Tag: ultrarunning

Why? Ultra-running drivers explained in three quotes

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.

Rockwall Trail – Kootenay National Park

After the Elk Valley Ultra was completed, inside my personal time goal, and therefore could be considered a success, I could not wait to do it again, and prove to myself that it wasn’t a fluke, that I really was an “ultrarunner”. One could argue that doing a little over 50K doesn’t look all that “ultra” given that a regular marathon is 42K, but generally those don’t climb over 9,000 feet in the process. So it felt pretty ultra to me.

I had my eye on a loop in Banff National Park, which appeared to be a little over 60K at first glance, but studying a paper map instead of the tiny screen of an iPhone app, it came out closer to 75K. Perhaps a little too ambitious. I decided on the Rockwall Trail in Kootenay National Park, a 55+K trail that crosses over 3 or 4 mountain passes, rivaling in elevation gain the Elk Valley Ultra.

Four weeks after the Elk Valley experience we drove into BC with two cars. Rockwall trail is not a loop, you end up about 13km from where you started, so you either hitch hike, or arrange a drop. My daughter was shanghaied into coming out early. She would do a part of the trail, taking the dogs, and drive home when done.

We started at the Floe Lake trailhead around 8:20AM. Right off the parking lot we dropped down to a bridge across the Kootenay River. A small group of runners was getting ready, but we were gone before they got organized. After crossing, I said goodbye to my daughter and the mutts and started a slow jog up a meandering trail that ran through a giant burn. Walking the steeper bits, jogging where I could, I made decent time, passing a few hikers, meeting some backpackers on their way out, and hearing for the first time about a group of runners ahead of me.

The last few kilometers up to Floe Lake were steep! No running here for me, just grind uphill. Weather was good, legs still felt OK, scenery was great. Floe Lake was rather bleak-looking, bordered by towering grey rock, jutting into a now overcast sky, a stark contrast from the lush, green, sun-filled valley below.

From Floe Lake it is less than 3K to the first pass of the day: Numa Pass. A short section of alpine meadows takes you to the scree-filled pass, after which you drop down quickly back into the trees. It had taken me about 2 hours and 40 minutes to reach Numa Pass; hard to imagine that there was still a marathon left to do.

After bottoming out, the next climb loomed: 5K up to Tumbling Pass. A large part of this trail run through willows and alder bush, at least 10 feet tall, restricting any kind of view other than a few glimpses. It’s just grind-grind-grind, until the terrain finally opens up, and you reach the pass, which is a little friendlier than Numa, with stunted trees and grassy patches. Good spot for lunch, if you are the lunch-having kind. Roughly 26K done, and 5 hours in, there still was about 30K to go. The view of the trail ahead was part exhilarating and part daunting.

The descent to Tumbling Creek took me through a larch forest, from which there were glimpses of the next obstacle: Rockwall Pass. Just before the Tumbling Creek campground I chatted briefly with a guy who was curious if we were “all” training for an upcoming race, and he mentioned the other group of runners, still ahead of me.

A much shorter climb brought on the Rockwall Pass area. Hugely open, alpine meadows, marmots, views, wide trail, a fellow could feel mighty good about himself having made it up here, and I did.

Rockwall Pass was glorious. After the high point the trail dropped down to a small lake, and a great view of the rock that gave the pass its name. About 35K in, 7 hours after leaving the trailhead, it started to drizzle. A short climb through flowery meadows took me up to the last view point of any significance of the day. Looking back to the Rockwall area certainly was a sight to remember.

After a brief chat with two backpackers, I started the long descent to the Paint Pots trailhead, where I had left the truck. The steady rain quickly turned the trail into mud, the larch forest that I crossed looked gloomy. Hard to fathom there were still over 18K to go. I was starting to feel worn out, and my feet were hurting. Where four weeks ago I found a second wind, there was no wind to be found in the body this time.

The next seven or eight kilometers I went too fast for the way I was feeling. I glanced at Helmet Falls, but couldn’t find the strength to take a side trip for a closer look. Somewhere past the campground I caught a glimpse of something moving up ahead on the trail, and with still about 10K to go I came up behind a young couple, who had started before me. They asked for a ride back to the Floe Lake trailhead, should we arrive at Paint Pots together.

For the next two hours we kept exchanging the lead. I tried to create some distance, but I was pretty much spent. With the rain now relentless, it became a mud slug, alternating between walking and running, with hardly a view to lift the spirit. The green, gloomy tunnel went on forever it seemed, but just as it all seemed to become a little too much, the ground turned a dark orange. I made it to the Paint Pots, and so had my on-and-off running partners.

The Coros watch app reminds me I took 10 hours, 42 minutes and 19 seconds to cover the 55.4K, climbing some 8,700 feet in the process. The other guys took 12 hours. Like for me, it was only their second time covering a distance longer than 50K. They were very happy with the ride back to their vehicle, I was happy to be able to help them. I always thought heated seats were for sissies, but I think I kept the heat cranked high all the way home, to sooth the aching muscles.

If I were to do this trail again, I’d start at Paint Pots, and get the less-inspiring bit in the trees done first.

FD

Chasing Ultra – Part II

The official course stats:

LEG 1: 20.5KM // 1,480M VERT

LEG 2: 16.5KM // 720M VERT

LEG 3A: 6KM // 125M VERT

LEG 3B: 7KM // 475M VERT

TOTAL: 50KM // 2800M VERT

I think these numbers are to be taken as indicative rather than absolute. My GPS watch logged 51.7KM and a little under 2800M.
Elk Valley Ultra
Three forty five in the morning came way too soon. Sleep had come surprisingly easy. I drank a tall glass of electrolyte mix, put the coffee on, and hopped in the shower. Breakfast consisted of a couple of home-made muffins, and a small yoghurt. Taping up various body parts, filling water bottles, double checking the race vest and lacing up the runners took up the rest of the time till five.
I found a parking spot not too far from the starting area, placed the drop bags into the vehicles that would take them to the aid stations, and waited for my wife and daughter to arrive. It was a chilly morning, and not many of the racers had arrived yet.
As I jogged towards the outhouse at the other side of the parking lot, I felt the adductor muscles in my left leg tighten up. That was one of the nags that I had not been able to get rid of since the last long run, and now it was giving me a painful reminder. Apart from that, I was feeling vaguely confident. Confidence stemming from ignorance probably. “Start slowly” I kept repeating to myself. With more areas in my legs hurting than I have fingers on one hand, this might be easier to accomplish than I had imagined.
The start signal was a very unassuming “3-2-1-off you go”. Some two hundred runners crossed the line and turned right onto the gravel path along the Elk River. Two and half kilometers later a good number of them had passed me. I was sticking to a leisurely pace, worried about my ever tightening groin muscle. If I could make it to where the climb started I might be OK. Some 7 or 8 km or non-runnable climbing awaited, lots of time for the body to warm up and get ready for a faster pace later.
As soon as we turned up the single track mountain trail, the pace was determined by whomever was leading the conga line up. Somewhere up ahead would be the fast starters, not burdened by the mass of runners behind them. We weren’t going up very rapidly, but I tried to embrace it as the slow start I told myself I needed. From time to time someone would step out of the line to take a breather. Not many were behind me. One rather heavy-set individual was breathing with an intensity not fitting the climb. I have to doubt he made it through the whole run.
About 2/3 up the climb the terrain got a little technical and people ahead of me in the conga line started having trouble. Now I was getting concerned about the delays and the slow pace, especially since we were in terrain where I was most at home. I couldn’t take it any longer, and with a few “Would you mind if I pass?” and some quick scrambles, I moved passed the bottle necks and fell into a quicker pace.
It still was a decent grind until the trail topped out, but the trees had all but vanished, the air was clear, it wasn’t too hot yet, and the grade didn’t phase me. Around 2 1/2 hours in I stood at Windy Pass, cheered on by a small crowd. Well, only four people really, but given that they probably also had to hike 2 1/2 hours or more to get there, I was impressed. In the weeks leading up to the event I had been telling everybody that wanted to hear that I would want to take three hours to do the initial climb, and that two and a half would be too fast. But I felt good, and started the long descent.
It felt long indeed, going down seemingly endless single track. Towards the bottom the pine trees gave way to beautiful old growth forest, and then just like that a cow bell sounded, and cheers erupted, and I found myself greeted by my daughter at the first aid station. She made sure I found the drop bag, filled up the hydration pack, and took some pictures. Right around four and a half hours I jumped back on the trail, a half hour ahead of my self-imposed schedule, in good spirits. And the groin pain had gone!
The first section of the second leg ran in between the creek and the road. Nice grass, flat dirt trail, easy to make good progress. Once the trail crossed back across the road, where my daughter cheered some more and took more pictures, the climbing started again. It would continue for quite some time, relentlessly going up on mountain bike trails and washed-out cutlines. I felt strong, and managed to overtake a few runners, without getting passed myself. In retrospect I figure I was at the tail end of the middle-of-the-pack.
The downhill was again a grind, and by now things started to hurt. I had to walk regularly now to let some knee pain subside before continuing the push. The second aid station was a welcome sight. Both my daughter and wife were there for moral support.
I ate a banana, by now the bacon-peanut butter wraps had become very unappealing, and drank the ginger ale, My daughter again refilled the bladder and added ice cubes, which was wonderfully cool on my back during the next section. I changed out of the Altra Lone Peaks and into the Hoka Speedgoats. My feet were feeling really flat and tired, and I hoped that the extra cushioning of the Hoka’s was going to help me keep a decent pace.
I don’t really remember leg 3a, only the friendly lady cheering my up the small hill back to the aid station, and meeting back up with my crew. I really didn’t need anything, other than some encouraging words. I looked better than some of the people that came through before me, who were cursing out loud the climb they had just done, so I was told.
A glance at my watch showed that I was eight hours and some forty five minutes in. Seven and a half-ish kilometer to go, and almost 500 meters of climbing. Suddenly I realized that the sub-ten hour goal was still achievable. Sent off with some stern words from my wife to not overdo it, I hobbled back across a parking lot and onto the mountain bike trails. The climb was steady, but not steep. I still felt strong going uphill, so I managed to jog some good sections. When I’m hurting I like to fall into a pattern. Count 60 double-steps running followed by 30 walking; back to sixty running, etcetera. The kilometers ticked off swiftly, and the time looked good. But there was still a lot of downhill to get through.
The downhill was painful. I had passed a runner on the uphill, who came barrelling by me not too long before I finally made it back to the river. The final few kilometers I exchanged places with a female runner that I had ran behind for a while on the first descent. We were both struggling to maintain a good pace, but once across the bridge and in the home stretch we managed to encourage each other that a sub-ten finish was still possible. I watched the kilometer counter go past 51km, and the time creep towards the ten hour mark. How long was this race anyway? No more walking breaks now, just grind grind grind along the river-side gravel path. Finally my daughter appeared from around the bend. The finish had to be really close!
With five minutes to go till the 10-hour mark I could relax. I chatted a bit with my daughter during the final few hundred meters, and managed to cross the finish line in a blistering 9 hours 57 minutes and 53 seconds!
I collected my medal, my free beer (Fernie Brewing Company Brown Ale), and a meal of pulled pork, beans and a salad, which mostly my daughter ate. One thing I had looked forward to was a dunk in the Elk River, but the water level was high, the current strong, and my feet too much in pain to move to a shallower spot across the rocky river bottom. I opted for a quick dash to the room for a shower, a snack and more fluids.
We were back at the finish area in time to witness the last two finishers come in minutes before the 13 hour cut-off and later one final runner about 30 minutes or so after. It was a great atmosphere, despite the thunderstorms and rain showers.
All in all this was a fantastic event, which I fear has unleashed the beast. I can’t wait to do it again.