Aug. 10, 2011 - Issue #825: The Fringe

Long day’s journey into night

Second attempt to solo Canadian Death Race worth the suffering

There comes a point in an ultramarathon like the Canadian Death Race where you must face demoralizing pain, fatigue and doubt. In fact, go long enough and there often come several such moments.
Poetically, my first of the 2011 race came at exactly the point where I'd left off the previous year, 66 kilometres in. On my first attempt to solo the race I'd missed the time cutoff for the Leg 3/4 transition by four minutes. It was tough, soul wrenching, to be that close. But if I felt robbed, part of what I felt I had missed was the true experience of soloing the Death Race: suffering.
This August long weekend, there was no escaping it. After blasting through the first two legs at a strong pace—ever mindful of the Leg 3 cutoff—I was supremely confident. I'd made the leg 2/3 transition by 3 pm, leaving me four hours to cover another 20 km. No problem, I thought.
Then, about two kilometres into Leg 3, my hamstrings began to tighten, as if someone had taken the two ends of my muscle and begun twisting in opposite directions, ratcheting up the tension until running became impossible. I finally arrived at the transition to Leg 4 with half an hour to spare, sat down and pondered. What if my race ended here, again? Could I risk injury and continue on? Would I end up stranded atop brutal Mt Hamel awaiting rescue?
This agonizing self-questioning hurt more than the cutoff. To have made it but have to consider resigning anyway. To make matters worse I could barely eat, sickened by nutritional supplements and beverage additives.
Somehow, with the help of my support man, and another friend's crew, too, I managed to continue on. Had I known what still awaited, I would have laughed through this moment. So little had I learned about true suffering.
So on I went. Up Hamel, recovered and feeling good again. Redemption came at the top of Mt Hamel, as I jogged the one kilometre to retrieve my prayer flag, the rocky spine narrowing to a point beyond which lay the lights of town shining in the dusk.

Then the long descent into darkness. It was raining, soaking through my jacket, muddying the trails. Each step slipperier than the last. I talked to myself, made up ridiculous songs. Coming out of Ambler's Loop, my fuel reserves were low, but I was too cold to stop. A vicious cycle ensued—too cold to eat, too starved to reheat. The road went on forever. But eventually I made it.
There, with 104 kilometres, three mountain peaks and 20 hours behind me—only 21 kilometres to go—I battled hypothermia as my legs seized in pain, barely able to lift my feet. Finally, I made the decision to quit.
A second account of failure wasn't my intention. But if you are wondering why it's worth reading the account of a two-time failure, consider: failure is our greatest teacher. Yet in my eyes, I didn't fail. I achieved two more objectives than my last race: the Leg 3 cutoff and Mt Hamel. I went over 100 kilometres in a single day. And in the end, I made a choice.
It was a hard choice, but one I am still proud of. At the post-award ceremonies, North Face athlete and four-time Death Racer Diane Van Deren said it best: it is the spirit, the community, the goodwill of the collective that make this race worth returning to—the people.
There are thousands of stories for every Death Race, and I wish I could tell them all: Jon, the solo racer from North Carolina who finally finished on his fifth attempt; Mark, the good-humoured triathlete who scaled Hamel on an ankle he'd broken only two weeks before ("I definitely feel it," was his understated acknowledgment); Chris, my good friend raising funds for cancer and racing in honour of his mother; the many smiling volunteers; the paramedic who, in the middle of the night on his own time diligently checked on me every 20 minutes or so down Beaver Dam Road. The good friends with whom I celebrated on Sunday night, laughing at disappointment and celebrating success.   
There comes a time when the choice is either to go on at great personal cost, or fold with dignity. I got to make that choice. I chose family over race, my desire to race the everyday races over the epic ones. Both in the kilometres I travelled and the journeys yet to come, mine remains a path less travelled.
And that, to me, makes all the difference. vueweekly.com comments: powered by Disqus