Time for a haircut? Nah...

Art by Shel Silverstein, Playboy, September 1963 issue (Pic found here)

Freedom of the hills

I finished the exam, my desk covered with the shrapnel of materials that we had to apply, grabbed a celebratory beer with my classmates and then hit the hills. It was the perfect detox from a rather stressful week.

Through the storm

"Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step. There's no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That's the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.

And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You'll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.

And once the storm is over you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this storm's all about." —Haruki Murakami in Kafka on the Shore

Although he can be a bit bleak, Haruki Murakami is also highly quotable and I enjoy his way with language. He also happens to be a runner. He claims to have run every day while writing the book that I took the quote from. He has written about his obsession with running in "What I Talk About When I Talk About Running." A book that I enjoyed at times, but wouldn't rave about.

I like the above quote, because it reminds me that even rough patches, which I am definitely feeling at the moment, are transformative and have an end point. This spin on them makes them easier to swallow.
His other applicable quote from Norwegian Woods: "Don't feel sorry for yourself. Only assholes do that" is also sound advice.

Busy buzzy mind

I have a rather busy mind at the moment. I'm in the middle of a week of writing my qualification exams required by the BC Law Society to be called to the BC Bar.
Since these exams are a required step in the process of becoming a lawyer in the Province, something which my family, friends, articling firm and I have invested a lot of time, energy and money into over the past few years, I will admit to feeling pressure about the outcome.
However, as with all preparation, be it training or studying, I also need to give myself enough time to process what I'm learning and let it sink in. It is at times like this when things can quickly become overwhelming and I have a hard time turning off my busy buzzing mind. This is where running comes in.I have had a great few weeks of "training" and am getting exciting about my upcoming race in Chamonix and time in the Alps, but this week, running isn't about training, it's about quieting my mind.

As things become more stressful, I find it increasingly important to live by Lizzy Stewart's mantra" "Find some place to stop and be quiet".
Although running may seem to be the antithesis of "stopping", and my heavy breathing and footfall are not always quiet, I don't interpret her message literally.
I'm a physical person, so activity is my way of appreciating the world around me and it is also very meditative for me, so although it may seem contradictory, running is where and how I "stop & be quiet"

(FYI, yes, I just liked the poster, but felt silly just stealing someone else's work without making a comment and since people that read this blog also generally relate to running, or being outdoors, I figured I'd try to relate it back to my current experience. It's what blogs are for no?)

Looks like a nice place to go for a run

The Hardrock 100 is a brutally hard, but equally beautiful 100 mile mountain run in the rugged San Juan mountains of southwest Colorado. The course has approximately 34,000 feet of ascent and 34,000 feet of descent at an average elevation of 11,186 feet and a high point of 14,048 feet (Handies Peak). The run starts and ends in Silverton, Colorado and travels through the towns of Telluride, Ouray, and the ghost town of Sherman, crossing thirteen major passes in the 12,000' to 13,000' range.
Although the course is marked, it is minimally flagged and runners often lose time to going off course. The race is also notable for its numerous stream and river crossings, made even more frequent this year due to the heavy snow pack.
Joe Grant has a good race report and first hand experience of his 6th place run at this year's race over at his wonderful blog.
The race was won by French Salomon athlete Julien Chorier and, as per usual, Salomon has a nice video showing the terrain and some of the competition. This race has quickly climbed my bucket list.

Knee Knacker 2011

Photo by Mark Bates

Four of us are standing around, knee deep in the chilly northern Pacific Ocean, trying desperately to offset and numb the pain in our legs. We can barely feel the crushed rocks and shells under our feet. Salt is crusted on our faces and jerseys, we all look a dazed, squinting into the sun that’s bathing the cove, as our bodies struggle to come back into balance.
We’re mumbling inanely, wrestling with our incoherent and tired thoughts, but happy to no longer be trapped in our internal monologue. We chatter away about our experience over the last 5 or so hours with the only people who can understand. We share future plans and talk loosely about our personal lives.
“I’m never doing that again…” said Aaron, he looks pale. “I don’t think I enjoy it!”
“Yeah, whatever,” I answer, knowing fully well that those words are the finish-line mantra of any challenging race. With this race being so hard, you hear it a lot.
We all join in on the chorus: “I’m not doing it again either!” and we laugh, knowing it’s a lie.
A year later, 30-miles down the road, and many more miles run and raced, I jog around, trying to wake up and to ward off the morning chill that’s sapping my emaciated frame.
I catch sight of Aaron, Ollie, Tom, Dirk and many other familiar faces. I also see lots of strangers. We all share the same knowing look “I knew I’d see you here”, accented with a hint of “I can’t believe I’m about to go through that again.”
Despite the pending discomfort, we’re all also excited. We’ve trained hard, under every possible condition, and we respect that about each other. Although we don’t run together often, we’re surrounded by the small group of people who have endured a similar preparation leading up to that morning, so we understand each other. It’s that commonality that breeds respect. We may run at different speeds, at different times of day and cover varying weekly mileage, but the essence of what we do and what we are about to endure is the same.
We line up obediently behind the line, like we have hundreds of times over the years, trying to repress nervous thoughts and focus in on the dark, cold trail in front of us. Suddenly, we’re running. Most of us shoot off at too quick a pace, the veterans holding back, knowing that these early miles are just for showboating and not for winning. I take the lead.
Despite having run more that week than I normally would for a race this challenging I feel rested and strong. I pull away from the field and begin to narrow in on myself. I run through my mental checklists, listen to my breathing, trying to gauge the effort and relaxing every muscle that doesn’t help move me forward. I feel good and I begin to pull away.
I see a few odd friends on the trail and make some incomprehensible comment. It’s darker than I remember from last year. The trail feels soft and is beautiful in its suffocating lushness.
I follow the colourful ribbons marking the course, but don’t really pay attention to them. I’m trying to let time pass, there’s a long way still to go. I’m conserving my thoughts and focus for the hard sections to come. I extend my lead. I can no longer hear or see anyone behind me as I glimpse back through the trees.
I know that Aaron started out more conservatively, but I expected him and Ollie to begin to chase and eventually catch me, that’s how it happened last year. The trail moves up and runs through a dry creek bed. I shorten my stride, trying to get power from my glutes and move my feet as quickly as possible. I have to hike up a few of the bigger rocks, but I’m moving well and my breathing is under control. I trust my fitness and I continue up.
The trail levels out and weaves it’s way through the trees. The going is easy and I feel like I’m dancing my way along the brown ribbon of dirt. I start to eat and drink, fuelling for later. Distance racing is all about planning now for later.
I glance at my watch, I’ve been running for 30 minutes. Still no one behind me. I know the trail begins to shoot up soon. I realize I haven’t seen any flagging for a bit, so I look around. I see some up the trail, so I chase it. It doesn’t feel right, but I plow forward. I see more flagging, still, it doesn’t feel right. I don’t remember what colour the previous markers were. These ones are orange. They take me down a path, it’s too narrow and too overgrown, I stubbornly forge forward. That’s what you do in a race. Suddenly, I stop. This isn’t right. “Fuck, where the hell am I?” I ask the trees. “Where the fuck is the trail?” I look around and I can’t see any other runners. I backtrack and begin yelling “Yoohoo…yoohoo”, someone yells back. I look at my watch, 5 or 6 minutes have passed. “Shit!” I get a bit frantic. I hustle back onto the trail and pass someone. “Adam Campbell, what the hell are you doing back here?” he asks as I pass him. “I’m an idiot,” I answer. “What place are we in?” I ask, “12th or 13th” he answers. “Ah shit” I say and I pick up my stride.
I’m rushing, pressing too hard. I try to slow myself down. I remind myself that I made a mistake, a big one, but there’s lots of racing to go. I’m also a realist and know that you can’t give Aaron and Ollie any breaks. I respect them too much. I have to try, so I hustle patiently. I want to get back to the front. It becomes my single-minded focus. I stop paying attention to my surroundings. I make a few more wrong turns, but am pulled back on track by the wiley veterans that I have begun to pass. They shake their heads. I know what they’re thinking “youth.” I may be faster than them at this stage in our lives, but their experience is what counts and is worth more than its weight in fitness. I chastised myself and try to be more methodical. I remind myself to keep eating and drinking and I try to calm down.
The trail has opened up and I can see colourful jerseys up ahead. I’m closing on them, but I can’t see Ollie and Aaron. I catch on to the back of a group of three masters runners, including Mark and Peter. They are huge inspirations and wonderful runners. I can only hope to keep going at their level for years to come. However, they are not who I should be running with at this point in the race, so I press on.
The route is hard to find through all the snow. I’m still a bit frantic and flail to find my footing. Snow bridges collapse under my foot and I posthole several times, I find myself on my back. It doesn’t hurt, so I bounce up and resume my chase. Everyone is struggling on the slippery and unpredictable surface. I’m still frantic.
I convince myself that these conditions suit my small nimble frame. It’s awkward going, but I believe this argument and it lifts my spirits. Then, I’m on my back again, that one hurt. I spring up and begin to flail downhill on the soft surface. I begin to have fun. It’s wreckless and I go down a few more times, but it’s what I signed up for and I’m enjoying myself for the first time in a while.
Suddenly, I catch sight of a white singlet up the trail-“Goctha!” I think. I know it’s Ollie. He doe not look like he’s enjoying the snow. He’s feet are splayed and his stride is choppy. Not the same runner who can crush me at a road 10km.
We leave the snow momentarily, the dirt feels abnormally hard and jarring. It’s nice to extend my stride, but Ollie finds his normal form too, instantly a different runner and pulls away. We run to the aide station and I hear people yelling numbers, I assume they are splits. I work unnecessarily hard to catch the white jersey. It’s all I see.
I hear that Aaron’s two minutes up the trail. I can deal with that, but I realize that I’ll have to hurt myself to catch him. I think back to last year where I closed over 5 minutes on Aaron in the last 10 or so kilometers as his body failed. I doubt I’ll be so lucky this year. Still, I want to run with him, so I chase. It’s my only hope.
We run back onto the snow and I’m almost at Ollie and down I go again. The snow has caught my foot. “Fuck that hurt.” I take a few gingerly steps on my wonky ankle. It’s been giving me grief for the past month or so. “No, not the ankle” I think. I walk a bit, then I limp, then gradually put more weight on it, “I’ll be alright,” I tell myself. I get more confidence in the joint and roll back up to full speed. It doesn't hurt, I hope it doesn't come back to bother me later on. It doesn't. Ollie has run away from me. So I press again. I want to catch him while we’re still on the snow.
Finally, I get my hooks into his jersey and pull myself onto his shoulder. The snow ends and the ground is hard again. “Yes,” I think. It’s a small, buts significant victory. We yo-yo back and forth. He doesn’t look comfortable. I ask if he minds if I pass him, he obliges and steps aside.
I start to chase Aaron. My quads are screaming at me as I run hard off the mountain. I try to dance across the rocks and roots, but it’s definitely a drunken frat boy dance, more clumsy than graceful. Like a frat boy at a party, I know the dance likely won’t end well, but I enjoy the pace. I’m proud of myself that I’ve finally learned to run on technical downhills. I run too hard.
After descending 800 or more meters of the mountain, my legs don’t feel great, but my energy is good. We’re approaching halfway. Lots of racing to go.
Ollie is hanging on, but I know I’ve hurt him. He’s not running with me. I run through the aide station and try to be efficient. I hear various reports about how far ahead Aaron is. It ranges from 90 seconds to 2 minutes. I’m happy to hear this, so I continue the chase.
We run up the only significant stretch of road back to the trail. I try to press, but remain patient. Ollie is closing on me, but never catches me. Intuitively, I know I’ve beaten him if I can get to the trail first. I do.
As we move along this third quarter of the race, I realize my legs are tired and I’m no longer dancing. I stumble a bit. I try to eat and drink, but the fluidity of my running is gone. I have to trust my fitness and strength to see me through. I know Aaron is pressing up ahead. I don’t think I can catch him. My only hope now is that he beats himself. I still have that hope, so I chase.
Every 20 or so minutes I get reports about Aaron up the trail. The time keeps getting bigger. 3.5 minutes, 4, 5, then 7. Aaron’s not coming back unless he’s stopped by a bear, or injury. I don’t want to win that way. I focus on trying to hold myself together. Last year, despite winning, my body failed over the last 2.5 miles. I was crippled by cramping and was reduced to walking. It hurt and was embarrassing. I don’t want to feel that again this year.
I become methodical, nursing my way along the Baden Powell. Trying to keep myself moving efficiently and fast, while dolling out my effort with a view to the finish. I’m tired and sore. I become rude at aide stations when they aren’t ready for me. “Coke, e-Load” I yell, they don’t get it. I’m fumbling and frantic. “I need the fuel to survive and finish this fucker, don’t they understand that?” I think. I instantly feel guilty for my selfishness. They’re giving up their Saturday morning so that I can indulge in a ridiculous race. I want to apologize, but I can’t stop moving forward.
Gary Robbins is there, sharing his passion for the sport by cheering us on and sharing the race online. He was standing in the Ocean icing his legs with us a year ago. Now, he stands on the sidelines, his foot in a cast and on crutches. I feel sorry for him. The twinkle in his eye says it all, “I wish I was there.” He’ll be back next year and the years after that. He yells a split to me. It isn’t comforting. I hope he apologizes to the aide station crew for me. He understands.
“Only 75 or 80 minutes of running to go” I think. I tell myself it’s 85. It’s an age-old trick. Overestimate, so you have a reward when it doesn’t take so long. I’m playing mind-games with myself. I’m not moving as fast as I want to and I’m extremely tired, but my body’s holding together and I actually feel strong and coherent. This is a huge victory. I’m adapting to this style of training and racing.
I hold it together well and finish in a way that I’m proud of. Aaron kept distancing me and won by an impressive margin. He ran a smart and tough race. I learn later that two-days before he didn’t know if he could race due to a foot problem. He has nothing to prove, but my respect for him increases by another notch. He is a tough bastard and I know it. He overcame his struggles from last year, learned from his experiences and ran a better race than me. He’s also classy and comes to the finishline as I’m crossing, with his son in tow. A good friend and a worthy winner. We chat a bit and wait for Ollie, who faced his own demons and body one more year. He finished third.
Gary and Lauren are also there and people are congratulating me. I’m initially disappointed that I robbed myself of the chance to go toe to toe with Aaron, but as my emotions calm and I reflect critically on the race, I forget that hiccup.
Aaron, Ollie and I wade back into the chilly waters and we continue our chorus from last year. “I’m never doing that again…until next year!” and we all laugh.

The results sheets lie and don’t reflect my actual race. There's a difference between looking at a results sheet and looking at how the race unfolded, they often tell you a very different story. Yes, I'll admit that I wanted to win this year. I felt like I got lucky last year and wanted to prove myself, but that was only one small and difficult goal. In my opinion, my race went better than it did last year when I won. I was slower this year, but so was the course. If I subtract, even conservatively, for my time lost and the slower snow conditions, I ran a relatively faster race. More importantly, my body held together better and I ran almost every section, except the start, faster than I did last year and felt much more comfortable doing it. Plus, I was able to push quite hard for a long time without completely blowing at the end. I also feel like I was mentally stronger throughout the day and my nutrition was better. All of these are huge steps in making me a better ultra runner and they give me a huge confidence boost to my other big races coming up later in the summer.
I still need to work on being more patient and starting a bit more conservatively. It's a fine balance when you're gunning for the win in a relatively competitive event.
Thanks to all the volunteers, aide station workers, spectators, trail crew, race sponsors and organizers. I apologize for seeming ungrateful and even possibly rude, as I ran past. I’m not myself when I race and I do appreciate that your time and effort is what allows us to indulge our passion. Races wouldn’t happen without all of you, so thank you.

I finished 2nd, in a time of 5:06:48
My splits were:
3 1:27:47 1 (1:05:46) 2:33:33 2 (1:13:16) 2 3:46:49 2 (1:19:59) 2 5:06:48

Here are my splits from last year:
1:18:37 (1:06:13) 2:24:50 (1:13:14) 2 3:38:04 4 (1:20:09) 1 4:58:13







All photos from the Knee Knacker page

Work by others- Divine Discontent

I just saw the term, "Divine Discontent" over on Rappstar's blog and I really enjoyed the message.

I find the term very apt, since it conveys the constant push and pull that I feel about competitive running. Running is my passion, but it also produces incredible guilt and dread within me and is an aspect of my personality that often leaves me on the fringe of non-sporting social circles. There's a reason that my wife and closest friends are athletes, we are social misfits together.
There are few areas of life that provide the same sort of accountability as a race course. You cannot hide from the result sheet, or a time on the clock. It tells you exactly how good you were on that day, at that moment. It can be brutally honest. I appreciate that honesty.
I would be happy doing daily runs and exploring new terrain, and that is definitely a significant motivation, but races have a different appeal. Truth be told, I have a love hate relationship with them, but I always come back for more.
I often feel selfish for heading out for my long runs, and can dread hard efforts on tired legs, but I head out anyway.
I don't always like the person that I become when I race. I can be aggressive and rude and I don't always appreciate the trails and views that I pass throughout the course, but I also love the feeling of striving relentlessly forward and I have a strong attachment to that other persona.
I race largely because of my desire to explore my limits and to see how good I can be at running and races are a great barometer of this. They are a mirror that reflect all the work, time and preparation that I put in.
In some cases, exploring my limits means trying to figure out a way of winning a race, in others, it's to accomplish a certain task or process, often as a step with a bigger goal in mind, like improving a race skill, working on nutrition, or getting fitter. In each scenario, there's a voice that chirps away in the back of my mind and the only way I can quiet it is to head out for a run, which I inevitably enjoy. I guess this is my "Runner's Calm".
Regardless of my motivation, the voice is the reason that I sign up for events and it's the same voice that gets me out on the trail on many days and I use the voice to talk myself through the dark parts of a race.
The feeling of pushing forward, preparing, training and racing has many fleetingly divine moments, when everything feels right and my choices are justified, but it is also a feeling that never last long enough and is one that I rarely satisfy. After I've crossed the finish line and I begin to reflect on the race and my preparation for it, there's always something that I could do better, a mistake to correct, a reason to sign up for one more race...a hope of extending that divine feeling.

This is a feeling that all athletes understand and is what puts us on the fringe of social norms, as Tanya Aldered conveys eloquently in a Daily Telegraph article:

"As adults, most of us don't win or lose in our normal waking hours ...We are all judged, but generally it is a matter of opinion rather than an incontrovertible truth. We forget the frustration of physically failing, of the unforgiving tick of the clock, and discovering that your rival is stronger, faster, fitter, better...But this is what athletes do all the time. No one always wins ...And yet they train endlessly in hope. What a daunting way to spend your life. No wonder so many of us gladly hang up the shoes of competition as soon as we reach adulthood. "

It's an aspect of myself that I still wrestle with, but it is also one that I have come to accept and appreciate over the years. It's my Divine Discontent.

Divine discontent is a term used by the New Zealand All Blacks rugby team, one of the best in the World. It means:

(...) that within us is the constant desire to be better, and it is a sacred gift. That if we refuse to settle for what we have, for the success we’ve reached so far, then we can become better versions of our mortal selves. If you aren’t happy with being a national semi-finalist, then make a change. If you aren’t happy with your role on this team, make a change. Let it begin with you. Don’t mistake this dissatisfaction with thanklessness or ingratitude or a want for vanity or selfish desires. It’s like a hallowed ember that’s constantly turning inside you; it includes a gratitude for what you have, but it’s accompanied by a drive to make it excellent, almost transcendent.

I’m not gonna lie to you, embracing divine discontent is not a short path to happiness. It’s torturous. That is unless you accept this internal discomfort as a sort of affirmation. And it will torment you until you come out the other side. It’s constantly trying to outdo yourself, and to challenge yourself not to become complacent. Imagine if you embrace this concept. Imagine how much better you can be.

Frankly, I believe this is the only way a person can come closest to his fullest potential. I leave it to you guys, but this team could be special. And our discontent could be a team-wide goal to be the best, both as an individual and as a unit. Remember, you are the team. Be relentless. Enjoy the suffering.

Recovery

A few easy steps to recover from a long race (race report to come)

1-Eat good food and include lots of protein and fats



2-Go for walks


3-Catch up on chores and get outside





4-Sleep, nap and rest up

One minute chat

I went up to Squamish after class yesterday to do a product video for Arc'teryx' new line of gear coming out next year. While I'm a better runner than actor, it's a fun experience and the Arc'teryx crew make it very easy to relax and really enjoy the shoot.
Like most of the brand's employees, the video and photography crew are all highly accomplished outdoor athletes themselves and you can tell how much they enjoy their work and being outside in the images that they capture.
After we were done with the "work" part, we did a brief catch up with what I've been up to. Here's the quick chat:

1min w Adam Campbell from ARC'TERYX on Vimeo.

Knee Knacker - Snake Bite

Here's a draft of an article/story that I wrote for a magazine a few months ago. It wasn't published & it's very rough around the edges, but it will do for a blog post. It's my description of the Knee Knacker which takes place on Saturday. Although I'm looking forward to it, I also know how much of a challenge the race is, I guess that's why I'm going back.


(Knee Knacker homepage banner)

Take a moment and imagine a perfect ribbon of brown trail cutting through the woods. Change the woods and turn them into a claustrophobically dense rainforest, with impossibly large trees and branches hanging over the path. Now add a curve to the trail, make it a bit sharper and zigzag that pattern. Next picture a root snaking across the path, no, thicker than that. Now imagine that same snaking root, slithering in a different direction at repeated intervals down the ribbon of dirt. Throw in a bunch of rocks, boulders and logs into the rooty mix and add in the odd moss covered log bridge with missing planks. Soften the trail underfoot, with a combination of mud, mulch, streams and snow and tilt it all sideways from erosion. Take this tangled nightmarish mess and extend it along 30 miles, with a steep natural staircase running up, down and across three different mountains, with 8,000 feet of ascending, 8,300 feet of descending and you have the Knee Knackering Trail Run (“the Knee Knacker”), Canada’s “Knarliest” trail race. A surreal trail race experience that Salvador Dali would have dreamed up if he were a race director.

The race rewards athleticism, strength and endurance, as opposed to speed. The most nimble runners can dance their way along the course, skipping across the rocks and routes and floating their way up the climbs, but most runners trip, tumble and hike their way along the route.

Although the race can generously be described as rugged, it was inevitable that it would come to be. The point-to-point course runs from west to east along the picturesque mountains that frame Vancouver’s skyline. The course follows the Baden Powell trail, the main trail artery that links the North Shore mountains. The route jumps out at you from every part of the city and knowing the way trail runners think, there is little surprise that in 1989, eight adventurous souls would initially try to run the length of the course. The idea of running the Baden Powell was likely thought up over a beer, or during the idle chatter of a long Sunday run, with the question “Can it be done?” gnawing away at them until they decided to try. The race has grown from those first tentative steps into one of Canada’s best know trail races and the marquee event in the Vancouver trail running calendar.

The course splits neatly into four quarters, with the opening segment climbing 4,000 feet through the forest and along a scree slope with very large boulders. As the course description explains it: “You may be looking for hand holds to help you (although it is not rock climbing per se).” The reward of this opening grunt is spectacular city and ocean views from the bluffs at the top.

The second segment passes through the quickly melting snow and mud of the alpine, before the race earns its name, with a knee shattering 7.5 mile technical descent.
The third segment starts with the only paved section of the course, a mile long grunt of a climb that reduces most to walking, before traversing back along the mountains.
The final segment, is anything but a dash to the finish, with a 1,300 foot climb and a final plunge to the finish. The last 2.5 "downhill" miles to Deep Cove, is arguably the most tortuously long 2.5 miles of any trail. It mercilessly snakes its way up and down along a series of valleys with short, but painful climbs, as the siren song of the finish line announcer taunts you forward. Most people say that proper pacing and fueling are what see you through the final miles of an ultra. Having run the Knee Knacker, I disagree! Those miles are covered under the steady steam of swearing and cussing as you deal with a cramping and an achy body, while the most masochistic, or those with the greatest sense of denial, smile and laugh their way through the ordeal.

When the nightmare is over and the trail finally releases you from the thick canopy of green into a sun basked Deep Cove, you can only look back and laugh as you realize that you are snake bitten and addicted to the ride, starting an annual love-hate relationship with the race.

While I paint a disturbing image of the course, the race is incredibly well organized and is worth every ounce of pain that it inflicts. It is well marked, the aide stations are well stocked and most importantly, the crowds and volunteers are enthusiastic and loud. The race has such prestige and the trail community in Vancouver is so tightly knit, that it feels like everyone who doesn’t get in via lottery, volunteers their time to help with the race. There must be a 2-1 volunteer to athlete ratio along the route, all of whom lift your spirits through the rough patches and set the atmosphere for the entire event.

Like all good adventures should, the race concludes with a catered party/awards banquet, where battle stories and more than one war wound are shared over some hot food, cold beer and popsicles.