“I can’t believe it,” Steve said.  “We’re actually here.”

I nodded slowly, looking around the dining room.  “Dude.  It’s finally real.  This is really going to happen.”

‘Here’ was the town of Grande Cache, Alberta.  That’s in Canada, eh.  Two thousand miles from home, over 4100 feet above sea level in the Canadian Rockies.  ‘It’ was the Canadian Death Race.  125 kilometers (about 76 or so miles) on trails through the wilderness, including three mountain summits.  17,000 feet of elevation gain.  Only 24 hours to complete it.

Steve and I had been planning and training for the race for nearly a year.  In the weeks leading up to our departure, neither one of us experienced much in the way of the usual pre-race anxiety.  We focused on getting gear in order, coordinating driving plans; Joy and I would meet Steve and his family near Glacier National Park in Montana a few days before the race.  The race was so far away, in time, in distance, so far from anything we had ever done, that we had nothing to compare it to.  Until that dinner, the night before the start, it didn’t seem real.

Miraculously, that night I slept like the dead.  I’d had my ritual pint of Guinness (4.2% ABV?  WTF Canada?) and crashed.  Up and out early in the pale, chilly dawn.  I munched down a bagel with peanut butter and chatter with the relay team camped next to us.  Steve was up and worried; he had hardly slept.  One drawback of Tent City is that you’re, well, in a tent.  You can hear everything.  I’d managed to shut it all out, but Steve wasn’t as lucky.

In short order, we were geared up and heading down to check in at the start line.  Each Racer had a timing key and a coin.  They key was inserted at checkpoints along the course to track us, and the coin was to pay the Charon the ferryman for safe passage across the Smoky River near the end of the race.  Lose either one (or your race bib), and you were done.

The race began with a procession through Central Park led by a Mountie.  The MC was giving last minute encouragement and called out some of the “legendary” Death Racers, including Dag, the 70-year-old Norwegian who has run in every Death Race (7 completed); he was just behind us.  We assembled at the official start point.  No mere starting gun would suffice for the Canadian Death Race – the Canadian military had brought along a 105mm Howitzer.  With a giant BOOM, we were off.

The course looped through town and followed highway 40 to the north, then doubled back a bit before entering the forest.  Or swamp, bog, muskeg, whatever you want to call it.  Cries of “GO DEATH RACER!” would echo back along the trail letting us know that there was a mudhole ahead.  Sometimes there was a convenient detour or series of logs to use to get across.  Sometimes we clutched the brush along the side and walked the “bank.”  Sometimes everyone picked through various side trails to get around.

At one of these swampy areas, most of the pack split right and I split left.  I quickly picked my way through, hopping from log to stump to dry-ish patch.  On one of these hops, I suddenly found myself face to face with a cameraman.  I looked around and discovered three more cameramen hunkered among the trees, filming the Death Racers like we were the stars of a wildlife documentary.  It was pretty cool, and we would see more CBC crews as the day went on.

More mudholes slowed us as we continued on.  A few were small enough that I chanced just running straight through them.  This was fun!  Another hole, and the main body again split right.  While standing in line, I spotted Dag taking a route along the left side of the hole and I said, “screw this, I’m following Dag.”  Dag scrabbled along the left bank and I was hot on his heels.  This was a mistake.  Dag pushed a pine branch out of his way and it snapped back behind him.  Right into my eyes.  And by my eyes, I literally mean my eyeballs.

Stunned and blinded, I slipped off the bank I was standing on into shin-deep water.  “Oh shit, Dag just killed me.”  Knowing that people were behind me, I pressed on to the other side, my eyes stinging and watering profusely.  I hoped that I just had some debris in there, but feared that it could be much worse.  Steve caught up to me and asked how I was.  “I think my left eye is okay, but my right is seriously fucked up.  How far do you thing I can go with just one eye?”  On we ran, with me looking very cyclopean.

We ran through the rest of leg one without any other real incidents.  After the mud came a long downhill blast, then a series of small hilly sections along Grande Cache Lake.  The (one-eyed) view was very pleasant, relaxing almost.  Right before the first aid station, we slogged through another muskeg, and then bam, we were in the bright sunlight again surrounded by cheering crowds.

Joy was in top form as my crew.  She had a great spot picked out for me to sit, and as soon as I hit the ground was untying my shoes.  I waved her off to do it myself and asked her to load my pack for the next leg and get my hiking poles ready.  While she did that I changed my socks and shoes, opting for a beefier pair for the rocks I knew were coming.  I also asked Joy to grab my safety glasses out of my night packet.  My right eye had improved to the point I could use it about half the time, and I didn’t want to take any more chances.

I grabbed a Rice Krispy treat from the food table, grabbed Steve, and off we went.  Ten minutes spent at the aid station – more than we had wanted, but overall not too bad.  We jogged down the railroad tracks and within a kilometer, we were heading up.  This was Flood Mountain.  Most of the trail was a narrow quad trail, still steep, but relatively easy.  We stopped once briefly to grab “lunch” out of our packs, but the climbing was constant.  Around a bend we encountered three young women cheering Racers on.  Beyond them, we could see Racers coming toward us, the disappearing down off the trail.  The girls were pointing up for us.

“Are you serious?” I asked.  A goat path went straight up the hillside into the brush.  If I stood at the base of the path, I could reach out and touch it in front of me, it was so steep.

“I’m totally serious!” one of the girls said.

I grinned wickedly.  “Awesome.”

And thus we began what we thought was the final ascent of Flood.  We climbed.  Racers ahead of us collapsed to either side of the goat path, but we pressed on.  Higher we climbed.  Sweat dripped, flew off our noses as we dug our poles into the mountain side and pushed ourselves forward.  Finally, the path leveled out.  Finally!  But this was just a shoulder.  The peak was another kilometer away.  A small group of us stopped for just a moment to enjoy the breeze and the view.

Just as soon as we had stopped, the cursing started.  A cloud of mosquitos and biting flies descended upon us.  The only choice was to keep moving.  Starting to feel a little deflated, we reached the summit of Flood and keyed in.  A gradual descent on the quad trail followed, until we met back up with the enthusiastic trio at the base of the goat path again.  This time, the “path” went down.  This was the Slugfest.

Imagine a trail that you cannot run down, cannot walk down.  The only options are either sliding down on your butt and dodging the rocks or maintaining a controlled fall from one tree to the next.  One wrong move and the best you can hope for is a broken ankle.  Our small group stood at the top of the Slugfest and uttered a collective, “holy shit” as we watched a few Racers picking their way down.

This is supposed to be fun, right?  Once again, I felt the wicked grin spread.  “TALLYHO!” I cried as I launched myself down.  Now, that sounds like I began an awesome Man From Snowy River dash down the mountain, but I actually just jumped down to a flat spot and began hop/sliding down, crashing from tree to tree.  Steve slid down on his butt. Another cameraman was prone next to a tree along the path, and I asked him if he felt safe there.  “That’s why they put the fat guy at the bottom, to catch you guys,” he responded.

“I meant rocks, not runners,” I said.

He thought for a second and then shrugged.  “You runners are probably more dangerous.”

Downward plunges continued, followed by sudden climbs.  At valley bottoms we crossed streams, mudpits, swamps.  At the bottom of one descent, we came upon a cluster of Racers in and around a mudpit.  The guy in the center was covered in mud up to his thighs, and his arms were black to his elbows.  A bored-looking girl sat on a log and listlessly plunged her poles into the mud.  Several others surrounded the pit and were either stabbing the mud or digging around in it.

“What happened?” someone asked.  “He lost his shoe.  He’s been digging for 20 minutes already,” came the reply.  One of the diggers spoke up.  “I don’t want to tell anyone what to do, but if we all got in there up to our elbows, I bet we can find it in no time.”

The woman next to me looked around and said quietly, “yeah, no, okay good luck…!” and headed up the trail.  Steve and I followed.

Not long after that, our group came out into a little clearing. Two Racers were sprawled on the ground to the right.  Another sat to the left, vomiting repeatedly into the bushes.  One of our group dropped down onto the ground.  Steve and I took just a moment to feel the breeze, take a sip of water, and we pushed on.

What followed was a long, slow, long climb up a gravel road to the top of Grande Mountain.  Every time we thought we were almost there, we’d round a bend and see how far away it was still.  But we did get there.  Our spirits up, we jogged on to the start of the Powerline descent.
An important note, here.  The Canadian Death Race has strict time cutoffs.  We needed to get to the end of Leg 2 by 4:00 at the latest to make the 7:00pm cutoff for the end of Leg 3.  I think that by the time we started the Powerline, we had about an hour left.  No big deal, we thought.  It’s just running downhill.

The Powerline, however, is not just a downhill run.  Parts of it are almost as hard as the Slugfest, and the Powerline is MUCH longer.  We ran, hobbled, and slid down.  We walked quickly.  Every time we stopped to catch our breath, biting clouds surrounded us.  We caught up to others who were clearly running on empty.  Our quads were shredded, our toes were bashed.  And for the first time, I began to think that it might be about time to throw in the towel.

After what felt like hours, we reached the bottom.  There were a few more kilometers along the highway, then a short stint through town.  The end of Leg 2 was back at the starting line.  Steve and I attempted to run the last few blocks, but our legs were clearly finished.  We agreed.  Our Death Race was over.

We made a good show of shuffling in through the gate and keying in.  Steve went to his family and I went to Joy, smiling and shaking my head.  “It’s over,” I told her.  “We’re done.”  To her credit, she tried to give me a good motivating speech, tried to get me up and moving.  “I can’t run down another hill, hon.  My feet are killing me, and I can barely stand, my quads are so shaky.  There’s nothing left.”

Steve and I surrendered our keys and coins in good humor.  The volunteer that took them showed us the jar of people who’d quit before us.  There were dozens.  As Steve and I sat and reflected, we cheered on the brave fools who were heading out.  “GO DEATH RACER!”

One of them Steve and I had passed coming down the Powerline.  He tried to get me up and running with him, pleaded with me not to give up.  “Too late, man, I already turned in my coin.  But is there anything you need?”  His shoulders slumped a bit, and then he asked if I had any antacids.  I flipped open my Race Kit and tossed him a small bottle of Tums.  “Keep it,” I said.  “And good luck!”  I doubt he made the cutoff, but he was hungrier than I was that day.

Joy continued to administer me, checking that I really was okay.  Once I had assured her that I wasn’t upset, that I was okay, she asked if I’d taken any pictures.  “A few,” I said.  “There were some sights that I tried to get pictures of.  But not everything.”  She looked at me quizzically.  “Some of those sights are for me.”

In the end, Steve and I told our families that we surrendered because we knew we were running out of time, and we knew we couldn’t make the next cutoff.  We would have gone for it anyway, but our legs and feet had taken such a beating, than we didn’t think we could get down another hill.  Instead of pushing forward and risking real injuries, we called it.  The plain truth was, the Canadian Death Race beat us.  We challenged it and lost, but we were proud of our efforts.  There was no sadness.  We were happy.  Steve and I ran an incredible course together with our families there to support us.  Maybe we didn’t get the finisher’s coin, but we got valuable experience.

That night, a cold, windy rainstorm moved in.  I did not envy the tough folks that were still out there.   The next morning, we watched and applauded the last few Racers to come in before the clock hit 24:00:00, and cheered the first Racer to come in after.

We took our time packing up and headed east toward home, a day early.  I’ve been asked several times if I will take on the Death Race again, and so far I have refused to answer.  Who knows what life will bring in the future?

All I know is that I left Grande Cache hungry.

Okay, so rundown for 2008: I ran three marathons, three half marathons, and the running leg of a triathlon relay (TEAM MAN, whooo!).  Pictures for most, and eventually all, are located at the fabulous new gallery I’ve got set up at mathein.net.  Check it out, there are more pictures there than anyone could possibly ever want.  Even one of me in my underwear.

This year, I’ve registered for three marathons - again, and one half marathon, so far.  And that’s just the spring/summer schedule.  We’ll see how things go as far as fall races.  I’ve decided not to announce which races I’m running in advance this year, because I realized it’s kind of dumb to tell the internets when you’re going to be out of town when your address is easy to find.

That said, I will be running the inaugural Wisconsin Marathon here in Kenosha on May 2.  It’s a nice flat course along the lake, and I’ve run portions of it dozens of times.  If training goes well, maybe I’ll break my 3:57 PR, thanks to the lack of hills!

Switching gears: one of my races this summer is out West, and after, Joy and I are going to spend some time camping and hiking around Wyoming.  Check out these awesome trails we’re thinking about:
http://www.free-press.biz/Jackson-Hole-WY/Goodwin-Lake-Trail.html
http://www.trails.com/tcatalog_trail.aspx?trailid=HGR082-018
http://www.jacksonholenet.com/blogs/blog_detail.php?n=101037
http://www.landscapeimagery.com/mapwy.html (the cluster in the central west and southeast)

If anyone else is interested, contact me for dates and details.