Race: Squamish 50
Shoes: New Balance MT10 (first 33 miles), Topo Terraventure (remainder)
Distance: 50 miles
****
“I can’t reach them,” I tell the volunteer.
“Here,” she says. She holds out her hand. I place the phone in it. “I’ll keep trying, you make sure you’re ready to go when they get here.”
I thank her and say I’m going to stretch and use the restroom briefly. She nods and redials.
Stretching feels good, but I’m anxious to get back on the trails. The longer I stay here, the longer it will take to finish.
The volunteer returns to me and says she still hasn’t had any luck.
“Thank you so much for trying,” I say, “I’m going to eat just a little bit more and then head out. I’ll just have to improvise.”
She looks concerned.
“Do you just need shoes?” she asks. “One of our volunteers said he has a pair of shoes you could use. What size are you?”
As much as I appreciate the offer, the shoes won’t work for me. I’ll be better off continuing as I have.
So I make one last stop at the aid table and, as I prepare to leave the station entirely, the volunteer hurries over with her phone.
“I have them on the phone!” she exclaims and hands me the phone.
“Hello?” I say into the mouthpiece.
My dad is on the other end. Come to find out, they had gone to the wrong aid station and are now minutes away from where I am. The volunteers help them with the logistics of getting to the station efficiently so I can head back out as soon as possible.
Throughout this whole ordeal, I’m astounded at how far above and beyond the call of duty these volunteers are willing to go. They don’t know me, but they want me to get back out on the trail and have the best race I can. For a good portion of my time at aid station five, I feel like I’m more laissez faire about my family’s absence than the volunteers are.
“It is what it is,” I said initially. But the volunteers weren’t about to let me leave until they’d exhausted every resource at their disposal.
My family finally arrives. Cheers rise up from the volunteers.
“They made it!”
The excitement is contagious. I snag my new shoes and clothes from my family. Putting on my compression socks feels like a dream. My feet are happy once again. I scarf down half an avocado, roll out my quads and feet, and shoulder my pack.
My feet shod with a little cushion, I prepare to exit the aid station and reenter the course. Before I can leave, the volunteers approach to wish me luck and make sure I’m all set. I am. The lengthened stay has brought with it renewed energy. I feel more recovered than I ever expected thirty-three miles into a race like this. And I’ve only lost about a half an hour. Not a terrible sacrifice for the salvation of my Terraventures and a change of clothes.
Before I can leave, I receive a high five, a fist bump, and a hug from three of the volunteers.
“Thank you so much, guys,” I say. I hope they understand the full breadth and depth of my gratitude and appreciation. It is vast.
****
As I depart, cheers and well wishes fade behind me. The aid station cacophony subsides, replaced by the serenity of some lonely single track. I pass people here and there as I navigate my way up gentle switchbacks.
I’m being smart here. I’m over the halfway point by several miles and I feel good. I want to maintain that feeling as long as I can. I know it won’t last forever.
“This will soon be a memory,” I repeat, “faded and flawed, like the others.”
I work with the hills, up and down, up and down. The inclines and declines here are nowhere near as severe as what I’ve encountered up to now. Still, I don’t get carried away. I run the flats and downhill portions, hiking up the inclines. I’ll need this energy later.
As I come around a corner, I’m met with a surprise mini aid station. They don’t have much here, but it wasn’t mentioned in the course description, so anything they do have is bonus material. I take another freezie for the road and continue onward.
I’ve been listening to my brother’s playlist since leaving the last aid station, but now it’s time for an album. These sunny day vibes are calling for The Suburbs by Arcade Fire. I hit play and, damn. That’s perfect.
I sing along here and there as I trek onward, a smile pleasantly contorting the lines and angles of my face.
****
Sauntering through these sunny woods with some good tunes is nothing but enjoyable. Each moment brings a deeper appreciation for the experience. Once again, I can’t believe I get to do this.
Out of nowhere, on my wrist, I feel the sharpest pinch I’ve ever felt in my life. I reflexively slap the area with my other hand through an equally reflexive torrent of blasphemy and expletives. Was it a bug bite or a bee sting? Has to be a hornet or something. It’s bleeding.
My sunny day vibes have been thoroughly killed, obliterated by a tiny, little monster. Arcade Fire no longer fits the bill. I need some Deafheaven. I put on the fusion of post rock and black metal that is their latest album, Ordinary Corrupt Human Love. The electric guitar licks, the metal drumming, the screamed lyrics, and the sudden spike in adrenaline brought on by the searing pain in my wrist quickens my pace considerably.
Almost as if in a concerted effort to make me run recklessly fast, I meet the most consistently downhill and technical terrain I’ve encountered since something like mile twenty. If my feet can’t keep up with gravity as my body bombs down these twisting hills, I’m going to have a really bad afternoon.
I can’t help but smile as I careen down these descents. My feet move faster than my eyes, faster than my mind, can command. One aspect of running I do well is trusting my feet to know their shit. They know what they’re doing and I try to stay out of the way. Proprioception is a magical thing. It’s my absolute favorite aspect of my physicality, especially on switchback descents.
“On your left,” I say as I pass a fellow runner. “On your left,” I say again. And again. And again. My quads tremble with every step as I leap and bound downward.
This is a mountain bike trail,I think to myself in disbelief as I try to keep pace with gravity. I can’t imagine the idiocy it would take to ride a bike through this place. I’m one to talk,I counter my own thought as I recall what I’m doing here.
“On your left.”
This downhill seems to be infinite. And I’m struck by the horrifying realization that, in a trail run such as this, what goes down, must come up.
****
This technical, downhill portion of the course finally dumps me out into the approach for aid station six. My legs are shaky. I almost trip on the gravel forest road leading me up to a corner around which aid station six awaits, patiently. I manage (only barely) to stave off the fall and maintain an upright posture.
A lone volunteer notices my ungraceful stumble from a distance.
“Nice save,” he calls out to me. I laugh and give him a thumbs up.
I enter the sixth aid station. I eat much of the same food I’ve eaten at each of the other stations, aiming for consistency. I’m at mile thirty-eight here. I can feel my body’s equilibrium faltering.
“Less than a half marathon left,” says a fellow runner as he downs some final refreshments before departing.
Less than a half marathon. I suddenly realize how close I am to the finish. My body has been performing admirably, but I can tell my time is limited. Subtle sensations are becoming obtuse. Minor issues are presenting greater complaint. I’m falling apart. Slowly, to be sure, but definitely falling apart.
Many of the runners I flew by on the descent between aid stations five and six begin arriving now.
“You were so fun to watch down those hills,” says one.
“I was so jealous,” another adds. “That looked like so much fun. If my knees and quads weren’t killing me, I would have loved to do that.”
“I was just trying to not fall and die,” I tell them. But, of course, it was fun. Those technical descents are some of the best parts about trail running, less terrifying on fresh legs, but always incredible regardless.
****
There’s a porta potty at aid station six. I haven’t had a poop since before the race began and it’s not like I haven’t eaten. My guts are getting uncomfortable. I make an attempt. No such luck.
Well, I think to myself, I have one more aid station between here and the finish. I can do my business there. It’s only 8K from here, anyway.
So I abort and exit the outhouse. I swallow a few more sodium capsules, thank the volunteers, and set off once again.
The descent continues. It’s not as technical as immediately prior to aid station six. I manage to run a good portion of this eight-kilometer stretch between the sixth and seventh aid stations, but my discomfort grows with every footfall. I look forward to the final aid station on the course and, before I know it, I’m there.
A sign greets me. “Help isn’t coming,” it says. I nod my grim understanding. If I am to finish this, I will have to do it on the strength of my own two legs. What concerns me more, though, are my lungs.
I walk up another forest road, which leads right into the aid station. My sister is there waiting. She snaps a picture. I’m sure I look pretty haggard. When I reach the rest of my family, I shed my pack.
“Free me from this prison,” I say as I drop the thing to the ground. The physical toll of the past forty-three miles hits me in force. I look around and my heart sinks. There’s no restroom of any kind.
Okay, I think, this just got a little more complicated.
Just in case I’m not seeing it, I ask a volunteer what the toilet situation is here at the last aid station. She confirms the unfortunate news I suspected to be the case. I’m going to have to use the bushes.
I have the volunteers fill my handheld with ice and water, put some ice in my hat before placing it back on my head, take a shot of pickle juice, and set out once again for the final time.
After about a hundred yards, I hit play on my Bluetooth headset. It beeps, but no music follows that beep. Fuck. I left my phone in my pack. I’m not adding an extra two hundred yards to this race by going back for it. I’ll be doing these final seven miles in the relative silence of the Squamish wilderness.