Preamble
If you have to ask the question, you probably won’t understand the answer. The “why” question. Why run that far? If you ask me the question, I may not have an answer; but if I do answer, chances are my words will not resonate.
It’s a bit of a cop-out really, that first sentence. It effortlessly excuses the originator from exploring his or her inner turmoil that leads to spending hours and sometimes days on rocky, windswept, winding trails. Worse yet, it suggests the existence of some elite, secretive society, whose motivations are so nebulous that they are beyond the grasp of the average guy on the street. So don’t bother asking. We’re special.
I’ve stood on high passes, legs aching from a long and steep ascent, but only a fraction of the day behind me, overlooking a narrow ribbon of trail cutting its way through rocks and shrub and trees, following creeks and valleys, and up the next mountain; wondering how on earth I will make it to the other side, or around the loop. A little overwhelmed perhaps, with ominous dark clouds climbing up the far side of a barren ridge, as yet still dispersing when whipped by a violent wind at the crest, but for how long? Still a marathon to go. Three passes, three climbs and four descents. No short cuts, no quick exit to the highway, no lodges, no support. I could still turn around. I search the crevasses of my brain for excuses, but find none. And I go, one step downhill, and another, and before I know it the trail sucks me in, and I run. If I’m fast enough, I might beat the building storm to the next pass.
Why run that far? Why do I run that far, when I vow to never do it again, during the last miles, when every step hurts, and I have to alternate between a painful fast hobble, and a slower and only slightly more bearable walk to get some relief from the agony, but a few days later find myself planning the next trip? Why even start the life that leads to these runs that bring glory nor fame? You don’t just lace up and run fifty kilometers, or 50 miles, or more. It takes a bit of doing, will suck up weekend days, and week-day evenings, draw ire from your spouse who thinks you’ve gone mad, makes you miss TV series that everybody raves about. Alright, the latter is perhaps not necessarily a bad thing.
Start with the ugly
So why? Here are some of my reasons, starting with the ugliest. Running long distances gives me a feeling of superiority. Not a very likable reason, but I can’t help it. Every time I encounter someone struggling under the weight of a backpack, destined to take five days for a trip I intend to complete before sundown, I feel like I am better. It’s not a fair comparison, the other person is not even trying to do what I do, and I am not even very good at what I’m trying to accomplish, mediocre might not even describe my skills, yet infallibly this feeling pops up. As quickly as it emerges, I dismiss this childish emotion of a bottom-tier trailrunner, and I hope that over time I become a better person.
Similar, but not the same, since it doesn’t include any comparative notions, is the sensation of ability I get when starting a long run. Ability to tackle big distance, big mountains, big days, with minimal gear, just enough to not starve or freeze, a small kit to deal with eventualities, and the mindset that I can deal with whatever the trail will throw at me. This sense may disappear temporarily as the day progresses, and initial confidence erodes as legs becomes tired and then tiredness is chased off by pain. But it resurfaces as soon as the end becomes palpable, and I can think: “I did that!” I may not be able to walk straight for a few days, but I did it! Pride. Another questionable driver.
Clearly, these first two reasons could apply to any athletic endeavour, or even aspects of life that have nothing to do with sports. Feelings of superiority and pride can become part of an individual that earns a lot of money, or achieves some scientific or engineering feat, or keeps an organized sock drawer. So not very helpful in understanding why an increasing number of runners choose to go far. They are not even reasons or drivers, but more like consequences. So what got me started on the road to running ultras, when sock organizing would have been so much more accessible and instantly gratifying? I think it was curiosity.
“Beyond lies a new valley, a valley you have never seen” R.M. Patterson – The Buffalo Head
So this doesn’t evolve into an epistle of insufferable length, I will jump right into the moment of awakening. I had fallen in with the biathlon crowd in Canmore, the hub of the Canadian Biathlon Teams. Our team of aging athlete-pretenders shared the ski trails and shooting range with the up and comers, the next members of the Canadian national team. One summer day, a Facebook post showed two of them on top of Ha Ling, the fourth mountain of a thing called the Canmore Quad, an astonishing, an at the time rather unimaginable effort to climb the four mountains that frame the town, running from base to base, within a 24-hour period. Fifty-five kilometers and way too much climbing, on this day casually done by two aspiring national athletes, with whom I’ve skied, talked, joked; normal people. It blew me away. It also opened my eyes and triggered a desire. What if one day I could do this? What would it take? A door had been opened and showed a world I knew nothing about. I wanted to learn.
“…because while you think you could maybe face dying, you can’t deal with the idea of one day becoming too old and weak to ramble among these summits any longer.”
D.H. Chadwick – The Wolverine Way
You cannot get away with spending the time required to train up to running past marathon distances, without having a love for the terrain in which you choose to do it. You won’t find me running some big city marathon, simply because I hate running on the tarmac, amongst traffic, with views blocked by buildings. But I sure love being out in the mountains, and did well before I started running. I moved across an ocean and the length of a continent to live near to them. So there’s a driver: I love mountains.
Out in the mountains, attention and purpose become singular. No distractions from screens or phones or people; freedom to do what I want, and go where I want, and freedom from responsibilities. It is refreshing, I come back a better person. That may not last, but at least for a little while I am gentler, more patient, and happier. In a way mountain running replaces therapy.
“Do not go gentle into that good night. […] Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” – Poem by Dylan Thomas
Finally, as I creep towards the ripe age of sixty, and the body is starting to show signs of wear, I feel an urge to disprove the inevitable; that I’m getting old. I still have decades left, I’m fitter than many twenty years my junior, I will die on a high ridge, and not in an old-folks home. Delusional? Probably. Health is fleeting.
Epilogue
“There you have it, sports fans” (a bonus quote). Curiosity, love of mountains, therapy, delusionality. The drivers that keep me going. I am still intrigued by the notion that people can run these distances. I’ve only scratched the surface, having completed three runs of over fifty kilometers. People run a hundred miles in less than a day; two hundred and forty miles in less than a handful.
The big six-oh is coming up. I cannot see myself running a hundred miles. Fifty maybe. The Brazeau Loop in Jasper National Park is a convenient 50.7 miles, covers some of the best mountain scenery available in these parts, cuts through what is presumed to be one of the last strongholds of caribou in Alberta’s National Parks, sees a very limited number of visitors due to a restrictive camping policy, and has no easy outs. Once you are in, you are in. Go back or continue are the only two options. I may just have to try it.
I can’t wait to see the faces of the hikers, when they hear the answer to the inevitable question:
“You are running? How far are you going today?”
“All the way around the loop!”
Without feeling superior of course.