Dispatches from the middle

Black Spur Ultra did not go as planned. We didn’t even finish the 54km race, to say nothing of the 108km extravaganza we’d envisioned conquering a year and a half ago. What we did do was run 35 of the hardest, most humbling kilometers either of us had ever encountered.

I’ll point out at the get-go that any/all whining and complaining you may encounter in this report is thoroughly my responsibility and the direct result of my shortcomings on race day. Let none of this be traced back to the race organizers. The Black Spur Ultra is an exceedingly well-organized event and boasts a gorgeous course. It’s also a properly savage experience for those not adequately prepared, which, as it turned out, we were not.

Race day dawned bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.  And hot, with a flawless blue sky draped behind stunning mountain vistas. It would have been the perfect day for a leisurely hike of a few kilometers, toodling out with friends and family, efforts regularly punctuated by snacks and beer, but it was hot for a race. Hot, at least, for me to be racing.

Black Spur runs out of the Kimberley Alpine Resort, a ski resort nestled in the Purcell Mountains in southern British Columbia. Not surprisingly, the course makes full and fiendish use of the ski hill, with runners running up or down a portion of the hill with every exit or entry into the central transition area. The first uphill climb – because we learned quickly that the jaunts up and down the ski hill don’t really count – following four or so kilometers of rolling hills, lasted for close to half an hour. It was a brutal, single-track slog, and we were caught up in a group of people going much faster than we ought to have been, yet we kept up. Trudging uphill through the wet grass, with people starting to drop off the trail here and there for a rest, I couldn’t stop – probably because I didn’t see where to stop – even though I was gasping for breath. Eventually, as the trees spat us out onto a more open – though no less steep – trail, I sat down on a branch and huffed and puffed and (temporarily) refused to continue. “Checkered-Skirt-With-Nifty-Bunny-Tattoo” stopped to see if we were o.k., which we were, and had a wee rest with us. It turns out she’d had her own rabbit tattooed on her arm. Both adorable and well-done.

Following this first climb, the rest of Leg One was more or less downhill. It was, however, so twisty and rocky and rooty that it was difficult to run down. I’m sure people did, but I do not belong to that mystical and gifted species of goat-people. At least not yet. With my quads quietly complaining, I carefully picked my way down the rocks and roots and switchbacks, already not eating or drinking enough to sustain myself.

The last two kilometers of Leg One found us wandering along the bottom of what we later named “Wasp Gulch,” a rift in the mountain flanked by shale-covered hills and populated by hordes of wasps hovering in the grass and bushes lining the trail. With the growing heat, the hum of insects, and the constant brush of grass and branches, the air was heavy and alive as we moved through it. This is where J, who is allergic to stings, was stung. Thankfully, we knew from a sting last year that wasps don’t illicit much of a reaction anymore and so, only a few kilometers out from the transition area, we weren’t too worried. We popped out of the bush and waddled down the ski hill into transition without incident. In the interest of responsibility and peace of mind, we stopped into the medic’s tent anyway. J sat for a few minutes while I refilled the bladders and munched on pretzels and those delicious gummy candies they were kind enough to stock in heavenly abundance (Hi-Chews – see previous post!).

Following the initial uphill jaunt on Leg Two, the windy mountain bike path was nearly my undoing. It was certainly the beginning of the end for me mentally. I was fading fast, worried about how much I had left in the tank – not much! – and feeling desperate and therefore angry. Anger is the most debilitating emotions one can allow to creep up on a run. It uses up so much energy that is essential elsewhere and so quickly erodes an already fragile mental situation. Yet creep up, it did.

We passed “Red Shirt” going up the bike path. We would go back and forth with “Red Shirt” for all of Leg Two. He was obviously tired and hot and had stopped to have a rest and admire the view. The knowledge that someone else was struggling was helpful to me. J asked him something along the lines of “Are you reconsidering the wisdom of this endeavor?” and I was so hoping he would answer with a resounding “YES!!” because, holy hell, was I ever reconsidering the wisdom of this endeavor. He didn’t though. He answered quickly and clearly – “Nope!! Just taking a break.” And my anger grew. Damn him and his certainty in the face of a day of fear and discomfort.

Onward. We finally got to the top of the bike path, which was also, more or less, the top of the mountain. As we jogged along the ridge, my anger quickly melted away as the terrain got easier and we were treated to some spectacular views. As we crested a wee hill, a one-legged (!) mountain biker flew past us heading in the other direction (presumably to go down the bike path we’d just come up) – no shirt, cut off jeans, long hair flapping gleefully behind him. The questions started piling up in my mind, and, as soon as he was out of earshot, pouring out of my mouth. How did he get up here? How does biking even work with one leg? What happens if something goes wrong with his bike? That’s a long and treacherous hop to get help. But he seemed thoroughly unbothered. Spirit of the Mountain. And possessor of answers I couldn’t begin to fathom. If I could have even a tiny scoop of his skill and confidence – like a single scoop in a tiny plastic bowl even – it would be a monumental improvement.

I held on to that awe for a few kilometers as we kept on keeping on and eventually popped out onto a cliff side covered in shale. There was a 1-2 foot wide path running along the hillside, which we carefully picked our way along. It was here that the universe gifted me a trail candy. Wedged between two chunks of shale was a perfectly sound – wrapper intact – green apple Hi-Chew. I picked it up, unwrapped it, and blissfully popped it into my mouth (much to J’s chagrin…I did pass on the trail jerky I found a few hours later though…its wrapper was most definitely not intact). I figure you don’t look a gift candy in the mouth. The trail gods were smiling on us, at least for that sunny, shale-y portion.

Here we also passed a surprisingly large runner. While ultrarunning, of course, features very skilled participants of almost all shapes and sizes, this guy was pretty big. Shortly after passing him on the shale, we rolled into the Leg Two aid station and either realized J’s bladder hose was broken, or broke the bladder hose while trying to get the damn thing to work. It all depends on your perspective. The aid station volunteers got the pack and the hose working again – bless their hearts…and bless the heart of any race director who has the foresight to staff his/her aid stations with volunteers who are actually runners and who actually know what they’re doing – and after stuffing some pretzels and candies into my face and managing not to get stung by the few too many wasps hanging around, we set off down the trail again. Phew. Just as we left, the larger dude came rolling in, loudly proclaiming “I’m too fat for this!”, but then going on to state that he’d finished the Lost Soul Ultra last year. This both surprised me and didn’t surprise me. People are remarkable.

Gingerly picking our way down the hill from the aid station, we realized that, after a solid 5.5 hours of effort, we hadn’t even covered half the race distance. As we reached the bottom of the hill and set off up a wide grassy trail – beautiful and, one would think, imminently runnable – we realized that at our current pace, the 27km halfway point would coincide with 5:45 hours. We couldn’t slow down any more and still complete the second half of the race under the cut off (12 hours). And that’s a lot of long, difficult kilometers to cover without slowing down. At this point, we started to lean towards not continuing after the second transition. Of course, once that seed was planted, the decision was made and the defeat was inevitable. There were still points where I was feeling physically strong, but also points where I really, really wasn’t. As we trotted down to the top of the ski hill, another runner passed us coming in from her third lap. She asked how we were doing and I answered that we were done for the day. She tried to convince us to continue on the grounds that Leg Three was “really fun,” but no. We weren’t buying it by this point. It hurt so bad and felt so good to hand in that timing chip. The volunteers in transition also tried to convince us that we had 4.5 hours left and should keep on going, but we’d made our minds up, for better or for worse.

I maintain stopping after the second leg of three was the right decision. Between both of us generally feeling like crap, a broken bladder hose, the increasing heat of the afternoon, and the mental weight of knowing we were outgunned and unlikely to finish within the time allowed, it seemed like a better decision to get some food, lick our wounds, and plot our revenge at some future date. So we picked up our bags and retreated to the hotel, where we cleaned ourselves up and went to get a steak and watch the last Tragically Hip concert broadcast live from Kingston. Over the following days, we compiled all our learnings and have tentatively planned to spend 2017 building our base and racing fast – Five Peaks Enduros, half-marathons, maybe a marathon or two, but nothing longer than that. Then, in 2018, we’ll ramp up the mileage and the mountain weekends and finally come back to finish Black Spur.

A friend of mine asked me afterwards what went according to plan and what didn’t. What went well and what didn’t. The answer is nothing went according to plan. Lots went wrong. But there’s nothing wrong with that if you can learn from it, and learn we did! Lessons as follows:

1. Eat more. 200cal per hour. Not ~500cal over 7.5 hours. There are so few occasions in life where my task is actually to EAT MORE; you’d think I’d learn to take advantage.
2. Get a blue tub for the drop bags. Given that it was dry as a bone on race day, the drop bags we had were great. But get a blue tub because it won’t always be dry.
3. Get poles as soon as possible and start practicing with them.
4. Go to the mountains to train for races that take place in the mountains. The Glenora staircase won’t cut it anymore, no matter how many repeats we do.
5. Practice representative time-on-feet and footing (i.e. learn to be bored and have sore feet). Given Edmonton’s notable lack of mountainsides covered in shale, this also ties back to Point 4. Get to the mountains.
6. Don’t be such a pussy. My default way of being seems to be “being-towards-pussy” (as compared to the more noble Heideggerian standard “being-towards-death”), and I need to work on that.
7. Along the lines of 5 and 6, given that it’s not always possible to get out to the mountains, driving out to Sunridge for a solid day of hills and trails (with the trunk as the aid station, ideally full of Hi-Chews) seems like a good idea.
8. Keep a spare bladder in the drop bag, which, as per 2, will be safely stowed in a blue tub.
9. Active recovery. Don’t run for three hours then flop on the couch for the rest of the day “because you’ve earned it”. You’re not that tired.
10. Schedule regular cross-training and focus on core and flexibility.
11. Tylenol before, during, and after.
12. Singing really helps.
13. Solomons rock. Super grippy and comfortable. Wasps don’t rock. They suck. Fuck ‘em.