Stories from the Trail

Turns out the only bear I saw during the Sinister 7 last weekend was the stuffed one that the Parks guy put on the stage during the pre-race meeting. 

He also brought a stuffed cougar. 

Because I wasn't worried enough

I mean, a stuffed cougar?  I had to get as close as possible to compare our sizes and think through my cougar-tackling-eye-poking strategy, should it be required.

Another crappy Blackberry photo

I am happy to report it wasn’t.  And, despite my worries, these weren’t required either.

Required race gear. Seriously.

My run, in the end, was perfect.  Agony and torture, but perfect.  I ran that 32 kilometres up and down mountain trails.  Up, as it turned out, for the better part of the first hour.     

When I got to the first water station, legs on fire, I asked the volunteer what distance we were at.

“10 K!” he said cheerily.  “Only 22K to go!”  

Could. Not. Compute.

So I didn’t think about the full distance.  I thought mile by mile.  I thought until the next bend in the trail.  The next hill.  The next creek I had to run through. 

I focused on the few people who I seemed to be running with.  In a race of over 1,100 people,  I think I saw only about 20 on my leg.  There were only about two that I saw more than once.  There were two that I seemed to pass, and then be passed by, over and over.  The girl with the pink t-shirt.  And the little wiry dude with crazy long hair.  I can still see their backs just ahead of me on the trail. 

When I turned off the highway back onto the trails – somewhere after the three-hour mark - one of the race marshals yelled “only 3.5 K to go!”  

It seemed too good to be true.  My legs had turned to concrete about 5 km previously.  I was fighting off cramping in my left leg.  Each incline forced me to walk. 

But as I listened, I began to hear noises in the distance.  Noises of people and crowds.  Somewhere as the crow flies just through the trees, I realized, was a finish line.  That was a good moment. 

When I saw that finish line at the bottom of the last descent, it was glorious.  I found some energy to pick up my pace and run fast to the finish.  It was wasn’t exactly a Donovan Bailey sprint.  But I found some juice.  I finished in way under my anticipated time.  I’m still not sure how that happened. 

A little like Hussein Bolt, right?

Everyone on our team, and every team, has a story of the race.  

Like our team’s final runner, my husband’s young cousin.  He was running the last two legs.  He took a wrong turn in the forest of the middle of the night on the last leg of the race.  He ran up trails and through creeks for about 5 km before he realized he was off course.  But he turned around and ran back.  Then kept running.  And running.  And running. To the finish.  There’s nothing like an extra 10 K tagged onto your scheduled 26 K in the dead of night to test your character.  Lesser people would have sat down in the dark forest, pulled out their space blanket and started a-blowing on that whistle.   Not that kid.  

Then there was the guy who came last.  A solo runner.  Solo, as in he ran the whole 148 km himself.  He came across the line at 11:45 a.m. the next morning when everyone else was in the middle of lunch.  That’s almost 29 hours on the trail.  We all poured out of the arena to watch him finish.  The crowed roared.  The women wept.  And he – the final runner  – slowly walked that final stretch to the finish line.  Legs beaten and bandaged.  Leaning heavily on his poles.   Head bowed and lips quivering.  Nodding slowly to the thundering applause.  I wish I could hear that guy’s story.   

I wish I could hear them all.