin Gin in my mouth, abandoned all Clif Bloks for the rest of the race, and didn’t have another sip of water until Roundtree (which still took a really, really long time to get to).

At Roundtree I ate my first Honey Stinger waffle, filled just one handheld with only water, and rolled my body onwards for the final 6km to the halfway point (where I was intensely eager to unleash the secret weapon that would be sure to turn all my misery into magic).

Coke’d up

That first sip was bliss.

I pounded about a can’s worth, and then filled the handheld with Tailwind before heading out for loop two. My time for loop one had been 8 hours, 23 minutes, and some seconds. This helped me diminish the thoughts of how ridiculous it was that I had to now go do EVERYTHING all over again, by presenting a new goal of finishing the race in under 17 hours.

The trip back to the start of Mt. Finlayson was a blur (in that I’ve chosen not to remember it – at the time I was overly aware of every endless second). The journey up Mt. Finlyson was a bullshit – filled mostly by my audible cursing at the fact that I was essentially rock climbing in the rain, in the deepest hours of the night, while completely alone apart from the unrelenting burping that echo’d behind me from its invisible source.

I endured the mountain alone, but Brandon and I arrived at Rowntree together, both eager to change our shoes (while the frigid waters of river crossing #2 felt amazing on my tired feet and ankles, this particular pair of shoes had refused to drain).

Rowntree aid station was awesome in that it had both lawn chairs and a propane fire, and we gladly took a short break to enjoy these perks while going through the motions of getting ready to move on. My parents were both here too (even though I’d asked them not to be), and it was nice to be able to take out my frustrations on someone each time they asked how they could help :).

After snorting up another solid chug of coke, and stashing more in one of my 350ml soft flasks, Brandon and I shuffled and shivered our way out of Roundtree without looking back.

This trip from Roundtree to Durrance was my favourite of the race. We were locked in as a duo with Brandon right at my heels, surrounded by the night but focused only on the narrow path ahead presented by our headlamps. I was climbing strong, running more of this stretch than I ever have before, and was thoroughly consumed by the sensations of the dark. Startled mice jumped at our feet, fat slugs acted like land mines, a deer on the path made my mind scream “COUGAR”, and all the while I pictured the pace I was setting slowly but surely breaking Brandon down.

In my mind I was a gazelle covering the trail with the agility of a ballerina. In reality, I imagine the scene looked more like an 85 year old man shuffling along with a twisted grin on his face while his counterpart comfortably and calmly sauntered behind.

Again this section continued on without end, and by the time we reached the final steep section with stairs I could sense my legs were in trouble. The climb from the water to the aid station was my strongest moment of the day – I power hiked like a fiend and finally gained a 1–2 minute gap over the relatively short stretch – but what I didn’t know was that this was also my final glimpse at happiness.

Dead legs

“Coke!” I pleaded as I stumbled back into the Durrance aid station after the trip over and back Mt. Work. “Cooooooooke.”

“Should you be having real food too rather than just Coca Cola?” my Mom innocently questioned.

The glare I shot her ceased her questions. Unless she knew of a way to inject caffeine, immense loads of sugar, carbonation, AND pure pleasure into a slice of baked potato – then at this moment, and at all moments, Coke would be my one and only answer.

I’d said “f&#k it” to my legs on the way back down Mt. Work, and tried to let myself fall freely down the mountain. This meant Brandon was again a couple minutes behind, but I knew it was over. There was nothing left.

Picturing the journey all the way back to the finish was absurd. I physically could not move my legs beyond a limp for anything less than an incline, and even then each and every step was painful. Many times during this section I was struck by the shock of how long this was going to take, and disbelief in the extent of the destruction to my legs.

Brandon caught up within minutes, seemingly bouncing up the path propelled by his poles (I decided that poles would have been a really good idea, even if they potentially could also be a hassle). As he began to pull away I wished him a fun time, and he replied that “I’m sure I’ll see you again”. That had been true all night long, for upwards of 60 kilometers, but this time it was more like he was telling a toddler that their furry friend had “gone to live at a farm where he’ll be happy forever”.

This was going to be a long, lonely trek home.

And it was.

So long, so painful, and so lonely, that I’d rather skim over it: