“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.

The sun was coming up over the trees and the field was filling up with runners.  I set some waypoints on my phone’s GPS so Val could find the aid stations and her way back to the finish line.  This would ultimately prove useless.  I briefed her, again, on what it would be like.  I tend to repeat myself when I’m anxious.

Okay: I may be incomprehensible later in the race, this is okay.
If I ask for something, ice, water, gel, whatever, that means I need it RIGHT NOW.
My body will not understand patience.
I may be manic, just go with it.
If I snap, I am sorry now and I will be sorry later but in that moment I am not.
Never tell me I’m “lookin’ good!”
Do not touch me at any point during or after the race.
I will probably fall asleep in the car after and then wake up like a hungry bear.
Val said she understood.  I repeated everything.

I ran into and briefly spoke with another guy wearing FiveFingers.  Compared notes, experience.  Good luck, all that.  Then it was time to go.  Val would meet me at mile 12.  In the meantime, I ran.  First across a park, a golf course, through chest-high stinging nettles (I got stung on the knee).  We met muddy hills so steep you had to pull yourself from tree to tree to go up, catch yourself on trees to get down.  We leapt fallen trees and sloshed through steep-banked creeks. Single-file through the woods and swamps, this was SINGLE TRACK, no passing lane.

Around mile 5 or so, while climbing one of these banks, I slipped mightily and nearly faceplanted in the mud.  My water bottle went cartwheeling into the weeds.  I’m pretty sure I heard a slide whistle.  Muddy hands, muddle bottle, mud smeared down my leg.  It looked like blood from a distance.  Cool.

Another runner turned back to check on me; this would become a recurring theme of the race.  This is one reason I prefer trail races.  Road races tend to be competitions, trail races (ultras, especially) tend to be camaraderie, celebration.  I was fine.  Muddy, laughing, happy.

I started running with a guy.  He would be the first in a long series of temporary partners throughout the race.  We talked about where we’re from, prior races, the mud, whatever.

A short time later the trail split briefly, with one side sticking low near the river, and the other climbing a small, cliff-like outcrop.  As I crested the outcrop, I saw a girl laying below, surrounded by other runners.  She’d fallen from the outcrop, about 15 feet.  I heard one of the attending runners say, “patellar fracture” and “I’m a nurse.”  My partner and I told them we’d send someone back to help.

It took almost an hour before we met someone who wasn’t running: two course marshals at a road crossing.  “A girl fell back there, back a few miles.”  And that was all we could do.  Back into the woods.

At the 12 mile aid station, Val handed me some gummy fruits.  I ate some stuff, drank some stuff, showed off my mud smears for her camera.  Then away again.  This next part of the course was rocky, wide trails, and very big hills.  On my way “back” from an out and back to another aid station, a runner going the other direction tripped once she passed behind me.  I turned to check on her.

Blood was gushing from a gash on her leg.  “Oh shit,” she said.  Repeated.  I rinsed the wound with some water, then walked back to the aid station with her.  This was her first ultra, and she desperately wanted to finish.  She hoped the medics would let her.  Once she was with the medics, I went back out.  I figure I got an extra mile or so out of the deal.

Shortly before we hit the 19 mile aid station (which was the same as the 12 mile), we ran along the top of a jagged cliff.  Mere inches to our right was a several hundred foot drop into the Potomac River.  I did not fall.  Once at the aid station, I asked Val for some Clif Shot Bloks.  “The yellow ones.”  She brought the pink ones.  I was incensed.  “YELLOW!  There were two options, pink and yellow, I need the goddamn YELLOW ONES!”

Yes, this was a 31-year-old man yelling at his mom over the color of what is basically expensive candy.  I immediately apologized (and got the right Bloks - the yellow ones had extra sodium to prevent cramps).  I drank ice cold water to try and lower my internal temperature.  And then I was running again.  It would take more than three hours to cover the remaining 12 miles.

A series of temporary partners rotated in and out, until at one point, 7 or 8 miles from the finish, Sarah caught me.  We talked about martial arts, distance running, her being a firefighter, Joy training to become a firefighter, the mud, whatever.  More importantly, she kept me pushing when I started to bonk.  She was my Steve.  We pushed each other through those last exhausting, painful miles.

Back through the tree climbing hills, where I noticed that all of the trees along the trails had dark bands around their trunks a few feet from the ground.  When I grabbed one to pull myself up, I realized the bands were from hundreds of sweaty runner hands.  Every tree.

And suddenly, finally, we were crossing the finish line.  I tried to cool down, but the 93 degrees and high humidity were crushing me.  Val and I bailed to the car (yay air conditioning) to head back down state to my uncle’s house.  On our way out of the park, I saw the woman with the cut leg coming in to the finish.  Her leg was wrapped up, but she was finishing.  Rock on, lady.

True to my warning, I passed out for an hour or so.  When I woke, it was CRITICAL that I get Burger King chicken tenders.  Val was prepared, this time, and the hungry beast was fed.

I set out for a mixed-surface run.  Nine miles on the sidewalks and bike path to Parkside, 6.2 miles around the trails, and nine miles back.  I figured it would be fun, long street miles with a fun traily center.  That’s not what happened.

The run started slow and only got slower.  I managed to catch a curb and blow my big toe right through the fabric.  My Camelbak kept rubbing on my lower back.  Everything felt heavy.  I managed to get to Parkside and do my two laps, but almost immediately upon leaving, I knew I was in trouble.  I couldn’t run.  I hobbled another mile before I did something I’ve never had to do before: Call for help.  My wonderful neighbor Kim drove up to the north side and rescued me.

Distal fourth metatarsal, left side.  Distal second and fifth metatarsals, right side.  Right lateral ankle.  Right lateral hip.  In my head, the words “STRESS FRACTURES.”  Looking ahead to my races, the words “$400 gone.”

The following Thursday, I’m at the podiatrist Joy works for.  He pokes and prods my feet, no pain.  We discuss running in FiveFingers (which he’d never heard of), and to my surprise, he sees no problem with it.  X-Rays show nothing - other than that I did in fact break my fifth metatarsal on my left foot at last year’s Grand Island Marathon.  The other doc comes in.  He’s heard of FiveFingers and is *thrilled* to meet someone who runs in them.

The verdict?  Keep running.  Let them know how it goes.

I made the decision right there to stop training for the Wisconsin Marathon on May 1.  I need to focus on my 50k in Virginia and the MC200.  I decided that April is going to be a trail month, working back into high miles with some recovery time.

Here I am at the end of April.  The weather hasn’t helped.  It’s been scattershot chilly, overcast, windy.  I’ve only managed a few runs - but they’ve been quality.  I ran an awesome 20k the other day where miles 7, 8, and 9 were all under 8 minutes.  I wanted to do a 30k this weekend, but the weather’s been lousy.  Maybe I’ll try tomorrow night.

The Wisconsin Marathon is less than a week away.  I still don’t know if I’m going to be at the start line.

Running in fivefingers is like learning how to run all over again.  Trails, I got that.  Roads, that’s a whole different thing.  No stumps to watch out for, but no room for forgiveness.  If I’m getting sloppy, I find out instantly.  I’m using my calves more.  My foot strike is farther forward.

In the snow, sometimes, there were only the slightest impressions of my heel.

I did 16, 18 okay on the roads.  My 20 was terrible, but that happens.  Last weekend I hit the slop mud, frozen mud on the trails.  I called it my 23 mile recovery run.  The recovery was mostly mental, a green refresh.

I started running part time in my fivefingers about a year ago.  Full time eight months ago.  Since then, I have given my green KSOs more abuse than I ever heaped on any shoe.  I ran on dirt, mud, rocks, and in Lake Superior.  Concrete and asphalt.  I ran in snow, rain, below freezing.  Ice.  I kicked things, tore small holes in the fabric.  Scuffed the tops of two toes open.  Wore through between some toes.  They’ve been sewn shut, wrapped in duct tape and electrical tape.  Frankenfivefingers.

I have punished them mercilessly.  And they have given me love for 600 miles.  I’ve started wearing a new pair, but I don’t think the green ones are done just yet.

Total miles: 702
Total time spent running:  109 hours, 32 minutes, 12 seconds (give or take)
Average per mile, overall: 9:21
Month with most miles: March, 89
Month with least miles: December, 8.2 (haha)
Miles Teslin ran with me: 40.3
Miles run in shoes: 283.1
Miles run in fivefingers: 418.9
Injuries due to fiverfingers: 1 broken pinky toe
Fastest mile: March 25, mile 8 of 8, 6:46