Manning Park.

On Punk Rock and Ultra Running.

For well over a decade, my band traveled the world in a beat up van listening to obnoxious music and brilliant ideas. We shared food, living space and inspiration with the most ragtag, downtrodden bunch of freaks imaginable. We did our best to make ourselves societal outcasts but despite our best efforts, some of us, like yours truly, eventually gave in and got caught, to some degree, in the rat race.

These days I jokingly refer to myself as a “lapsed punk rocker”. I’ve traded in my passion for the world of the punks for a world of trails and mountains that in the past I hardly even knew existed. Long training runs and exploring local peaks are my songs and jam sessions now, ultramarathons are my all day punk music fests.

You might think that the worlds of punk and ultras share no common ground, but I’m here to tell you that the two might just be more similar than not.

First the obvious... Gratuitous swearing and beer drinking. Perhaps the ultra runner doesn’t go quite to the extremes as that of the foul mouthed, drunken punk but rare would it be to hear a “golly gee” uttered while suffering up a deathly climb or an “oopsie daisy” when smashing one’s head on a low hanging branch. And although you’ll find the odd ultra runner who’s first thought is reaching for a lemonade after a tough race, my non-scientific polling tells me that if there’s beer to be had, it won’t last long when there’s thirsty ultra runners afoot.

Punks and ultra runners both pride themselves on their filthiness. Ever since my days as a lowly high school punk, moping around in soot coloured rags, I was never exactly sure why we found the need to be so filthy. Perhaps washing was considered nothing but a trivial construct of The Man himself? The ultra runner’s filth tells the world that she has spent the day charging through trails and over mountaintops with little regard for her personal hygiene. Imagine the embarrassment if you crossed the finish line of your next hundred miler looking like you’d just emerged from a bubble bath. If you’re not covered in dirt, you’re doing it wrong.

All superficialities aside, the things that kept me excited about the punk scene for so long are the same things that have drawn me to ultra running. The community; the culture of compassion, cooperation and sharing; the feeling of being accepted into a group that is over-the-top passionate about something that the vast majority of the world finds utterly ridiculous. The punk scene that I was a part of held the DIY ethos as it’s guiding principle. We did everything ourselves, from recording our albums, booking tours and printing t-shirts to running venues, bicycle libraries and food banks. Imagine my surprise when I signed up for my first ultra, and realised that the whole operation was run the same way. The race director, along with his friends, family and volunteers did it all themselves. Unlike the big, corporate sponsored road races that I’d gotten disillusioned from for various reasons that may or may not bear repeating, this ultra thing seemed to be on a much more grassroots level. There wasn’t piles of cash flying around, this was all being done for the love of the sport. Anyone could and did help out to make the event a success, from promotion to leading group training runs to marking the course on race day. I felt like I was back amongst the punks, only this time I was the only one covered in all those bad, blurry tattoos. The race day prizes for the winners of my first ultra were even bottles of homemade wine! What’s more punk rock than homebrew?!

Sure, not all ultramarathons are these warm fuzzy family affairs, there’s plenty of all-star studded, big money showdowns taking the spotlight. But just like the punks choosing between Green Day at the stadium or the unknown band from Moose Jaw playing in your friend’s basement, the beauty may lie in the diversity. You can go run something like Western States or you could take part in a Fat Ass event in your local trails with a handful of friends... some days you just end up getting your new nose ring from the kiosk in the mall instead of making one from an old coat hanger. Same difference. From what I’ve seen, there’s awesome folks at all levels of this ultra running game, and I for one am grateful every day that I get to be a part of it.

Chuckanut 50k, 2012.

Much has been said elsewhere about the number of ultrarunning elites who attended this year’s Chuckanut 50k, so anything I have to say about the race would be redundant, besides it all happened months ago and surely nobody cares anymore. Let me just add my observation that most of these superstars are surprisingly small. It’s not like I’m some kind of giant, mutant ape or anything, but watching the first wave line up at the start, their collective slightness really struck a chord with me, I’ve never felt so huge and lumbering. With all the hype leading up to race day, it felt pretty cool being a part of it all... it was like the cool kids threw a party and invited all us hobos along for the ride.

I’m not going to bore you with the typical, tedious recounting of my sub-par performance, let’s just say that if you find yourself hugging a tree at the side of the trail with leg cramps that feel as if you’ve been attacked by a horde of rabid king cobras a measly hour and a half into the race, you may not be having the performance of your life. Nor will I offer this uneducated mope’s analytical breakdown of the winning runner’s considerably better days than my own. I just want to share something from the beginning of the race that made me happy and gave me another little glimmer of hope for this wretch of an earth we call home.

As I was skulking around pre-race, trying to keep warm and doing my best not to appear angry and unwelcoming (...Which I fear is my default expression. It’s not my fault that I inherited an ever present furrowed brow...), another runner struck up a conversation with me. This was to be his first time running the 50k distance and he was a bit worried. He was decked out in enough gear to sustain himself for an unsupported crossing of the Sahara Desert, way over prepared for this semi-urban affair of which we were about to embark. My comrade was just hoping that he’d be able to make it to the end of the race in one piece. We chatted briefly about what he could expect over the course of the next several hours, before he wandered away and I went to try and pilfer some more of those sample sized, chocolate covered energy bars.

As I was munching on a bar and contemplating the serpentine lineup to the porta-bog, I heard my novice friend’s voice behind me. I turned to see that he had been joined by perhaps the greatest ultrarunner of all time, Scott Jurek. I’d seen the seven time Western States winner earlier, checking in runners at the registration table, and thought it was pretty cool how even though this guy was in a class far above everyone else around him, here he was lending a helping hand as just another race day volunteer. And what was Mr. Jurek saying to this ordinary Joe at the starting area? Was he bragging about his 2nd place at this very event back in 2000? Was he saying how jealous all of us poor slobs should be of him, about how there was no way on heaven or earth that we should ever even dream of reaching the lofty heights of Scott Jurek and his ilk? No. Arguably the most impressive ultrarunner ever to grace the trail was offering this guy some unsolicited advice. It was just a bit of friendly encouragement and a recommendation that he leave some of the extra gear behind and utilize the well stocked aid stations to reload as needed, a conversation that I thought was pretty cool. Nobody told this über athlete to help out some aspiring back-of-the-packer, there was no motivation in this other than being friendly and supportive and that’s what I love about this sport. It was as if Barry Bonds showed up at a beer league slow-pitch tournament and started giving batting pointers... think that’d ever happen?

I saw this on Hollyburn Mountain today.

I saw this... saw, get it? Oh, I'm a real cut up. Zing, another one!
Please, someone make me stop.

My Best Training Partner.

My kid is a maniac. He flies up the steepest climbs I can throw at him, barrels down the descents like his very life depends on it and still keeps enough in the tank for tree climbing and insect discovering along the way. Yesterday as we're navigating a particularly technical stretch on Mt. Fromme, he hops off a big rock on the side of the trail, shouts, "Killian!!" and launches himself through the air over a fallen log, lands with the grace of a gazelle and keeps going. This year he's ten and finally meets the minimum age requirement for that race he wants to do up on Cypress. Watch your backs, local trail runners, there's a new kid in town...

I love this guy, he's my hero.

The boy killing it on Mt. Seymour.

Frosty Mountain 50k, round two.

Here's the story of my final race of 2011, finished just seven months after the race itself. I'm nothing if not timely...


I loaded the car with my race gear and a pitiful amount of inadequate camping equipment. I said a quick prayer to the gods of Shoe Goo that my worn out Crosslites would last just one more day. As I turned on the classic rock radio station, I wondered why I couldn’t be like a normal, modern day citizen and have the capability to listen to my own own choice of music on a road trip. I strapped in a bag of Cheezies to ride shotgun and set a course east toward Manning Park. It’s mid-September and I’m heading out to once again run the Frosty Mountain 50k.

Exactly one year ago, I was toeing the line at my first attempt at an ultramarathon and now I was on my way to run in my fifth. To say that I’m getting the hang of these things might be a bit presumptuous, but I was definitely less anxious and more confident this time around. Having run this course last year, I knew what to expect and that alone gave me a little boost. I’ve been piling up the mileage and hours on the trails since last time, and I’m pretty sure my running and overall fitness has improved as well. Last year at Frosty, my goal was to simply finish the race and live to tell the tale. This year I had a more defined goal.

At some point before my 2010 finishing time of eight hours, five minutes and some seconds, all the veggie burgers at the post-race BBQ had been eaten. This year my goal was to beat the elusive veggie burger cut-off. It’s a tricky time to beat, who knows what the ratio of vegetarian to omnivore is going to be? And what about those fence sitters that might eat a beef burger nine times out of ten, but feel a hankering for some soy after their big run? How do you factor such statistics into your race day strategy? I didn’t know how I was going to do it, but there was no way I planned on sitting at the finish line eating nothing but corn on the cob and bran muffins for the second consecutive year. This year that veggie burger would be mine.

I got up to Manning Park pretty early on Friday afternoon. As I pulled into the Manning Park Lodge parking lot I saw the race director, Gottfried, and his crazy little dog, Benny. They were unloading boxes of race paraphernalia from the back of the truck, so I went over to lend a hand. Before I knew it, we had the registration tables set up in the lobby of the lodge and I was busy signing people into the race and helping others fill out last minute registrations. We handed out race packets and bib numbers and some pretty decent looking souvenir sweatshirts. Lots of folks had questions about the course; where was the start/finish area, how hard were the climbs, what would the weather be like on top of Frosty, what kind of food would be at the aid stations? It felt good to know what was going on and to be able to help people with their queries. While listening to Gottfried telling someone about the post-race BBQ, I chimed in with a question of my own, “Are there going to be veggie burgers?” I was assured that there would indeed be burgers of the vegetarian variety. I could almost taste that burger. It tasted like... victory.

Once the registration stuff had been taken down and put away, Gottfried and I made a plan to meet at the pub for a couple beers and I made my way over to the hostel to eat some food and sort out my gear for the next morning. I shared a pot of curried chickpeas and pasta with the only other hosteler; a bearded, shell-shocked looking thru-hiker who had just that afternoon completed the Pacific Crest Trail. This kid had been hiking up to fifty miles a day for the past four months, I felt like something of an impostor when I told him that I was running a measly 50k the next day. It’s all relative, of course, so I gave myself permission to feel like a bad-ass as I headed over the highway to the pub.

At the pub I sat around with a couple tables full of various runners, volunteers and significant others. Listening to the stories these folks were telling blew my mind. Tales of hundred mile races, multi-day adventure races, desert marathons and more... I’m consistently in awe of the extraordinary feats of ordinary people. I mostly just sat back and soaked it all in. I’m a firm believer that one of the best ways to prepare for something big, is to listen to the stories and advice of those who came before us. All the experience and collective wisdom sitting at those tables was pretty impressive and I was honoured to be there sharing laughs and drinks until closing time. Staying in a bar until closing time on the night before running an ultra may not sound like the best idea in the world but remember, this is Manning Park, the bar closes at nine o’clock.

Morning comes early on race day and it comes even earlier when you sleep through not one, but two alarms. Yes, I slept in but only enough to put me in a rush, not enough to make me late. After a quick cup of coffee and peanut butter toast, I was out the door and down to the starting area with plenty of time to spare. A few minutes after I arrived, the early starters gathered at the start line and headed out to begin their day in the hills. A half hour later, the rest of us came together for the briefest of pre-race briefings and after a quick count down, we too were off. A small group of young looking fit guys out in front were on the hunt for the win. Others were there looking for personal bests or specific time goals. But at least one of us that morning was searching for the ultimate prize... veggie burger, well done.

The first climb, after a nice little flat singletrack section, is something that I probably should have run instead of hiked. I don’t think that it’s much steeper than something like Mountain Highway, which I know I can run up, but since everyone else around me was walking, so did I. I guess it’s for the best that I didn’t knock myself out so early in the race. Halfway up the climb there was a full jug of water at the side of the trail and then at the first aid station there was nothing but a sign that read “Aid Station #1”. I’d later learn that the volunteers had somehow screwed up and hadn’t got to their station on time. This didn’t affect my day at all, but others didn’t fare so well. Word had it that the lead group took a wrong turn at the aid station and headed up to the Windy Joe summit instead of taking the trail up to Frosty. That had to suck.

Once past the first aid station we were soon into some nice, wooded, rolling trails. I felt like I was in good company through this section. Some of the runners within earshot were familiar faces from the Kneeknacker, others seemed to be about on par with my own abilities, so I tucked in and tried to keep up. I was feeling pretty good, hiking some steep parts, slowing down to drink or suck back a gel when needed and just looking forward to getting out of the trees and into the high country.

Once the trees disappear it’s game on, things start to get difficult. The trail is steep and rocky and here is where the weather can get unpredictable. As we struggled up the mountain it got colder, wetter and windier. By the time we were making the final push up the scree, the wind was howling and the light mist had turned to snow. It was crazy, it really made me think about how puny we shaved apes are beside the enormity of nature. This, of course, was no place for shivering, philosophical musings, there would be plenty of time for that whilst contemplating the existence and ultimate demise of the veggie burger that would surely be mine in less than thirty five measly kilometres. Around the top of Frosty I got passed by a handful of fast, young guys who I assume were those eventual top finishers that had been lost on their wrong turn back a ways.

Coming down Frosty I experienced the first twinges of what would become my inevitable major screw up of the day. Cramps. Attempting to blast down wet, slippery, murderous talus is sketchy at best and fairly silly altogether when your legs don’t want to cooperate, but I had no choice. Leg cramps or no leg cramps, there was no way I wanted to miss out on the fun of the first big downhill of the day. I’m glad I threw caution to the wind and went for it because the movement of my legs must have loosened them up and in no time I was flying down towards more of that beautiful, rolling singletrack and the first real aid station.

A friend from last year’s Frosty race, who was also one of the folks at the pub last night, was volunteering at the aid station. She and her friend were not only doing this, but they had also marked the second half of the course the day before. Super volunteers! I love races like this, where people running and people helping out are perceived and treated as equals. Maybe it’s just me and maybe not everyone sees things the same way, but I feel like the best part of running ultras is the overwhelming positivity of the entire event. I could go out and run 50k by myself if that’s all there was to it. Or I could go out and enter those megalopolis, multi-corporate marathons if all I wanted was smooth efficiencies on race day. But it’s the people and the sense of real community out here that seals it for me. Humanity, while still ultimately despicable to it’s rotten core, let’s it’s beauty shine through on the back side of a mountain at times like this.

I fuelled up and took off down into a short, easy section to the mid-way point, about 27k in, at aid station three. On the way down the rolling singletrack there’s some stunning views of mountain peaks and green valleys as far as the eye can see. I caught up to a couple guys that were running just a little bit slower than I wanted to be going, but I figured it would be prudent to stick on their heels rather than blow myself up in an attempt to be a showoff. One of the guys was wearing a t-shirt from the Mount Robson Marathon, which had been held just the previous weekend. I imagined that he was probably feeling pretty knackered even before starting the race today. I realised that he was even more done in when he said that he was amongst those front runners that had taken the side trip up Windy Joe back at aid station one. The other dude said that this was his first crack at the 50k distance and he was obviously hurting. At the next aid station, the one that you can most easily bail at and walk back to the start/finish area where they keep all the veggie burgers, Mr. Mount Robson dropped.

After filling my bottles and trying, without much luck, to get down a delicious looking homemade chocolate cookie, I was off for the second half of the race. As I set out along the edge of the lake, I wondered if Mount Robson would go for the classic beef burger or the rare, sought after burger of the veggie variety. He seemed kind of slim and light footed, perhaps these were signs of veganism. I tried to put it out of my mind and headed onward. Soon I came upon a runner who was walking back towards the aid station. “Everything alright?”, I asked. “Yeah, I’m OK but the legs are done.” This guy was a big muscular looking dude, no chance he was going for the veggie burger. I was starting to feel pretty good. With DNFs all around me, success would surely be mine. As I ran along the lake, directly across from the start/finish, I had a look but was unable to see any burgers, veggie or otherwise.

Once around the lake and across a little bridge, I took a right turn and prepared myself for the next big climb, the Skyline Trail. After about five minutes of seeing neither the turnoff for Skyline nor any flagging, I realised that I had taken a wrong turn. I’d been following the flagging for the 13k race. I knew that there was a small section where both races followed the same route for a short spell, but this, apparently, wasn’t it. I quickly backtracked to where I’d gone astray and in no time I was at the Skyline turnoff, for real this time. On the way back to where I’d gone wrong, I passed a young couple that were running their first 50k together. They were nice folks, I’d chatted briefly with them at check-in/registration the night before. The couple had taken the early start and I had caught and passed them back at the last aid station. I had also passed a guy that had been at the pub the night before, Rick, back at the last aid station. Rick had been telling me about tons of races that he’d done, from road marathons up to hundred mile trail ultras. I figured that if I kept him in my sights, I’d be doing alright.

Going up the Skyline trail is brutal. It’s a non-stop power slog. I was bound and determined to go hard up this section because last year this was where things started falling apart. I got passed by Rick and then by the nice couple. Next up was the guy that had been running with Mr. Mount Robson back on the descent into the last aid station. In an attempt to salvage at least a shred of pride, I put a bit more into my slog and kept him at bay. At one point I looked back and he was sitting down at the side of the trail. Hey! That was me, last year! I knew that feeling all too well.

At the aid station almost at the top of the Skyline Trail, one of the volunteers saw my Kneeknacker shirt and asked which race I liked more, Kneeknacker or Frosty. I thought about it as I sipped on some warm cola while enviously eyeing the volunteers’ cold beer. Eventually I told him that although I loved the Kneeknacker, there was never a time in that race that you couldn’t conceivably do a relatively short hike down to civilization, get on a bus and be back home in time for supper. Frosty got my vote for the crazy feelings you get being in the middle of nowhere, the imminent danger factor of cruising around in grizzly bear country and the general vibe of overall bad-assery that pervades the race. I would have liked to stay and chat, but there were veggie burgers that needed chasing. I bid the kind volunteers adieu and headed up to what, if you ask me, is the most brutal part of the race.

Heading up the last bit of Skyline before the top is like walking into Mordor. The trees thin out and those that are left are all burnt matchsticks from a fire that ripped through in 1994. It’s a steep climb and my body wasn’t exactly cooperating. My legs were cramping and I realised that I hadn’t taken a leak in hours, yet I’d been steadily drinking since I woke up. Once at the top of the climb, I sort of started obsessing over my lack of pee. My thoughts of certain death through hyponatremia were only quelled when my legs cramped up like they were about to implode in on themselves. There’s probably a fairly simple cure for all this. I bet salt has something to do with it. Although I was suffering, I was still moving forward and I soon caught up with a small pack of runners who appeared from the bush at the side of the trail. Not everyone was having pee problems. I envied my compatriots their urinary functions and forged ahead.

I made it out ahead of my new, little pack on the last downhill section before a bit that traverses through an alpine meadow. The meadow was hot with no tree cover and the day was really taking a toll on me. By the time I got to the last downhill section that leads to the final aid station, I was pretty much spent. One of the guys who I’d passed back before the meadow caught up with me and I did my best to stick with him. I did alright but I had to stop and walk and away he went. These flat bits kill me. Most of the folks that run ultras started out doing marathons and road races, so flat, easy terrain is simple for them. I’m the opposite, I get stymied when there’s no hills. I should work on that.

By the time I got into the last aid station, the guy I was chasing was just leaving. I almost blew through without stopping, figuring my best chance of finishing strong would be to stick with this guy, but the sight of those potatoes and the smell of that flat cola beckoned me to stay a while. As I dined on my carbs and sugar, I thought of them as appetizers for my ultimate prize. In a mere eight kilometres, I would be savouring that veggie burger and my mission would be complete. I got up and got on with it.

There’s not much to say about the rest of the run. It’s flat and wide and winds through a campground. My brain was a bit dazed and I thought I got off course, so I turned around. A couple guys who had been on the orientation run in the weeks leading up to the race pointed me in the right direction and in no time I was gimping across the finish line. That was that, twenty minutes quicker than last year. Well done, me.

I walked from the finishing area over to my car. I was feeling crappy and I wanted to get out of my shoes. On my way, I saw that young, American couple sitting by their car and they offered me a beer. We sat for a spell, drinking and having a laugh when I realised that I hadn’t collected my winnings. The veggie burger! I had forgotten all about it! The Americans and I headed over to the barbeque area and had a look at the goods. One dirty old beef patty and a box of crumbs. Worse than last year. Who’s to blame? Was it my fault for spending too much time drinking beer? If I hadn’t taken that wrong turn, would I be feasting instead of fasting? Did all those health conscious 13k and 27k racers gobble everything up, leaving nothing for the truly worthy among us? Had I just set my sights too high? Was there always next year? We shall see.

Kneeknacker!

When I step out of my East Vancouver home, I can see the North Shore Mountains. If I walk to the end of the block and look west, I can see where the mountains climb out of Horseshoe Bay and if I look in the opposite direction, I can see where they meet Burrard Inlet to the east. On days that I can’t get over and run trails on those mountains, I often find myself staring at them like some kind of lovelorn schoolboy ogling a substitute teacher. The Baden Powell Trail is the tie that binds those mountains; a continuous thirty miles of rugged, winding, densely forested goodness. The Baden Powell is a great trail because of it’s varied terrain and easy access. You can hop on the BP anywhere and use it as a home base while you go off and explore smaller, less travelled routes. When I first started running trails, the BP was my go-to trail and I still run on at least a little bit of it almost every time I’m out there.  

The Knee Knackering North Shore Trail Run is a race along the length of the Baden Powell. The Kneeknacker is the first ultramarathon I’d ever heard of, and I had the privilege of winning a spot in the lottery and running it for my first time last year.

I woke up at four o’clock in the morning on race day but this whole thing started much earlier. A huge part of the Kneeknacker experience is the training runs. We’d been meeting every Sunday since the beginning of May for group runs on different sections of the course and those runs had been not only a lot of fun but also completely invaluable. One thing I’ve learned over and over since I started running on trails and in ultras is the power of experience. Meeting, talking to and running with so many folks with so many miles under their belts was great. Even a guy like me who’s not the most social animal out there felt welcomed and found a place on the training runs. Going over sections of the course that I had been on hundreds of times alone was different when they were shared with the group. I heard about where people had bonked, wiped out, flew over, felt like crap or felt on top of the world during their previous Kneeknackers. This is a race that people love, it’s a race that they come back to year after year and learning from others victories, defeats, setbacks and triumphs was something I really appreciated.

I got dropped off at the starting area at about five thirty, half an hour before race time. Jen and Sam, still in their pyjamas, wished me luck and bid me adieu until they’d see me next, at the halfway point, some four hours later. I’d done the first half of the course a couple weeks earlier in about three hours and forty-five minutes, so I figured I’d be a bit quicker with the usual race day adrenaline and whatnot. I had it in my head that the thirty miles would take me somewhere between seven and seven and a half hours to complete, but I had resolved not to be a slave to my watch. As the countdown began and we runners readied ourselves for the task at hand, I started my timer and stashed the watch in my pack. Although I’m not a timing, pacing or splits kind of guy, I like looking at the map that my watch spits out onto the computer after my runs. Those GPS maps are digital souvenirs in my virtual running scrapbook.

And... we’re off! As you would imagine, in a field of 200 runners, there was a lot of jockeying for position along the first section. We started off going down a wide gravel road before turning into the easy, rolling singletrack. I was taking a light, casual approach because I knew that nothing much mattered until we got to the looming behemoth that lay ahead. Black Mountain is not only the name of an excellent local psychedelic rock band but it’s also, oddly enough, a local psychedelia inducing mountain. If a psychedelic experience is defined as the perception of aspects of one's mind usually believed to be unavailable to ordinary waking consciousness, one could argue that forcing oneself up the face of Black Mountain with as much gusto as is reasonably advised firmly places that action into the realm of psychedelia. In other words, racing up Black can blow your mind.

The climb up Black is beautifully brutal. There are points during the initial set of switchbacks that are virtually horizontal, you’ve got to grab on to tree limbs and boulders to haul yourself up to the next gruelling step. I’d been climbing with a little group of folks and we’d been exchanging small talk in between all the panting, gasping, grunting and groaning. The woman in the lead was saying how last year she had been too concerned with her time to really enjoy the race, and her performance suffered for her obsession with the details. This year she was out there to enjoy herself. Near the top of the switchbacks, she accidentally dislodged a big rock and sent it rolling down the precipice right into the paths of us poor fools coming up behind her... “Rock!!!” “Heads up, heads up!”, we all shouted warnings to the next group advancing behind us, who luckily heeded our cries and all were able to continue uninjured. “So,” I said to her, “last year your timing plan didn’t work so this year you’re relying on other strategies, eh?” We had a laugh and headed onward and upward into the scree.

At some point in the last four million years or so, Black Mountain decided to puke out tonnes and tonnes of rock that would go on to form the menacing scree slope and the even more imposing boulder field that greets you just before Eagle Bluffs. It’s either a geologic formation created by the forces of nature over vast millennia or the devious work of the Kneeknacker’s long suffering race directors, I wouldn’t put it past them. Getting up and over these rocks can have disastrous results if you’re not careful. Fortunately I made it up alive, along with everyone within earshot. I had to take a couple seconds to turn around at the top and soak in the view, there’s no way I was going to leave this without taking some mental snapshots. The final push to the top goes across a sketchy, tight, steep bluff but all the hard work is well worth it. Standing on top of Eagle Bluffs is stunning... the panoramic beauty is stupefying and if I didn’t have hours and hours of running left, I’d have happily spent the rest of my day up there.

There was a little aid station at the top of Black, but I was feeling good so I just thanked the volunteers for their awesomeness, took a pass on the drinks and assorted snacks and headed off into the snow. There had been snow on the last bit before the aid station but the snow covered descent was what I had been waiting for. I love running downhill and I love running in the snow, this part of the race felt like it was made just for me. There were times, sliding, spinning and skiing along that I couldn’t contain myself and I started laughing out loud. The solid ground that we hit on the way into the Cypress aid station felt foreign underfoot and it took a few unsteady steps to re-acclimate to running on dirt instead of snow.

The aid station at Cypress was the first major checkpoint and as I ran through I heard someone on a megaphone saying my name. I felt like a rockstar. As I grabbed a Fig Newton and some e-Load from the aid station table, I overheard someone say that we were on pace for a seven hour finish. I was feeling great; strong and on top of the world as I headed back into the snowy trail towards Hollyburn Mountain. I knew that this section of the trail held some of the sketchiest bits on the course. There had been a pile of snow that had been melting irregularly and there were ample opportunities to bust through and posthole your way into an embarrassing fall at best and a disastrously painful end to your day at worst. I was doing alright, running with a couple other folks, until we came to a little creek crossing. My two comrades took what appeared to be a dangerous snow bridge over the water while I opted for the safer, lower crossing option. They made it across quickly and efficiently while I slipped, jerked and ended up face down in the freezing water. “I’m good... don’t wait up...” I mumbled to myself as the two fiends happily trotted off, leaving me to pull myself up from the muck and mire and get on with my day.

After a bit more trudging through snowy bits we got to the Hollyburn aid station and on to the last snow that I’d likely see until, hopefully, November. The snow took us down some wide cross country trails before ushering us into the singletrack of the Hollyburn Chute. This section was the first nice, quick, snow-free downhill bit and I was loving it. The trail through here rolls along effortlessly down an easy grade among the trees, creeks, rocks and bouncy old bridges of Hollyburn Mountain. Running along from here to the halfway point at Cleveland Dam was easily the most fun I had for the whole race.  

Cleveland Dam is the halfway point of the race and also the spot that Jen and Sam were planning on meeting me with some moral support. Having someone waiting for you, cheering you on, is a massive boost. I stopped and sat on the grass with my sweetie and our kid just long enough to get into some dry socks and to swap my hydration pack for a single handheld water bottle. They wished me luck, took a couple photos of my snot covered face and I was off again for the next leg, along the longest paved section of the race, up Nancy Greene Way to the base of the Grouse Grind.

Ninety-nine percent of my runs on the North Shore take place east of the Grouse parking lot, so I was feeling right at home on this section of trail. Once back into the woods, it’s pretty much power hike mode for a spell. There’s some steep trail and a couple little creek crossings before you hit the next downhill section. I love this part. I’ve run these trails so often that on good days I fell like I could bomb these hills with my eyes shut. In no time I was around the corner of that wide, gravel bit and I found myself at the Skyline Drive aid station. The day was really heating up and although I was planning on dunking my head in the creek in a couple minutes, I couldn’t wait and I emptied my water bottle on my head before refilling it. A wet head is a wonderful thing. The aid station volunteers, of course, were top notch.

Let me say a couple words about the Kneeknacker volunteers. Something that you might not notice is that there’s more volunteers than runners. Something that you will notice is that all those volunteers are super awesome. Some folks work the same aid station year after year and some folks will be new to the ultra scene entirely. Regardless of their seniority, the volunteer’s endless positivity was infectious and I always left the aid stations feeling better than when I arrived. Not only are the aid station workers, course marshals, sweepers and the rest of them all volunteers, so are the runners. It’s a requirement that if you’re going to run the Kneeknacker, you have to volunteer at least four of your hard earned hours. The usual modus operandi is volunteering at another race or doing trail maintenance, but really it can be pretty much anything. I had been taking a small group of kids from my son’s school on Friday afternoon hikes and one day we all picked up trash on our walk. The kids all got Slurpees for their efforts, I got my volunteer requirement fulfilled and the trail got trash free all in one fell swoop.

From Skyline to the next aid station at Mountain Highway there’s more of the typical Baden Powell terrain. The trail is seldom flat, you’re either powering up lung bursting inclines or flying down quad pounding descents. There’s sketchy, slippery rocks and roots and there’s quick, short, smooth sections. As you approach Mountain Highway, the trail intersects with some mountain bike trails and you’ll come across sections that have two options; the crazy mountain bike obstacles or the easier pedestrian route. It’s generally wise to stick to the safer, traditional trails but if you’re feeling extra adventurous, go ahead and plummet down one of those impossibly steep, rickety ramps with the big jump at the end. I’m sure the Kneeknacker’s volunteer first aid responders would relish the challenge.   

After Mountain Highway, things get easier for a spell. It’s mostly downhill until the next aid station and the trail gets easier and more tourist friendly the closer you get to the Lower Seymour Conservation Reserve and Lynn Canyon Park. Once you go down the hundred-some steps to Lynn Valley Road, pass the cheering spectators waiting around to witness assorted loved ones in various states of either mental and physical duress or adrenaline fuelled euphoria, and get on to the wide, easy Varley Trail, you can either take it easy or go for an extra push. The trail is wide and groomed and perfect for either giving your tired legs a well deserved rest or using the easy terrain to speed up and move ahead a couple places. I chose the former and enjoyed views of Lynn Creek as the trail cruised along well maintained boardwalks, past memorial benches and little picnic spots. The last push to the LSCR aid station goes across a little bridge and up a deceptive incline on a wide, gravel service road-ish path.

At the aid station I ate some fruit and half a potato. I think the potato was my downfall. As soon as I started towards Lynn Canyon, I felt nauseous and it would stay with me for the next hour or so. I struggled along, walking when I thought that a puke fest was imminent, slowly running when I was able. Slogging along the hill up to the next aid station, I was feeling at my worst. The stairs and shifty boardwalks of Lynn Canyon were something of a haze and all I could think of was the upcoming Seymour Grind. If this kept up, I had no idea how I’d make it up that beast. The aid station volunteers at Lilooet Road knew I was suffering before I said anything. They filled me up with electrolytes and sage advice before sending me on my way.

Still feeling my insides roiling, I headed towards the switchbacks that lead down to the Seymour River bridge. Once over the bridge, it’s essentially all uphill until the top of the Seymour Grind, I wasn’t looking forward to this at all. I did my best to put things on auto-pilot and suffered along as best I could. There was an official course photographer parked right behind that house whose backyard gate opens up onto the Baden Powell Trail, and as I passed by I did my best to hide my wretchedness. The next aid station was at Hyannis Drive, I told myself that if I wasn’t feeling better by then, there would have to be some dire consequences. Would I quit? Would I sit at the side of the road with a couple fingers down my throat forcing this evil out from my depths? Would I lie in the middle of the road waiting for a van full of commercial dog walkers to mercifully run me over and end this suffering once and for all? Luckily it was none of the above. The aid station volunteers were there waiting with buckets of cold water and sponges. After the most glorious, life affirming sponge-bath in the history of the North Shore Mountains, my spirit was lifted and my stomach was settled. It was a miracle! Hallelujah!

With a rejuvenated spring in my step, I headed off towards that last of the day’s big challenges, the Seymour Grind. This is a long, steep, rocky section of trail that can wreck you on a good day and can utterly demolish you on a day where you’ve already run 40k. By the time the climb had started, I’d caught up to a woman who had passed me back at the Lillooet Road aid station. I got it in my head that if I stayed with her up the Grind, I’d be doing alright. We trudged along, one foot in front of the other, over huge rocks and fallen logs. I was feeling better and stronger with each forward step, this was good. My spirits got a boost when we passed a guy I know about half way up the climb. My friend told me that his legs weren’t cooperating with him on this day, he was looking pretty gassed. I should note that this was no ordinary runner that we passed, this was a very accomplished athlete and the current holder of the 60+ Kneeknacker course record. Now, I’m not usually much of a psychic vampire, feeding off the misery of others and all that, but I must admit that it felt good overtaking such a seasoned veteran on this difficult bit of trail.

At the top of the Grind my climbing partner and I paused to share a we-did-it moment before heading down towards Old Buck and Mount Seymour Road. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe that this wide bit of trail was the only access road for all of Mount Seymour, back in the day. Aspiring urban alpinists would drive in from the city, up this very trail to the famous Mushroom Parking Lot, where they would stash their Model-T’s before heading up into the vast wilderness of the North Shore mountains.

It was easy going and in no time I was crossing the road to the final aid station. It’s all downhill from here, figuratively if not literally. This last bit of the course is known to get into people’s heads. It’s supposed to be all descending, but someone forgot to tell that to the trail and there’s still a couple more little climbs to deal with. The climbs didn’t bother me but the road did. At one point you pop out onto a short paved section along Indian River Dr., and it slowed me to a crawl. Unlike most of the folks running this race, I was never much of a road runner and plodding along on pavement feels almost foreign to me. I got slow and wonky and I was getting passed by everyone! One guy that went by me, whom I would later make the acquaintance of, would go on to win the 60+ age group. Darn it, if I were born seventeen years earlier, my commanding lead in this race would have just been swallowed up! I also got passed by a woman that I had befriended on some of the earlier training runs. The last time we were out running on a road together, we were happily flying down Cypress Bowl Road, shooting the breeze, when she unexpectedly wiped out and ended up a bloody mess on the shoulder of the road. As my friend came up behind me, she made a wisecrack about giving me a wide berth or else she might end up face down on the pavement again. We had a laugh and I tried to keep up.

Once back onto the trail, I figured I might as well use up the rest of whatever was left in my tank. I put the hammer down, so to speak. At the trailhead, my formerly bleeding friend from the road let me go ahead, and in no time I’d caught up to and passed the 60+ leader. I was feeling strong and fast and I was picking off other runners like low hanging fruit.

The end of a race is always awesome. The end of this one was double awesome because as I popped out of the trail and into Panorama Park, who was there? It was Sam! My nine-year-old kid was waiting for me at the side of the path, so I told him to come along and run it in with me. We crossed the finish line together under sunny, warm skies, with the roar of the crowd pushing us along. I came in 88th place out of 203 but I felt like I just won Olympic gold.
 
Kneeknacker, you’re a real beauty.

Me and the boy, bringing it home.

Review: My New Hat.

It's important to have the right equipment for every job. Just like how you don't take a knife to a gun fight, you don't show up to the ultramarathon with sub-standard running gear.

I've been tweaking my personal running arsenal in the weeks leading up to the Chuckanut 50k next weekend, and the following is a review of one essential piece of gear. I'll leave the talk of running shoes, GPS watches, hydration packs, etc. for other, less qualified sources. Today I want to fill you in on the details of my latest acquisition, my new cranial covering system.

On a recent trip to my favourite running store, Value Village, I found this beauty in amongst a wide array of toques, tams, bonnets and caps. The price point was acceptable, coming in at $1.49, not the cheapest hat in the store but I've never been one to scrimp when it comes to quality.

Front view, showing brim and logo.

The first thing I noticed was the extreme logo on the front. I assumed it to be the marketing brand of some sort of energy drink, gel or injectable substance. Some type of serious endurance product, no doubt (I think the Google on my computer needs updating, because it seems to think that the logo comes from a Thai rock band, but whatever.).

The next thing that jumps out at you about this hat is it's weight. This sucker is light! I probably shaved at least 0.5g off my previous race weight by upgrading from my former, much heavier headgear. The back of the hat is made from what appears to be some kind of space age fabric, or "mesh". When tested with my bedroom fan, the moving air went right through, unimpeded.

Testing ventilation with my axial-flow oscillator.

Not only is this hat stylish and functional, but it's also versatile. Another high-tech feature is the adjustable sizing module at the rear of the unit. There are twelve variations that can be not only set up before you toe the line, but also quickly adjusted mid-run. The locking strap-like device is easily manipulated even by the most race worn fingers.

Rear view, showing largest or "open" setting.

Last but not least is the hat's most technical aspect, the brim (or to use the industry lingo, the "beak".). This protruding shelf-like addition serves three functions. First, and most obvious, is that it acts as a handle when donning or doffing the hat. It's double stitched outer perimeter makes for great hand to brim traction even in the slipperiest environments. The brim can also be used as a shield for rain. The entire hat is 100% waterproof, as soon as it soaks up it's limit, not another drop will be added for the duration of the rainfall. Unbelievable technology. Not only does the brim act as a handle and protection from the rain, but it will also shield your eyes from the harmful rays of the sun. This thing is totally UV protected.

View from the medial side (or is that the lateral side?) showing extensive length of the "beak".

In conclusion, I have to give this piece of equipment a resounding thumbs up. No doubt my performance next week will be off the charts, look for me and my new hat on the podium at Fairhaven Park, post Chuckanut!

I've been sabotaged!

Well, this stinks.
One of my favourite races last year, the Diez Vista 50k, has been kiboshed for 2012. My master scheme for next year is beginning to crumble before my eyes. I've looked around a bit for something else to do in April, but nothing as good as Diez Vista is jumping out at me. What a drag.

My plan for the year is to run a race a month from March to September. Here's what I had in mind...

• March 17th (St. Paddy's Day)... Chuckanut 50k, unless I sleep in on registration day. This sucker sold out in 2 hours or something last year.

• April 7th, Diez Vista. What to do??

• May 26th (Maybe? I think it's supposed to be the last weekend of May.), Forest Park 50k in Portland, OR. We used to go to Portland all the time with the band, but I haven't been there since. I want to visit again and doing it for this race would be swell.

• June 30th, Tenderfoot Boogie 50 miler. Second crack at my first 50 miler. Barring any unforseen, out of town nuptials, I will finally run this thing.

• July 14th, Knee Knacker 30 miler. Unless the lottery gods frown on me, of course. If I don't get in I'll still do the training runs and volunteer at the race. Maybe if I don't get in I'll attempt the Vancouver 100 (Knee Knacker x2) (I just thought about this right now, don't hold me to it, okay? Wait... that's only one week after Forest Park. Can I do that? Hmmm...).

• August ?, Some New 50 Miler In Whistler. I heard a credible rumour that there's going to be a new trail 50 miler in Whistler this coming August. Or if STORMY is back, maybe that'll be my August race.

• September 15th, Frosty Mountain 50k. I love this race and I still have something to prove.

And that's that. If it all comes together, I'll be happy. We shall see, I suppose.

Me and Lynn.

Lynn Peak, high noon. There's a city under all those clouds...

I absolutely love Lynn Peak. It's a little mountain, elevation at just around 1000m, on the North Shore and for whatever reason, there's hardly ever anyone on it. On many different occasions I've run/hiked/walked/slogged up Lynn and not seen a single soul, neither going up nor going down. Even on beautiful, warm, sunny summer days, there's never a glut of folks on Lynn.

The photo up there is the last view before the actual summit. To get to the top of the mountain, you go a bit farther, through some of the nicest running on the way up if you ask me. Most folks stop at the lookout so the rest of the trail to the top almost feels like a secret Hobbit trail, on a good day. If you go on past the summit, you can push on to the next mountain, South Needle. I've wanted to check out South Needle for a couple years but I've yet to muster the moxie, from everything I've heard it's a much more challenging route than the trail to Lynn. One of these days... the mountain isn't going anywhere.

Yesterday I saw something at the lookout that I'd never seen before. A sword and shield carved in stone. What's up with that? Why hadn't I seen this before? What else have I been missing? Oh, mysteries... you are so mysterious.

Hello, is this proof of questing Hobbits or evidence of stone carving graffiti artists?

Running down Lynn, particularly in the snow, is fun. It's steep and rocky and technical. It's crazy enough to give you some serious adrenaline but it's still 100% runnable. I feel like I'm flying when I let loose down those twisty trails and it's just long enough to get me worn out with out knocking me out. I never get tired of Lynn Peak.

The ubiquitous "adventure-seeker-ponderously-faces-the-abyss-whilst-contemplating-more-than-your-feeble-mind-can-comprehend" parting shot.

Samuel Beckett, ultrarunner.

"Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better."
-Worstward Ho (1983)

"I can't go on, I'll go on."
-The Unnamable (1954)

My back yard, it's awesome.

Better late than never, Diez Vista 50k 2011 race report.

(I ran the Diez Vista 50k back on April 9th, started writing about it a couple days later, forgot all about it, found the half finished story the other day and figured I may as well finish the tale for posterity's sake. Here you have it...)



Nobody told me that the Diez Vista 50k was going to be like that.


The morning was just about perfect as far as the weather was concerned. Cloudy and cool but not so cloudy that it threatened rain and not so cool that it was cold. Ideal running all day conditions. I made sure to have ample puttering around the house time before leaving for Sasamat Lake out in Port Moody (I think it’s Port Moody, everything gets a bit blurry for me out that way...), and I was up before my alarm went off at 4:30. I dined on the customary smoothie and crossword puzzle before gathering my race gear and heading out of town. 


I had a plan for this race. Not much of a plan, but a plan nonetheless. For my first 50k, I was just out there for the adventure and the challenge. I thought of my second 50k as an early training run for the upcoming Tenderfoot 50 miler. This time I wanted to attempt to “race” it instead of just run it, whatever that means. I guess I was feeling comfortable with the distance, I knew that finishing would be no problem, so I wanted to see how hard I could push myself. Really, I was only halfway serious but I figured it would help keep my head in it if things started going south.


The start of the race took us around the lake on mostly wide, flat trails. I stuck with a group that felt just a little quicker than I’d have run if I had been on my own. I was feeling good and speedy as we popped out onto a road that headed uphill towards the day’s first real climb. Thinking about my plan, I spied a guy ahead that I decided to set my pace against. I chose to chase this guy on a very scientific basis. Almost every time I’ve looked up Vancouver trail running on the internet, I’ve seen this guy’s picture. Since he wasn’t out of my sight yet, I figured that we were about on par, although I realised that his experience in these things far outweighed my own. 


Let me tell you about this first climb... it was nuts. I had no idea that this was coming up. Seriously, I knew there was a big hill at the beginning of the race, but this was ridiculous. It was long and it was steeeeeep. One section of switchbacks was particularly insane, it felt as if we were going up on a ninety degree angle, I kid you not. I was doing okay chasing my unsuspecting pacer. On the switchbacks he was just one turn ahead of me. He’d occasionally lose me on faster sections but I was able to pretty much keep him in my sights. I was feeling confident and strong by the time we got to the top of the climb. There was snow and there were incredible views. Back at the start of the race I’d made a mental note to return in the summer to enjoy the beach at Sasamat Lake, and now I made another one to climb this sucker at a more leisurely pace and enjoy the many views.


The descent on the other side of the climb was just as steep as the climb had been. Normally I relish these types of trails but I took a spill right at the beginning and got a bit tentative and slow on the downhill. I lost my man on the way down and now I was on my own. At least I got through the worst of it alive and in a decent time. After the downhill section I started hanging with a couple guys that were more in my realm of ability. One guy had run the course many times before and let me know what we were in for and the other guy would end up winning the 20-29 age group. 


About half way through the race was the aid station with everyone’s drop bags. I had dropped nothing so I just grabbed some eats and fled. This is where I got ahead of the group that I’d been pacing myself with. Although I’m pretty much non-competitive by nature, I must admit that it was fun to think of the race in strategic terms, even if it was just for a laugh. Anyway, after this aid station, I was pretty much running alone. It wasn’t until I made it past Buntzen Lake and onto the wide logging/access road that I met up with some other runners. One guy caught me and we ran together for a spell. This was his first 50k and also his first trail race, he had just taken a wrong turn and was catching back up to where he’d been before his screw-up. We were plodding uphill when I told him I needed a pit-stop and bid him good luck. My friend continued up the hill and I ventured off the trail to relieve myself. 


I’m not sure why it was that I ended up peeing all over myself, but pee all over myself I did. On a normal day, this would be pretty close to devastating. Imagine, you’re out at the coffee shop meeting up with some friends for a latte and a scone when you excuse yourself to go freshen up. Whilst in the privacy of the gentleman’s room, all hell breaks loose and before you know it you’re covered in piss. How could you walk out the door and face your peers without experiencing various levels of shame, embarrassment and humiliation? You’d be finished, a social pariah for evermore. Luckily for me, the day of the ultramarathon is no normal day so I just had a laugh and got back to the trail. 


The next section of the race takes us up another set of switchbacks. These were a lot easier than the first gruelling climb and the trail was generally easier as well. Not too rocky or rooty and lots of tree cover to keep things cool. But of course good things never last and soon we were spit out onto the worst, most hellacious part of the day. It was an endless, hot, rocky uphill climb on a powerline road. Definately soul destroying as well as sole destroying, not only did this section break my spirit but it also broke my shoes! All the massive stones that made up the road had torn the sides out of both my shoes! I had to stop, sit down and dump the gravel out of my shoes. At the end of this hell was a lovely aid station with ice cold Nuun, which was wonderful. After the aid station, it was just a matter of turning around and repeating the same section in reverse. Brutal. The only thing that kept me going was seeing the runners coming in the opposite direction. I felt like I was obliged to suck it up and act strong for my fellow competitors. Sometimes acting like something makes it so. I always tell my kid to smile when he’s getting frustrated in the middle of soccer games or whatever. I tell him that even though he doesn’t feel like smiling, even though he feels anything but happy, just the act of smiling will change his mood. And it works, try it some time. Just like the fake smile makes the boy happy, the fake strength made me strong and by the time I was done with the out-and-back I was a changed man. I flew back down those switchbacks like a superstar! 


I started thinking about the end of the race and I got back into race strategy mode, for what it was worth. It wasn’t long before I found myself at the final aid station, only a stone’s throw from the end of the race. I declined filling my hydration pack with water, figuring that I had enough on board to see me through to the finish line. Shortly after I turned up the last big climb, I was wishing that I had filled up. I was on empty and I was so thirsty that it was like I was sucking on dust. I didn’t see anyone during the last climb or the last, long, rocky descent. I was sore and tired and, frankly, I wanted to be done. And then, just as I was about to get all Negative Nelly and start crying to myself, I rounded a corner and saw Sasamat Lake. The end was neigh!     


I ran along the paths and boardwalks like a man possessed, faster than I’d gone all day. I was in surprisingly good shape for what I had just put myself through and I even sprinted up the last set of stairs just before the finish chute. I finished in 6:43:41, 39th place out of 99, not so bad. I hung around for a spell at the post-race BBQ eating veggie burgers, drinking soda pop and watching other finishers finish before heading home to a hot shower and a long nap.


Diez Vista was a great race, way tougher than I thought it would be. This is something that I can see myself going back to year after year, good times indeed.