When Alberta race director Brian Gallant announced that Sinister Sports was starting Western Canada’s first and only 200-mile race I was completely powerless to say no. Take all my money.

10 months later I was clinging to a relentlessly technical trail above Window Mountain Lake at 2 am, cursing Brian’s name, yelling ahead to my pacer Matthew that I would never give Sinister Sports another penny of my money ever again.

Such is the rollercoaster of multiday races.

When I first worked up the courage to attempt a 200 miler at Moab 240 in 2022, I thought that would be a once in a lifetime adventure. The time, effort, money and sacrifice needed to take on big races can feel pretty overwhelming at times, but what I didn’t account for was how much I would love the whole experience. I was barely recovered from my first multiday race and had already signed up for another.

The Divide 200.

A new race brings a lot of unknowns, there are no race reports to read, no videos, no previous finishers to stalk and question. Just a website and a course map that wasn’t even finalized when the race was first announced. But one thing I knew for certain was that I have what it takes to do it.

After a few weeks recovery following Moab, I spent much of the next year putting in the work to maintain my fitness and stay healthy. I don’t know if I saw dramatic improvements in my performance, but I know I can handle high volume and that I’m pretty consistent. I also had a perfectly timed peak week at Transrockies, so when September hit, I felt totally ready to go. Everything about this race felt more manageable than Moab 240 because I knew what to expect in a multiday race and I’ve run enough in the mountains of Southern Alberta that the trails felt familiar. The pre-race meeting felt like a who’s-who of the Alberta ultra running scene along with a few familiar names from big American races. I was feeling so lucky to know so many volunteers, racers, pacers and staff at this race, and I leveraged that throughout the week.

Spoiler alert, I almost quit at 180km, but knowing I had people all along the course ahead, waiting for me to come through, was enough to keep me motivated to finish this beast.

And it was truly a beast.

325km and 12000m elevation gain meant it was shorter, but had a lot more climbing then anything I’d done before. It also had a lot of trails that were far more technical then anything I’ve seen during a race before. Thankfully, the unpredictable September weather worked in our favour and we were gifted with clear blue skies and mild temps all week, making it pretty easy to manage the elements. But even with perfect weather, it was plenty tough out there.

We had been warned that the first 70km were going to be difficult, but it proved to be far more wild then I had envisioned. We climbed to La Coulotte Ridge where we spent hours and hours of up and down following the ridge. I was with my friend Samantha, another Edmonton runner, who had done that part of the course before and when I asked if we were almost done with the technical stuff; she laughed.

It went on forever, before giving us some easier trails to gain some time, and then the trail took a hard right and we were back at it again, headed up Table Mountain for more ridge running.

By now the sun was starting to set and I was getting worried about how the rest of the race might go. I could tell that I was already really behind on calories and hadn’t seen my crew yet to address the blisters I could feel forming on my feet. The first aid station was so early, and crowded that I really didn’t stop, and the second aid station after La Coulotte ridge didn’t offer the kind of real food I had been hoping for, nor did they have any foot care supplies. So by the time I got to see Kirk for the first time I was starving, my feet were in rough shape and I had already been on the trail for 14 hours, already a few hours behind schedule thanks to the very technical and slow trail. Maybe some people are better at it then me, but steep shale descents and sections of trail that require both hands and big step ups to get over had me moving pretty slowly. And the primal part of my brain that remembers fall trauma keeps me pretty cautious on any area that feels like unstable footing. On top of all that, I somehow made the rookie mistake of having a woefully inadequate headlamp. I’m not sure if it was the batteries, or if it was because the moonless night felt so dark, but we spent the rest of the race struggling to solve that problem.

I ran into Kirk’s arms at the first crew spot at Beaver Mines, announced I was absolutely starving, and spent the next 20 minutes stuffing my face with all the bowls of real food Kirk had waiting for me. Ramen, potatoes, a burger, perogies. I couldn’t get it in fast enough. Kirk refilled my pack and then we pulled off my shoes to see what was going on. The areas I had pre-taped looked ok, but new blisters were forming on my big toe and heel, so we put some more tape on, changed socks and shoes and hoped for the best. This has been a frustrating experience I’ve only encountered in 200’s, so I’m not even sure how to prevent it because I’m not even sure what the problem is. On day one in Moab I blamed the sand for causing blisters, but that was certainly not the issue here. I guess I’ve got some learning to do.

With a full stomach and a fresh headlamp, I set out with Samantha for the next leg, happy that this next section was easy and ended with another crew access point within a few hours. Neither Sam, nor I wanted to spend the first night alone out there, so we stuck together leaving the aid station and were quickly joined by two other guys also looking for overnight company as bear insurance. Our natural pace separated us into two groups and while I was relieved we both had company, Sam with our new friend Josh, and I was ahead with new friend Ben, I was disappointed Sam and I didn’t stick together that night, and it definitely came back to haunt me several hours later.

After chatting with Ben for a bit, I realized who he was, and jokingly asked ‘why you slummin it back here with us?’ He is an elite athlete from Utah that has all the big races under his belt, and had come with the intention to podium finish. And yet here he was trudging along with me in mid-pack position. A stress fracture from earlier in the summer was forcing him to DNF at the next aid station, sad for him, but it worked out great in my favour when he offered to take a look at my feet and fix me up at the next stop. So while his wife and crew buddy Michael McKnight (winner of the Triple Crown of 200’s) looked on, Ben performed blister surgery with a touch of magic at CP4 and quite possibly saved my race. I took notes to learn how to do this better for myself in the future as foot care seems to make a huge difference in these events.

With my blisters freshly popped and the tape superglued in place, I sent Kirk to see if Samantha was ready to go and I laid down for a minute while he looked. He came back to say she left about 20 minutes ago because she couldn’t find me. I was horrified. I didn’t realize she didn’t have crew there, so although I was watching each new runner that came in from my spot in the back of Ben’s camper, she must have only made a quick stop, not come to the crew area and headed out alone. Ugh, this was exactly what I feared would happen. I threw my pack on and headed out as quick as I could to track Sam down, although by that time she had a pretty good head start on me. It was already about 4 am, but there was still a few hours of darkness left, we were a few kms apart, both running scared of wildlife. So many runners had dropped already and I didn’t see any other runners on the long road leaving the aid station. So here I was; alone.

Early that morning at the start line, I was talking to my friend Dave Proctor, a strong athlete with multiple running world records, and he asked if I packed my courage. I laughed and told him:

“Always!”

But now, I was testing the limits of those words. Being out there alone in the dark leaves a lot of room for an out-of-control imagination, so instead I spent the next 3.5 hours until sunrise fighting to stay focused on the next step, the climb ahead, the small patch of ground illuminated by my headlamp. I kept yelling, whooping, calling ‘Hey Bear’ as reassurances to both myself, and anything else out there, that I was coming through in full force, and bringing every ounce of my courage with me.

Other then a spooked deer that went crashing through the bushes, the night passed without incident. As the day started to crack, I was incredibly proud of myself for making it to day 2, still feeling so good and still holding a decent place in the race. But I definitely was not feeling good about missing Sam, so when the trail spit me out onto a dirt road the last few km before CP5, I was pretty excited to see her ahead, and picked up the pace to catch her. She looked tired, and said she was planning to sleep at the CP5. I knew that was going to be the last I would see her for awhile. I felt great and was determined to keep moving while I could. Her parents were volunteering at CP5, so while she got ready for a morning nap, I reloaded my pack and set out alone again, this time with the morning sun warming me for the climb to Willoughby Ridge ahead.

I spent the early part of the day back and forth with a few other racers, each time checking how they were doing and enjoying the company, but most of the time I was on my own. I was feeling the effects of missing a night of sleep, but overall I was managing pretty well with the difficult climb. A tricky descent towards Coleman off the ridge was a bit disheartening, but I knew that soon enough I would get a pacer and could take some comfort in knowing that I had someone else out there in case something went wrong.

Comfort.

Ha.  That’s a dangerous word. And a word that has no place in a race like this.

Just outside of Coleman I heard a loud crash in the trees to my right. I couldn’t see anything, but it sounded big and it certainly didn’t spook like the deer had earlier. Instead of passing, I decided to give whatever it was a lot of space and wait for the next runners to join me so we could pass together. Safety in numbers, right? I hung back until two guys from northern Alberta came up behind me. I explained that I had heard something and didn’t want to pass alone, and we all moved on together, making a lot of noise and banging our poles together, much to the amusement of the big…scary…black… cow, that was standing on the trail ahead of us. You would think that I have run enough events in the area to know that cows are frequently mistaken for bears out here, but I’ve also spent enough time out there to know that bears are also often mistaken for cows. An honest mistake right? Doesn’t matter, I made some new friends, and other then a half hour of time, not all was lost. We showed that cow who is boss and I took my damaged pride and my hairpin trigger adrenaline and kept trucking to CP6 near Coleman.

Finally, I could pick up my first pacer, and head out on a full stomach. By now, it was mid afternoon on day 2 and Matthew’s energy was high, giving me a much needed lift for the next difficult 66km section ahead. However, we were just outside of Coleman when I got hit with a severe case of sleepiness and told Matthew I needed my first nap “give me 15-20 minutes”. Seventeen minutes and 30 seconds later he told me it was time to get moving again. You’d be surprised how much of a difference that little break made and we set off towards the most northern part of the course.

A beautiful sunset with the unmistakable silhouette of Crowsnest and Seven Sisters mountain, paired with our easy conversation made the first part of that section pass by quickly. But as the cold of the night settled in, I was really feeling how difficult the last 100 miles had been. Although my blisters were not getting worse, my feet were pretty sore and I was pretty fatigued, slowing our climb and making the cold more difficult to tolerate. I knew that I had several friends, including Tania and Amanda, volunteering at the next CP, and looking forward to hugs from them was a huge motivator. We kept powering onwards.

We got to the check point just as the new volunteers were coming in to relieve Tania and Amanda from their shift and the energy was high as I came rollin in, so happy to see familiar faces. A 45 minute nap and whatever food they could offer me (again, a noticeable lack in ‘real’ food made these long stretches without crew very difficult), and a minute around the fire and Matthew and I were ready to head out again. It’s always sad to leave an aid station because that also means you are leaving whatever shreds of comfort that place could offer. It’s a place to put your feet up even if only for a minute, and to share some stories and be cared for by someone else, and leaving into the dark night takes a lot of fortitude.

I would need dig deep for a lot more of that fortitude to make my way through the next section of course. I thought the most technical trails were done on the first day, and here I was standing at the bottom of what looked like a rockslide, trying to make out the trail ahead in the small beam of my headlamp. “There is no way we are going up there” I thought, but yep, there was the reflector tape, waving in the wind at us, to head straight up an impossibly difficult section, only to again take us down an equally steep section of rocky trail. At least the descent had switchbacks. Hardly a solace at this point in the race.

And for the first time ever. And I mean EVER, in all the years I’ve been running, I had thoughts of quitting. The trail felt too impossibly difficult to navigate on such tired legs and only one hour of sleep in two days.

The trail levelled out and I dismissed those thoughts, hoping that the really difficult sections of trail were done.

But again, those reflective ribbons took us on trails that I no longer believed I could safely navigate. From what I could tell with my dim headlamp, it looked like we were dangerously close to some steep drop offs and I didn’t trust my footing. My emotions got ahead of me and I was fighting back some pretty big feelings that I channeled into curses at the race director and half hearted attempts at jokes with Matthew. He too grew silent and I kept fighting for each step as best I could. We got passed by a duo that seemed to be moving impossibly quickly and I could barely even say hi, much less share a friendly word as they passed. Truthfully, I was furious with them. Not my usual reaction to other people, and I should’ve recognized my current state, but it took me another hour or so before I accepted how unstable I actually was.

I called to Matthew ahead. “I need a nap”. We both pulled out our emergency bivy’s and we lay down on the trail for ten minutes, like two foil wrapped burritos waiting to be bear lunch.

The nap helped, but I was still plagued with thoughts of a DNF. I couldn’t fathom what it would take to get to Coleman, and then still have to complete a 50 miler and a 50k before I could finish, especially if the trail continued to be so challenging. I was clinging to promises I had heard that the last sections were much easier; did I even hear someone say it was a ‘downhill gravel road’ to the finish? But even those lies weren’t enough to keep me motivated. I started to calculate how quickly I could contact my parents and kids and tell them not to bother coming, and wondering whether my last pacer, Marty had left his home in Saskatchewan yet. But then I remembered that my next pacer, Brad was already waiting in Coleman for me. Shit, he already took the days off work, drove all that way, was patiently waiting for me. Ugh, and my parents already booked a really nice place to stay at the finish line at Castle Mountain.

I called ahead to Matthew “I don’t think I’m going to finish” hoping he would agree, call a helicopter and coordinate an emergency evacuation. He stopped. Looked back at me, expressionless. “Oh yeah?” He turned back to the trail and continued onwards.

I sort of wanted to throw my pole at him.

But really, that was exactly the right response for the moment. There was nothing I could do about a decision to quit right then anyway. I still needed to get myself to Coleman. No helicopter rescue coming for me.

The sky warmed from an all encompassing black to the golden flush of early morning with the stunning awakening of the forest around us.

Suddenly, the trail didn’t feel so daunting.

Suddenly, I didn’t feel so despondent.

Suddenly, I entertained the thought that I could keep going. Just maybe.

After several km of beautiful single track, now on the other side of Seven Sisters from where we started, we rolled into CP8, feeling a little battered. The other runners sitting around the fire agreed that the night felt impossibly long and challenging out there and I found some solace knowing I wasn’t the only one. The next section took us through field of cows and some familiar sights from the Sinister Seven course, before returning through Coleman to CP9.

The course went right by the AirBnb that my pacers were sharing, and Tania came running out when she saw me round the corner in town, shuffling in flip flops and yelling that my tracker had died at CP7 and she was so glad to see me still moving. She yelled “How are you feeling?” and without an ounce of inhibition I yelled back “Everything! I’m feeling everything!” and gave some sort of sound somewhere between a laugh and a heart sob. I was so happy to see her, to feel sunshine on my skin, to know that the hardest parts were done and I could take some time to sleep and regroup with a new pacer and the next 80km.

I was disappointed to learn that Kirk was on a volunteer shift much further along the course, and had taken our truck that had my bed set up in the back. At first, this news felt disproportionately devastating, but I quickly reminded myself that these little disappointments are no reason to derail a race. Adapt, flow, shift with the changes. I would be ok. And indeed, a nice 90 min sleep in the back of Tania’s SUV was just as good as my truck.

Leaving an aid station during the day is always much easier then leaving during the dark night, and saying goodbye to Matthew and picking up Brad was a great energy boost even though I was still feeling calorie deprived and some pains (hello right knee!) were really bugging me. I’ve known Brad for a few years but not all that well, so I was really looking forward to getting to know him a bit more, and hoping he didn’t get sick of me over the next painfully slow 50 miles we were about to share. Brad is a very strong runner, with aspirations for his own 200 adventures soon, and was a very welcome addition to the team after all three of my original pacers had a change of plans last minute. Turns out, Brad was an excellent choice. The afternoon and evening 40km passed easily, with gorgeous single track trails meandering towards the Kootenays through vibrant meadows.

As dark settled in, we were dismayed to find several unavoidable creek crossings just before CP10. While the water felt great on my feet, I could feel the cold making it difficult for my over tired body to regulate, and the water slowly loosening the meticulous tape job on my feet. I came into CP10 to be greeted by my friend Keri who was volunteering. She presented me with not one, but TWO cheeseburgers (and fries!) brought all the way from the McDonald’s in Banff. It sure helps to have friends out there.

I pounded back one of them, before stumbling to the truck to lay down for another short nap in the back. 45 minutes later and Brad and Kirk threw open the tailgate, blinding me with their headlamps and announcing my time was up. I was shivering, in full body shivers, but was familiar with this feeling. It happened at each stop in Moab too and I wasn’t concerned. I leveraged it to be good motivation to keep moving. Kirk carried me to the front of the warm truck like he was carrying me over the threshold and let me warm up a bit and get my shoes on. Brad climbed into the drivers side next to me and froze, a look of horror on both our faces, as the safety clip to the bear spray bounced onto the ground. One wrong move and he could’ve detonated the bear spray into the truck. Kirk helped him put it back on and we both breathed a sigh of relief. That could’ve easily been the end of my race, but no, the bears, nor their spray shall not win today.

I knew that there was a tough climb ahead to get over North Kootenay Pass, but I was excited to get going, packing my second burger for the climb and some 7 Summit Snack bars as my reward for getting to the top.

I don’t know if it was the sleep deprivation, or that Brad and I share the same ridiculous humour or maybe it was the hallucinations, but damn that climb was fun. Unfortunately, it was also in the dark. So no views for us. But still, it was pretty exhilarating to stand at the top and know we were on the continental divide. Yes I peed up there to see which province it would flow to.

My fortune reads: I’m an Alberta girl.

Speaking of flowing, before this race I wanted to embrace a concept that I could use to help me through the rough patches out there. At first I played with the idea of being a rock, or fire. But both of those felt too harsh, too unforgiving. Instead, I loved the idea of flowing like water. Moving with the path of least resistance, shifting shape to adapt to whatever lies ahead.

Relentless. Powerful.

Ok, so I know water doesn’t flow uphill, the metaphor isn’t perfect, but its not the uphill I usually struggle with. It’s the downhills. And the downhill that followed the crest of North Kootenay Pass presented a pretty big challenge. Ridiculously steep and rocky, it was overwhelming to my frazzled senses.

“Flow, Janelle, keep flowing”

The steep descent took a hard left onto a “trail” that looked like someone took a machete to the day before. It was barely visible and seemed to meander without direction or purpose.

I started to feel the same rush of discouragement I felt the night before with Matthew after CP7. I’m too close to quit now, so instead I called ahead to Brad that I needed to sit for a minute. He disappeared to leave me have my moment. I hung my head in my hands and closed my eyes, losing consciousness almost instantly as a wave of sleep shut my thoughts down for a few seconds. Clearly it wasn’t enough to flush the hallucinations from my senses, because when I opened my eyes I saw the face of a hipster Jesus illuminated on the ground below, staring back at me in the light of my headlamp. I laughed at the absurdity of the moment. Stood up. Let’s just see where this trail takes us. Jesus take the wheel.

Before long we found ourselves on a wider trail with a gentle descent; a welcome relief. The day started to lighten and I knew I could look forward to the next CP where my friend Faye was waiting. She picked the remote aid station after I told her about the difference a volunteer can make in those last stages of a long race, how their words and kindness could be enough to propel a runner forward for many hours. She welcomed me with a big hug and rushed to help fill my pack and get me whatever food she could offer. I wanted to linger around the fire, hear about her experience out there, enjoy the morning as it warmed, but I also wanted to get moving, especially knowing the next section was a relatively easy one.

Bye Faye. Brad and I continued on our way with my mood improved, our conversation light. Singing ensued.

You could say we really took that show on the road.

The end felt in sight. One more pacer, one more section to go. I set the intention to receive my finisher belt buckle before the day ended.

Check point 12 was bustling in the mid-day sun. Crews, racers, volunteers everywhere stood in sharp contrast to the quiet of the last checkpoint. It felt jarring. After 20 hours with just Brad, Faye and orange glow eyes of a lynx near the pass, this last major CP felt overwhelming. I sit down in a circle of tired racers and fresh faced pacers, including my next pacer, Marty, a friend that came all the way from Saskatchewan to experience the world of 200’s before he takes on his own race at Bigfoot 200 next year. He had already made friends with everyone there, and his energy felt unrecognizable next to mine.

I loved it. I love how even though I was the one that signed up for this, my experience becomes intertwined with everyone else’s out there too, taking on a life of its own. The sum bigger then the parts. Tania buzzes around helping other racers and checking in with friends she’s made this week. Kirk shares stories of biking and 4×4’ing to get to his volunteer shifts in remote locations. Brad tells me he had a great time out there. I’m kind of sad our time is over and we say goodbye.

One ultra to go.

I can’t get enough of the cheese quesadillas that a young volunteer keeps handing me, and I keep eating until a wave of sleepiness hits hard and I shut my eyes for a minute. The busyness around me disappears while I float above my sore feet and aching body for just a minute.

It doesn’t last long. Might as well keep moving.

Marty and I start off down the road, Kirk and Tania walking us out the aid station for a few hundred meters. They have barely left me and I reluctantly tell Marty I desperately need a nap. I can feel that I’m wobbling, incoherent and barely able to respond to his attempts at conversation. He graciously helps me get settled into my bivy sac and sets a timer, probably impatient that we just got started and here he is already having to babysit me.

As he describes it, I emerge a different human. Ready to go again. The day is warm and the road we are on is exposed and dusty, but still a welcome relief from the more difficult trails behind me, and time passes quickly. I’m delusional with sleepiness but moving along, slow and steady. We spend a long time with Cameron, from BC and I enjoy listening to him and Marty chat. Along the side of the trail we pass a guy named Stuart, someone I met on day 1 on the climb up Whistlers mountain. He is lying on the trail, trying to catch a nap, but he jumps up as we pass and eagerly throws on his pack. He admits he is exhausted, but also lonely, and would rather the company then a nap, so he joins our entourage.

Within a few kilometers our conversation turns to sleep strategies we have employed over the last few days. I casually throw out to the group that I could go for another nap. Cameron says he is feeling good and plans to keep moving to the end. But Stuart looks over with a huge grin on his face, the look of pure joy, as if he was a kid and I just offered him ice cream for dinner. With chocolate sauce. And rainbow sprinkles.

We both flop down on the trail. Poor Marty, left to supervise again.

Refreshed and ready to keep trucking, we keep marching towards Middle Kootney pass, the final climb of the race. As the sun begins to turn everything around us into gold, we marvel at how the seasons have changed during the course of the race; that’s how long we’ve been out here for. It’s a perfect picture, and we are love drunk in the moment.

I know to savour this, because even though I’m tired and my feet are on fire, I also know what will happen after the final climb. I will pick up speed to push to the finish, and though the kilometers will still feel impossibly long, they will pass, and I’ll cross that finish line, and this incredible journey will be over. I’m not quite ready for that. Instead I soak up every second of that sunset, and watch the stars come out as we start the climb. We push up the pass, Marty out front, me in the middle, Stuart still all tired smiles every time we check on him. The trail becomes so overgrown we have to walk with our arms out front to push the branches back so we can pass. It’s impossible to see your feet through the thick bushes and every kicked rock is excruciating. We finally get above the treeline and feel the wind pick up. There are still reflectors way up ahead, but the climb feels good so I enjoy it. Marty and Stuart come up with a plan to stop at the top to turn off our headlamps to enjoy the stars, however Marty has also calculated that I am close to my goal of a Friday finish, so while the boys get comfortable star gazing at the top of the pass, I tell them it’s time to go.

I have a deadline. Unfortunately, we lose Stuart on the descent. He tells me later he was too exhausted to keep up and stops for another sleep while Marty and I picked up speed. The descent felt impossibly long, but eventually flattened out onto a trail that would take us back to Castle Mountain Resort where I knew my family and friends were waiting for me. I felt bad that it was getting so late, and pictured my parents and kids shivering in the cold; up past their bedtime. Good motivation to keep hustling. The trail started to look familiar from four days ago where it doubled back on itself near the start/finish line and my pace kicks up another notch. I pass two other racers. Now I am euphoric. I can see the finish line and two people on bikes come towards me. Its Kirk, and my son Levi, and they are shocked to see me, saying they expected me to be coming in much later. They turn and race back to the finish line to alert everyone else that I was coming across very soon.

I know it sounds crazy, but I was completely outside my body. All the pain in my feet, my tired legs, my fragile energy vanished. I was floating. Flowing? I dunno.

Whatever it was, I wish I could capture it.

But these things are inherently impossible to capture. So much happened out there, that the week became its own lifetime. The experience transcends description; it feels disingenuous to even try.

I cross the finish line to see my kids, and parents, Kirk, Tania and Matthew. A few other people are waiting for other racers, some tired volunteers. Brian the race director. I told him he was mean for putting together such a tough course. We laugh.

That’s ok, he may have my money.

But now I have his belt buckle.

We went to Waterton after the race to celebrate with our favourite ice cream 🍦

I have found trail runner paradise. The Disney land for dirtbags, the candy store for grown ups with an insatiable sweet tooth, the ultimate all inclusive luxury vacation for people who would rather chase summits, then go to the spa. TransRockies is the ultimate Summer Camp for Trail Running Big Kids.

I’ll be honest, I always looked at TransRockies as one of those things I would only do if I ever won the lottery, but not something I ever had on my race season radar. It’s a premium event with a premium price tag that didn’t feel within reach while raising three kids and shelling out for a master’s degree. But when Tania won a team entry through a social media contest and asked me to be her plus one, the lottery dream went from fantasy to reality. A quick check on the calendar showed that it coincided perfectly with finishing that degree, and was perfect training peak week before The Divide 200. Even better, there was several of our friends from Edmonton already on the roster. All the stars aligned.

Getting there was brutal. And I don’t mean the hours getting lost in the rain on a dirt road in the Colorado backcountry before finding our AirBnB before the race, although that was wild too. I mean the weeks and months leading up to getting on that plane were a grind. I started my degree in Counselling Psychology as a Covid project when time felt a little freer. But as life sped up again, navigating coursework and meeting deadlines became its own ultra. And for the last eight months I was also juggling an unpaid internship, my regular paid employment and busy kids schedules. Its an absolute privilege to earn that education and intern experience, but nothing about it felt easy. So when I hit submit on my final project, I felt like I had really earned a week of playing in the Colorado Rockies.

And wow, did I ever get to play.

Six days, 120 miles, 6000m elevation gain, 400 new and old friends, the best teammate, incredible catered meals, coolers of beer on ice, and a team of volunteers to make sure the whole thing runs smoothly. I was completely offline for 10 days other then a few check-ins with the family and didn’t spend one second thinking about work or school for the first time in years. I even read a novel. For fun. This is my absolute paradise.

Each morning buzzes to life with a hundred Garmin alarms and the sound of sleeping bag zippers. People shuffle to fill their run packs and prepare for the day. Tania and I were lucky enough to be there with several of our other run friends we affectionately call our Run Family from Edmonton. Jim, a Run Family member and one of the finest humans I know, leaves us coffee outside the tent.

We eat a delicious hot breakfast, throw our gear in our luggage, hit the potta potties and queue up at the start line. The song, always “Highway to Hell” by AC/DC to countdown and get everyone hyped to go. There’s nothing quite like the buzz of a start-line. Everyone adjusting their packs and chatting, shifting from side to side with nervous energy. Now imagine getting to do that day, after day, after day, with the same incredible people, for six days in a row. What a time to be alive…

The gun goes off and so do all 400 racers, to tackle between 20-40km of running, each day taking between 4-6 hours, with lots of stops for pictures, high fives and the occasional shot of liquid courage.

The course on Day 1 takes you through the scrubby, desert-like hills of Buena Vista with a couple of good views and adorable cacti that make this northern girl smile every time.

Every other day had us running through forests and and mountain trails more reminiscent of our Rockies back home in Alberta. A major highlight for me was on Day 2 going over Hope Pass at 3800m, a place I had wanted to go since I was nearby a couple years ago when helping a friend at Leadville100. Gandalf guarded the passage up top, and a volunteer passes me a shot of fireball before the stunning descent through Interlaken to Twin Lakes.

Bucket list item: ✅ A new highest elevation for me.

Day 2 ends in the iconic mining town of Leadville, a place almost exclusively kept alive by bike and trail races these days. Dinner is in the old gym, a sacred piece of ultrarunning history, and the start line the next morning takes us through town before heading up and over the mountains to the most beautiful camp spot of the week called Nova Guides by the abandoned military base called Camp Hale with rows of empty concrete bunkers used years ago for the 10th Mountain Division, now being reclaimed by nature and graffiti artists.

We got to spend two days at Nova Guides; each morning watching the fog roll over the lake, and at night, sitting around the campfire listening to live music and watching the stars come out.

Earlier that day, while out on the trail, Tania had shared a story about her late husband Trevor, how he used to sing a lullaby to their babies at bedtime “Rock me mama like the wind and the rain, rock me mama like a southbound train. Hey…mama rock me”. This trip was Trevor’s bucket list. Something he and Tania had talked about doing together one day. The woman with the guitar at the fire starts singing the song, as if she knows the story, as if Trevor whispered “Sing It” it to let Tania know that he was there too. I realize that I am a stand-in teammate for someone else’s dream. I am reminded again at the fragility of life and how nothing is permanent. Grief is not permanent. Neither is beauty. Not even that perfect moment under the shooting stars in the Colorado mountains. The moment passed too soon.

On Day 4 we end in another tiny town called Red Cliff, aptly named for how it is nestled in…you guessed it, some red cliffs. The finish line is set up just outside a bar called Mangos where a taco buffet and margaritas wait for us, in case we need another excuse to sit around and celebrate being alive.

Leaving Nova Guides and Red Cliff for Day 5 takes us over a mountain range and on to Vail Ski Resort. The chairlifts hang awkwardly strung across the bare slopes waiting for snow to fall, but for now, there is no free ride, we have to work for those same views.

We pick our way across the ridge to hit the aid station, the town of Vail below us. Tania was a ways behind me, and as a team we aren’t allowed to pass checkpoints without each other so I sit down and wait. This has been the story all week, but I don’t mind. I’m excited. It’s not a hardship to wait on the top of a mountain. Smiling and chatting with every other racer out there, whooping at the views, dancing with the volunteers.

Tania, on the other hand, is not able to enjoy her time out there as much due to pretty serious pain in her knees. She reaches the aid station and I can tell her smile is forced, but we continue together anyway, starting a long descent to the finish line. An especially dramatic fluffy weed catches my eye. It looks like an oversized white dandelion, its seeds begging to catch in the wind. I yell something ridiculous over my shoulder about the floofy weed as I’m flying down the hill but Tania doesn’t answer. I stop to look for her and see her farther up the mountain; hunched over on her poles. Miserable. In tears. I’ve never seen anything like this before. Not from her. We’ve been through so much and she has always been the strong one, the one that maintains a positive outlook and forges ahead with a resilience that only comes when you’ve already been through the worst. And yet here she is. The last few years have been a rollercoaster of knee pain, recovery and rehab for her, and taking on something as big as TransRockies was a bit of a Hail Mary move for her. Back-to-back long days are especially difficult if you have an injury because any inflammation that is happening doesn’t have time to dissipate or do its job to heal the problem area. And here she was on Day 5, really feeling the cumulative effects of it all.

We stop for a moment to regroup and of course everyone that passes us checks in to make sure everything is ok. Like always, she rallies, but I can tell she is ready for the day to be done; remember how nothing is permanent? That goes for pain too. Vail is in sight, but there is still a whole lot of descent to go before we get there. The sky opens up and we are quickly drenched by the storm clouds that have been building all afternoon. Lightening strikes a little too close for comfort, one more reason to celebrate being alive, and we both pick up the pace to finish quickly. Soaked to the bone. Completely and ridiculously alive.

The last day excitement felt exactly like the culmination of summer camp from when I was a kid. Tania was feeling a lot better and we cruised over 1400m and 36km in good time. The finish line buzzed with all the hugs and emotions of six days of running coming to a close. For many people, finishing TransRockies is a lifetime achievement far beyond what they once thought possible and the finish line feels were real. The party didn’t stop there though, the final night hosts a phenomenal banquet up the hill at Beaver Creek Resort and an after party that had us shutting the bar down with our new friends.

The trip left us physically tired but mentally and emotionally refreshed from the complete break in responsibilities. TransRockies takes care of every detail for the whole week, allowing you to really relax and enjoy the best parts of life; friends, nature, movement. For Tania, it was a finally realized dream started years before we ever met. For me, it was a bonus adventure to celebrate the huge milestone of finishing school and the perfect training week for my next endeavor. Stay tuned for The Divide 200…

This same conversation has played out countless times.

Someone gushes, “Congratulations on finishing Moab 240! What a huge accomplishment”

“Thank you. It was incredible”

But my answer falls flat, like I’m doing a disservice to my experience by struggling to find an adjective big enough to encompass what happened out there.

Even a long post, telling my story in sequence, doesn’t begin to capture the intensity that comes with 240 miles. But that’s ok, it’s mine to wrap up and keep for myself. No one else needs to understand it.

However, I find the curiosity from others still engaging and even I am still trying to find answers to the questions others have. So here is my best shot at sorting through those questions.

Yes, I slept. About seven hours total. Three hours at once at the half-way point, and the rest broken into tidbits in the back of the truck or trail naps on the cold desert rocks.

Yes, I hallucinated. Nothing too severe since I slept frequently enough, but my mind played games with me, for hours at a time. Making me question each rock and the shifting shape I was sure I saw on the edges of my peripheral vision. A chicken. A teapot. Dogs and people. Illuminated ghosts, skeletons and purple sparkly spiders, but those were real. I think.

Yes, I ate everything. For the first time ever, I was able to maintain my caloric consumption strong until the finish. At least 8 burgers, two breakfast sandwiches, three stuffed quesadillas, two bags of baby potatoes, two bags of mashed potatoes, four servings of ramen, two bowls of oatmeal, a whole box of Seven Summit Snacks of bars, sugar coated gummy candies, sugar-coated cashews, dozens of applesauce packets, fruit I wished had 500 calories in it, a whole box of Science in Sport isometric gels and nearly three bags of F2C liquid nutrition (maltodextrin for the win!) and half a bag of F2C Recovery shake mix.

When I finished, I crushed a beer 🍺

I didn’t throw up and only felt a bit nauseated once. I stayed annoyingly hydrated and I apologize to everyone that saw me pee on the side of the trail.

The temperature swung from -2’C at Shay Mountain to at least 28’C on the first day in the Canyonlands. I wore the same incredible, custom-made shorts and arm sleeves from Earthgroove Activewear the entire time, adding layers once the sun set. I often had a toque and sunglasses and a headlamp on at the same time because that was the only way to stay prepared for everything when you are out there so long. Twice, I went 20 hours without seeing my crew and I’m sure my pacers got real sick of me.

The altitude of the course went from 1200m to 3100m, taking me higher than I have ever been in our Rockies back home, and giving a total elevation gain of 8800m, or the equivalent of Mount Everest. Much of that was done in two major climbs, first up Shay Mountain and then ascending into the La Sal mountain range to Geyser Pass where we were treated to completely new terrain and sweeping views of the entire course, Shay a tiny speck on the horizon, making me question if I was ever actually there.

The climbs were hard, but I had trained for that. It was the descents that were brutal and had me moving at a frustratingly slow pace. Particularly on the plummet down the famous Porcupine Rim mountain bike trail at the end where I was wincing with each step on raw and swollen feet.

Many people have told me they followed my tracker, checking in over Thanksgiving dinner and from hot tub parties, toasting my progress with five consecutive morning coffees and four evening wines. My pacers read me messages, showed me videos of well wishes and even called up friends for encouragement when we got into cell service. My favourite was the steady stream of jokes sent in and relayed to me as I pushed through the dark points with laughter as best I could. Humour is an incredibly powerful antidote to pain.

“What do you get when you run in front of a car?”

“Tire-d”

I kept my mind busy by counting to 100, playing games, telling stories, focusing on only the Km I was in, remembering loved ones and remembering my ‘why’. I rejected the analogy of a ‘pain cave’ and instead embraced it as a ‘pain wave’; knowing that the pain would rise, crest and fall and I would be ok. At times it would feel unbearable, or return at an alarming rate, but I always knew I could ride it out. This is the price of admission. You can’t have the fullness of the ultrarunning experience without accepting these lows, waiting for them to pass.

Although I hit some pretty emotional lows, I also hit a lot of highs, and I never once considered quitting. I wished that sections of trail would end or that aid stations would materialize quicker. I swore a lot and cried a few times and at times could no longer muster conversation. The lowest points were remedied with a cry, a snack and a nap, as though I was a toddler, but without fail I pulled myself back up to keep going.

My two favourite parts of this race were the views and the people. Believe me when I say the pictures don’t do it justice. Moab is incredible for the variety and novelty of its landscape. Every turn seemed to bring something new, whether it was a gravity-defying rock formation or the biggest vibrant yellow Aspens I’ve ever seen, I never got bored of the views and they kept me motivated to keep moving. Even though half of the race was spent in the dark, it was still spectacular thanks to a full moon and bright stars illuminating ever-changing rock formations on the horizon.

And of course, the people were amazing. I’m a true extrovert and being mid-pack meant I was in the party the whole time. The crowd that is drawn to 200 milers are a bit different than those I meet at most ultras. I was surprised how many people are addicted to the 200 distance and have formed their own supportive community that races together multiple times per year, many of them doing it without outside crew or pacers. The support and comradery out there is exactly what I adore about this sport and I was thankful Nolan and I could contribute to helping another runner while he had a breathing emergency from a pre-existing condition at mile 210. It meant some terrifying moments that ended with him being air-lifted to a nearby hospital to spend a few days on a ventilator, but I am grateful we were able to offer some comfort at such a crucial moment.

My favourite people out there though? Were my people. My pacers Nolan, Tania and Denise kept me safe, moving, laughing, entertained and engaged for nearly 150 miles, and even though they each only got a sampling of the whole experience, my race became their own, with their own unique challenges and experiences.

And of course the ultimate support was my husband Kirk, out there for the entire time, with minimal sleep and juggling the logistics of keeping me sorted, meeting me on time, delivering pacers, hot-tubbing, getting our kids and my parents to an aid station and even volunteering for several hours at the last aid station so he could complete the final 18-mile section with me. It occurred to me that this was his longest ‘run’ ever too, made all the more impressive that he did it on minimal sleep, with a 4 am start, on technical trail, with a heavy pack, and finished it off with what probably felt like a grueling 5k when he hit the paved bike trail and I was able to actually run at a normal pace to the finish line.

At the risk of sounding like I’m accepting a Grammy; ‘Thanks hun, I couldn’t have done it without you.’ But seriously, these things require a lot of support.

My quickened pace at the end had him frantically calling friends and family to make sure they were waiting at the finish line on time. My kids threw together a gorgeous poster and my pacers were running in sandals from the parking lot as I rounded the corner to the finish line where I was feeling all the love and intensity of the last 101 hours, 22 mins and 57 seconds.

A race like this is doable thanks to a generous cut off that allows you to move slowly or take breaks as your energy levels change. Sleeping, even for short stints, makes this a very different experience then 100k or 100miler races and I truly believe that a distance of this magnitude is within reach of many people. And it’s definitely an experience I highly recommend.

This sort of summary barely scratches the surface of my time out there. The full story, in sequence can be found here and here, although even that cannot capture the depth of the experience that can only be found when you push those limits for so long. In the meantime, I suppose this will have to do. I mean, the belt buckle helps too.

I pull myself out of my warm sleeping bag in the back of our truck and say goodbye to Kirk in the freezing night air. Here we go again. Keep starting.

Denise was the perfect pacer for the next 50km section after the difficult push to Shay Mountain. We giggle our way down a windy rocky trail while the sun rises over the desert below.

Our humour matches the absurdity of the trail finds along the way; a head of lettuce, a smiling tarmac bunny, a foot.

As the day heats up, we pass a kid sitting in the small patch of shade under a scraggly tree in the middle of nowhere. He announces that there is a joke sale happening today and wonders if we are interested in a joke. We enthusiastically agree, nervous that we have not brought any money for such a timely sale. He points down the trail and says his sister will provide us with the joke; he is just the salesman. A girl, about 8 years old, in a chair near an equally scraggly tree with a sign that reads “Joke Sale” and another one she flips over to say “Go Girl!”. She again, asks if we would like a joke. The suspense is killing us. Deadpan, she delivers.

“What happens when you go running behind a car?

You get, EXHAUSTED.”

We die laughing. She remains deadpan. Her mother waves from a trailer 20 meters away, a knowing smile on her face.

We make good time on the flat gravel road to Dry Valley and again, beat our crew there by a few minutes. But there was no way I am leaving before they get here, I have been looking forward to this moment for days. My parents and kids had come to Moab the day before and were spending their time exploring, playing in the pool and waiting to see me. I had a deal with my mom that no matter what she saw, she was not allowed to ‘mom’ me and tell me to stop. She doesn’t. She brings her usual unconditional love and beaming smile. They are as excited as I am to reunite, and their hugs bring renewed energy. Katie tells me that my dorky desert hat is actually a trend and she knows lots of kids that wear something similar. Wait, what?!

I check in with a few friends, John the cop and Lucy from the start line, and hug my family goodbye before Denise and I continue down the hot gravel road again. I realize I forgot to thank Kirk and regret it for many hours. I can see he is stressed over crewing responsibilities, and I suspect he has slept less then I have so far. Taking care of someone running is as exhausting as running. I know this from experience, and I don’t take him for granted, but I know I didn’t show my gratitude well at this last busy stop.

Our laughter continues, helping mask the pain in my swollen feet as the road turns from gravel to pavement, the day growing hotter by the minute. Thunder crashes in the distance with a storm cloud over the La Sal mountains, but no reprieve comes our way. As we come within view of the Needles Aid Station many hours later and I pick up my speed to a quick run, amazed at how good it actually feels to shift out of the usual shuffle. We come up behind a fellow runner named Elliot, whom we had been playing leapfrog with for hours. I playfully yell that it’s a race, and he clearly understands the assignment, picking up his pace to sprint the last several meters into the aid station, all of us in full laughter, high fiving and jostling to get to check in first.

Nolan and Tania wait for me at the Needles Aid Station where they have volunteered for several hours, both to help out and to get another chance to see me and trade off pacers. Tania gets ready to join me for the next 50-mile section and it is time to say goodbye to Denise. Love her.

The Needles isn’t considered a sleep station, but they have a few cots in the medical tent so I hobble over to get my swollen feet up in the air. Someone brings me a burger, my meal of choice, and I start to shiver, even though the day is roasting. Tania helps cover me with some blankets. The lovely Conner and Pepper from the Island appear. I joke that he looks older and wiser then from the last time I saw him, and he just smiles and offers to check my feet. Pepper hops on the cot with me and Nolan comes to check my pulse to make sure my vitals are still ok despite my uncontrollable shivering. My eyes grow heavy and his face becomes blurry. I feel the burger slips out of my hand and Pepper jump down to follow it. Connor quietly announces he is done tending to my feet, his kindness as comforting as the blanket I am wrapped in.

But this is not a sleep station and there are only two cots that are reserved for runners needing medical attention. I can sense another runner hovering, waiting for a cot. I forced my eyes open and throw off the blanket, mumbling that I was just leaving; they could lie down. Keep starting.

I was off with Tania, each new start slower than the last as my right Achilles seems to tighten up ever since the ascent up Shay. But we are so excited to finally get some time to catch up; conversation comes easily as usual. I apologize she wouldn’t be getting much running, that most of my movement is as fast a march I can muster, with only a few bursts of running here and there. My energy begins to fade about halfway through the section to Road 46 even though it is not a difficult stretch. The sun starts to set on my third day out there. She opens her phone and shows me a hilarious video some friends back home had sent. I start to cry. Partly tears of joy at their support, but also because I feel so overwhelmed. Here we were, extremely remote and alone. And yet hundreds of people who are watching my location knew exactly where I am. I worry they will wonder what is taking me so long, or why I am not moving faster.

“All the lights that light the way are blinding” Ah, that British angst still propelling me forward.

I wish others can see what I am seeing. The way the full moon rises so quickly, or the way each strange red rock is surprisingly unique. I want to share this beauty with everyone that bothers to check my spot tracker location. And yet, I wouldn’t wish the pain in my feet on anyone. That is mine alone. You only get this after putting in the time.

Road 46 Aid Station has a Canadian theme, including Thanksgiving dinner fixings to celebrate the holiday I am missing back home. We beat our crew again by a few minutes, thanks to a quickened pace at the end, so I grab soup and sit down around the fire with other racers. The circle is quiet; tired runners with tired smiles, sharing stories and offering kindness. We hear the truck pull into the parking lot, so I take my soup, wish them well, and hobble to my crew. Another nap, this time a solid 90 minutes, and I wake up starving. Kirk hands me coffee and a big bowl of oatmeal with a smile and says “Good morning”.

It’s 11pm.

I’m happy him and Nolan will get to go back to the cabin for a full nights sleep as I know Kirk is exhausted and I hug him extra long, thanking him and apologizing for not showing my gratitude at Dry Valley. Tania and I head off into the dark, cold night again for the hardest section of the race. It will be nearly 20 hours before I see them again.

The night brings the long slow ascent to Pole Canyon as we head to the La Sal mountains. I assume the view is beautiful in daylight, but all we get are stars and a full moon. The temperature drops dramatically as the elevation increases and we scramble to put on every bit of clothing we have packed with us. I worry it is not enough.

We pass the time by playing ridiculous counting and alphabet games to keep my mind sharp against the effects of sleep deprivation. “I’m going on a trip and taking Asphalt, a Baby, some Cutlery and Doritos” building on each topic until each repetition eats up several minutes of concentration. We switch to telling stories of first loves and high school sweethearts; the ones that got away. How strange to hear those long-forgotten names float through the desert air. We get passed. Again. This time by Wilco from Halifax. We chat briefly and our pacers gain ground, the difference in our energies noticeable. He wishes me well and catches up with his pacer and I hit a new low. Cold, exhausted and near tears, I tell Tania I need a rest. We pull out my bivy sac and I crawl in, oblivious to the cold rocks below me. Tania slips me a Tylenol and a caffeine pill, sets a timer for 15 mins and I disappear. She is frozen. I can’t imagine the agony she endures while watching the clock, wanting to give me rest but also wanting to move to stay warm. She wakes me and we are both shivering. I stand and wrap the bivy around my shoulders like a shawl. we keep marching. The gradual ascent continue.

The sky begins to lighten and we notice a significant change in the environment. Colourful deciduous trees replace cactus and desert shrubs. Welcome to the La Sal mountains.

Our timing could not have been more perfect as we hit the east side of the south mountains just as the sun peaks over the horizon at Pole Canyon Aid Station, lighting the sky and allowing us to see a mama deer and her two babies guarding the entrance to the tent.

I collapse on the medical cot and a kind volunteer hands me a breakfast sandwich I manage to stuff into my face before falling asleep for a half hour. I wake up to find Tania sitting around the fire, my pack ready to go. She hands me a coffee and invites me to sit to chat with Seana and her dog Daphne. We’ve met at an earlier busy aid station, but now we are the only runners here and her full attention is on us. She asks me my ‘why’ and I start to cry, telling her about those I’ve lost and how one day, two years ago I nearly lost my own life. She then asks me why I’m still sitting there instead of going to see my incredible crew and family. Good point. Bye Daphne. Thanks Seana.

Its daylight now and I’m refueled and ready to go to Geyser Pass, the hardest section of the entire course. Massive aspens, golden leaves, and an unforgiving rocky trail for hours and hours on end. We continue telling stories about people we know with alphabet prompts. L for Lehman, N for Nikki. S for Scott. Our pace is agonizingly slow despite my best efforts. Hours pass without seeing another soul and the race starts to feel surreal. Were we even on course anymore?

Tania tells me later it may be the hardest thing she has ever done. So slow. So beautiful. We crested at over 10 000+ ft (3200m). And were rewarded with views of the whole course. Arches, Canyonlands, Shay in the distance and it’s hard to believe how far I have come. Even harder to believe how far I still have to go. We get cell reception and a text comes to Tania from our friend Thomas so she calls him. He gets me laughing and I offer him my own joke sale for the day. Totally nailed it.

I ask him to ask how far I have gone and he obliges. Both of us are incredulous at the answer. But then it hits me. I have nearly 100km still to go.

The narrow and overgrown trail makes using poles impossible but not using poles feels even more impossible. I sit down on a log and burst into a deep heartsob. Tania gives me a snack, and lays me down on the side of the trail for another 15 minute reprieve.

It helps. Just. Keep. Starting. We get passed, again and again. Sometimes by people I assumed were way ahead of me. Sometimes by people I’ve never seen before. I give up caring about my finishing time. We didn’t account for this. No one could prepare for how the trail, the elevation and the distance would impact my pace.

The relentless trail finally spits us out onto a gravel road. A guy named Jared hits the road the same time we do. I will get to know him well soon enough, but for now, he pushes past me, says it’s a half mile to the aid station and time to move. He is wrong. It’s nearly two miles, and a steep climb up the road, but I find a new gear and push with renewed strength. Grateful for easy footing and steady climb. Tania drops back, frustrated and exhausted. I’m sorry.

I don’t know where this burst came from but I’m going with it. I just want to see Kirk. The truck drives by, cheering. My throat closes with emotion but I’m still breathing hard so it comes out in wheezes. Kirk runs back to walk me in the last few hundred meters and I can hardly talk, can only pet the dog that has come to say hi. I check in, thankful for a proper outhouse and another burger. Tania emerges from the bathroom and we share a long hug. That was hard, but that’s nothing compared to the journeys we have shared before. I couldn’t have done it without her.

I lay down for another 45 minutes but I don’t sleep. I can hear my crew outside the truck, it’s too light out, and I’m too jacked up from hitting 200 miles. I channel my frustration into checking out of the aid station and marching down the road to take on the next section with Nolan again as my next pacer as the sun sets on day 4. I hope Tania can get some rest after our long journey; I feel we have a lot to process to figure out what happened out there. But for now, Nolan and I hit some single track and I’m surprised at how good the climbs feel. We pass the glowing eyes of cows and deer, watching us from just off the trail and I am thankful that big predators are rare here. “Hi Cows”.

The trail ends onto a gravel road descent where I maintain good energy and even manage to run a fair bit (although I’m sure Nolan might feel differently about my definition of ‘run’ at that point!). I am happy with my progress, the stars and the views of the La Sals behind us. The end feels in sight.

Ahead I see a cluster of headlamps on the side of the road. I’ve seen this scene before when I have come up to a runner out of water, fixing their feet or pausing for a break while other runners stop to offer help or share comfort. This is the 200-miler attitude.

But this scene is different. Packs are ripped apart and the contents on the ground. The runner Jared, from Geyser Pass, and his pacer sound urgent, and they tell us “This is serious. Breathing emergency” Nolan jumps in “I’m a paramedic” and I’ve never been so relieved he was along with me. The other two have military experience and seem to know what they are doing so I stand back, leaning on my poles, taking in the scene and letting the severity of the situation sink in.

His name is Mark, and his airway is closing thanks to an allergic reaction. It is a pre-existing condition that has chosen the worst possible time to flare up. He is still talking and is leaning forward, saliva dripping from his mouth and calmly explains that the disassembled sunglasses arms can help keep his airway open, or the white plastic object on the ground can be used for an emergency tracheotomy.

What?? My mind explodes. I want out.

And yet I want to help. I stand, paralyzed outside the circle feeling like I have nothing to offer and reeling with my own re-lived trauma from a life threatening incident. Nolan is doing all the first responder things, asking the right questions and checking the scene. I can’t get a straight answer from Jared if they have contacted Race HQ or 911. Yes, they have, someone is on the way, but no they haven’t. Jared keeps trying to call and gets cut off. I watch as he hangs up, over and over. He tells me to call 911. But they have already confirmed that help is on the way. I’m confused. It occurs to me that Mark must be too. He must be terrified.

Co-regulate.

I can do that. I drop my poles and grab an emergency blanket strewn on the ground. I introduce myself, struggle to stay calm, wrap the blanket around his shoulders and sit close. Uncomfortably close for a stranger, but he doesn’t flinch. The healing power of touch is the best I can offer. As long as he is still talking and responsive I am happy to keep engaging.

“What is your wife’s name?”

“Genet”.

“Do you have kids?”

“4”.

“We will get you home to them”.

We call his wife. She sounds lovely and I advise she stay at Race HQ instead of trying to go to Porcupine Rim; a narrow 4×4 road she would never make in the dark. She agrees to wait in town to hear where he is going.

“Help is on the way, You are doing a great job staying calm.” I share some funny stories from the day with nothing to do but wait for help to arrive; distraction is a powerful tool. I joke about his 60 000 unread emails and offer to delete them for him, he says ‘Go ahead. Unsubscribe’.

I can see texts pouring in from his family. He is loved. He needs to get home to them.

His airway shifts and breathing becomes more difficult so Nolan secures the sunglasses arm down his throat and has him clench it between his teeth to keep his airway open. ‘Come on help, what is taking you so long?’ I wrap the blanket tighter when I see he is shivering a bit. Miraculously I’m not cold. I always get cold when I stop but not tonight. Help arrives in a speeding SUV and there is a flurry of activity. He asks for Nolan to go with him and I beg for the same, but the vehicle is jam packed with gear in the backseats and there is no room, so Mark climbs in the front seat, sitting backwards, saliva dripping onto the seat as he struggles to breath. I can’t imagine how terrified he must be, but he seems to remain calm. I reach out one more time through the window to wish him well, tell him I’m honoured to have met him. A part of me wants to climb in the seat with him. Not just for his comfort but for my own as well. The full force of the fragility of life hits me and I desperately want to feel safe. Somehow the front seat of that SUV feels like that safest place for both of us. I realize afterwards how much that activated my own trauma of fighting for survival in the backcountry. How quickly things could have turned for the worse. But I don’t dwell on that now. Instead, we pack up and keep marching with our new comrades Jared and Matt as Mark and the medic race to the waiting helicopter that will take him to the nearest hospital. I find out later he is on a ventilator for several days, but makes a full recovery.

We stick with them, chatting, debriefing, being sort of ridiculous for hours back and forth before their headlights disappear out of sight ahead. I am fading very quickly, falling asleep while walking and barely coherent as my adrenaline tanks. I’m seeing things in the trees again and force myself to stare at the ground at the squished dead snakes because everything in my peripheral vision feels too scary and overwhelming right now. I’m thankful for Nolan; his energy is still high. He is patient and considerate, wanting to help, counting down until I can have another regular Tylenol, even though that does nothing to touch the pain. In hindsight, I should have stopped to sleep again. But Porcupine Rim feels close (it wasn’t) and I am excited to see Kirk. He alternates between a thoughtfully downloaded playlist with many of my favourite artists, and conversation prompts to keep my mind busy. At one point I whisper “Nolan, I can’t talk. I’m sorry” I don’t need distraction, I need to ride this wave of pain to Porcupine Rim within myself, Mark still heavy on my mind. The night doesn’t feel safe and I want it to be over.

Illuminated ghosts hang in the trees, following me with haunted eyes, but this time it is real. We are only a few hundred meters from the last aid station; Porcupine Rim with its Halloween themed decorations. I keep my eyes down so I can only see the glow of my headlamp resisting the urge to stop and examine each ghost to make sure it isn’t actually following me.

We arrive at the aid station where Kirk has been volunteering and he is ready to pace me for the last section. I tell him I will need some time to rest before we go. I am thankful to make it there, but deep down I am still feeling a strange mix of scared and brave. I think I thank Nolan for getting me there and his expertise with Mark, but all I can think about is drifting off for my last short sleep before the finish. Forty-five minutes later, I ask, “What time is it?” Kirk says 3:45 and I stare at my watch and say “No, that is how far I’ve run” He says, “Its both” and Denise laughs her infectious laugh. Let’s finish this beast. I start for

the last time.

I down some noodles and my crew puts on my heavy pack one last time. Denise is beaming at me and reading me funny things from a group chat from our run family. Nolan is pumped, so excited to see me off. Kirk is ready and I realize later this is his longest distance ever and this world of required gear and headlamps is new to him and yet he doesn’t complain once. In fact, he has a lot of fun, making friends along the way; he is well loved, as always.

Before we leave, I stop to use the outhouse and scream at the giant purple glittery spider placed near the seat; a cruel joke to my fuzzy brain. The volunteers and Kirk laugh at my expense, but I tell them it is still better then using buckets from other aid stations and I don’t really care. Mostly I just like to hear them laugh.

The descent from Porcupine should have been easy since it is all downhill from here. It is literally one of the most beloved downhill mountain bike routes in the world with stunning views and techy descents. As the sun rises I can see the whole course I have just completed; the mesa, hidden valley, canyonlands, Shay mountain is barely visible on the horizon. Was that even real?

I can see the long stretch of desert with a joke sale (and probably some bodies) buried somewhere out there, and the towering La Sal mountains that seem plucked from another world and plopped in this otherworldly desert. And now here I am, picking my way down the quintessential Moab descent to the Colorado river and the finish line. I want this moment to be more enjoyable. I have envisioned this for years, ever since I first dropped Kirk off there three years ago so he could ride this descent. But yet here I am, and every step is agony. My feet are raw and the loose rocks on the descent fry my nervous system with each screaming step. Moving fast feels impossible and yet I am so frustrated to feel so slow at yet another section of trail. My goal of finishing under 100 hours disappears quickly, so I embrace a new goal. Just. Finish.

Kirk is attentive, reminding me to eat, drink, helping me adjust layers as the sun comes up and the day heats, pointing out views and taking pictures.

The Colorado river comes into view but still seems impossibly far down, and yet, like anything that feels impossible, if you keep moving forward, it gets closer. And soon it feels like I can reach out to touch that river. I can hear the roar of the highway and even see where the mountain bike trail meets the paved bike trail, but with a cruel twist of fate, there is one last canyon to navigate. Its huge boulders have me scrambling on all fours just to get past. If there is one thing that 200’s have taught me it’s this: Stay humble. I crawl and whimper my way down the last canyon, about as humble as I’ve ever been.

We hit the pavement for the final 5km bike trail back to town and I miraculously get a new burst of energy. This feels easy, so I drink it up. Running sub 6:30 kilometres at times and it all felt amazing. Weirdly, I am using muscles I haven’t used in awhile and the pain in my feet no longer feels so sharp on the pavement. Kirk, not as used to running, is frantically texting while running to see if people are at the finish line, letting them know I am coming in much sooner then my tracker has projected now that I have sped up.

With only a 100 m to go. Nolan comes running towards us, ecstatic, but says he doesn’t know where Tania and Denise are.

I stop briefly. I don’t want to finish with out them. Thankfully, they meet me at the corner, trying to run in flip flops on tired feet. I round the corner to the campground at the finish line and I see my parents and kids holding signs and blowing noisemakers. I can’t stop smiling and my heart rips apart and explodes in a million pieces.

I see the finish line arch where I stood four days, 5 hours and 27 minutes ago; a different person. I throw down my poles in excitement and suddenly it’s all over.

That’s it.

I grip my knees and look up to see my pacers and crew coming up behind me. This was my dream, but it would be foolish of me to think I did this alone. I dish out sweaty hugs and cry my way through my “After” mug shot.

I had mentally prepared myself for the journey, but not for this. Not for the end. I want to pause it all and sip slowly from this moment. Candice Burt calls me over to pick out my belt buckle but it feels like an impossible decision. A belt buckle means both nothing and everything after what happened out there.

Everything.

 Everything in 101 hours, 22 minutes and 57 seconds.

And a freakin cool belt buckle.

Missed part one about the first half of the race?

Read it here.

101 hours, 22 minutes, and 57 seconds. 240 miles of forward motion.

When asked what it felt like, my only answer is “Everything”. It felt like everything jammed into 4 days. All the joy and all the misery you can imagine. All the beauty, laughter, exhaustion and awe. All my strength and all my overwhelming weakness. All the incredible highs and all the crushing lows had me curled in the fetal position on sharp desert rocks. And the views. Oh, the views. It was everything.

Everything in 101 hours, 22 minutes and 57 seconds.  

Time expands and contracts out there, sometimes crawling as slowly as my painful shuffle and other times flying by as quickly as the moonrise over the dessert.

The timer started at 6 am on Friday morning. 250 of us, standing at the start line, reciting the “Destination Trail Pledge” that states “If I get hurt, lost or die out there. It is my Own, Damn, Fault.” A volunteer zip-ties the spot tracker on the shoulder of my pack, as if they are locking down the restraining device on a rollercoaster to say, “Hold on for the ride of your life.”

I smile at the woman beside me. Her name is Lucy from California, and she too is nervous, even though she has done an impressive number of 200+ mile races before. She tells me it is incredible, and totally worth it.  I hope she is right.

I wave bye to Kirk in the darkness, and we are off, weaving through the town of Moab before heading up the mesa that towers over the sleeping town. I enjoy those early hours, the ‘free miles’, passing them with easy chatter with a woman named Linda from Toronto, who did her PhD in Edmonton. We know several of the same local runners and toss around stories of our run community back home. The sun rises and we come to the first aid station where I lose Linda, don’t see her again until after the race where we met on Facebook. This becomes my story. Connect with others, the lose them just as quickly, weaving our journeys at our own pace.

I share some miles with a young guy, who tells me he plans to finish in 48 hours as the youngest racer to complete the race. It is his first ultra race, and he is confident he can maintain the pace needed to blow the course record away. He asks if I have any advice. I tell him, “Stay humble. Stay curious. I wish you all the best”. I think I see him several hours later sleeping on the trail, and I’m sad to see he is listed as DNF. This distance has a way of keeping you humble, no matter your age.

At about 27 km I get to see my crew for the first, and last time on day one. I can’t find Kirk and Nolan in the chaos, but instead focus on what I can do until they get there. I debate continuing without seeing them, but thankfully, Nolan comes running across the parking lot, my recovery drink in hand. He grabs my pack, frantically apologizing for being late, citing a glitching spot tracker and heavy traffic. I tell him its ok, this is a long game, not a Nascar pit stop.

The day heats up on the next stretch to Basecamp. My phone fills with excited selfies of me and another cool rock, but each time I’m disappointed that the photos don’t do it justice.

So I settle in to enjoy it anyway, taking it slow and loving that the miles still feel easy. The last thing I want is to get heat stroke on the first day, and my strategy to stay covered, (with my super dorky desert hat and beautiful arm sleeves) seem to do the trick as I never once felt the sun-baked raw skin I feared.

Basecamp aid station fills with runners sprawled out in small patches of shade, many of them nauseous from the heat. I stop briefly to admire the giant tortoise that lives there, watching as he moves slowly through the sand, impervious to the heat. He too knows the secret to surviving the desert; go slow, pace yourself.

I pass some miles with two Wall Street executives, who tell me that many of their colleagues are also drawn to extreme sports. I love collecting these tidbits of information from each racer I pair with. Peter’s wife taxidermized a racoon, Sean makes the concrete forms that surround a casket in the ground, Jared has two cats that are 18lbs and look like leopards. You need to run on John Park’s right-side cause he can’t hear from his other ear thanks to years at the gun range and John Duncan Clark got his middle name because his mom loves Dunkin Donuts. Nikki once slept behind a Dollarama while doing a 350 mile ultra by Lazarus Lake and Dexi is running in memory of her dad; she got her adventurous side from him. “He would love this” she tells me, and a lump forms in my throat. Even though we are a rare breed of ultra-runners, we are all painfully normal humans, just out for a run in the desert.

A medic waits at the bottom of the Jackson’s Ladder Descent as we carefully pick our way down the mesa wall to the bottom of the canyon, and I realize I am slightly off course. I make a self-deprecating joke to a man nearby wearing bright shorts with rubber duckies on them, it’s John Dunkin Donuts Clark, and we will end up spending several more hours together after the sun sets, but for now, I put in time alone, appreciating the dropping temperature and drinking in all the desert views.

When I pause to help a runner that has run out of water, I match up with John again and we stay together through the Oasis aid station and onto Indian Creek, about seven hours to end the first day.

We don’t pause long at the Oasis before I pull John away from the snack table and back into the night. There was something about the way he sprinkles the conversation with ‘dear’ and easy laughter that made the night pass effortlessly, and before I know it, we are at Indian Creek where John was a true gentleman and let me use the tent with the toilet bucket first. Classy right? Unfortunately, this is where I lose him as my excited crew pulls me to the truck to regroup before the next section. We peel off my socks to examine the toll the glass-sharp sand had taken on my feet. To my dismay there are several blisters already formed and I know this will be my nemesis for the rest of the race. I have never struggled with blisters before, so this is uncharted territory. I entrust Nolan to clean, dry and tape them up and then sleep for an hour and a half. Kirk wakes me with his bright headlamp, telling me it is time to go. I’m completely disoriented but remembered the mantra I’ve rehearsed for this moment.

“Keep starting”.

Nolan’s fresh energy is contagious as we leave Indian Creek, and we spend the first few miles getting caught up on what had transpired so far. As the sun rises, the trail has us weaving through the Canyonlands, past chimney stack rocks and through washed out valleys with difficult to follow paths. I am thankful for Nolan’s GPX on his watch keeping us on the right path and we rescue several other runners that have missed turns. No one needs bonus miles out here.

By mid-morning, we make it to the Island aid station where I down a huge plate of bacon, eggs and hashbrowns while a young volunteer medic named Conner fixes up my feet. He and his sweet dog, Pepper are from Wyoming, and he tells me it is his birthday. I ask what makes him want to spend his birthday fixing up people’s disgusting feet. He smiles, and just says he loves it. Pepper sticks close for snuggles, hoping for some dropped bacon even though his dad says it’s not allowed. I beg for Pepper to join me to Bridger Jack, and Conner just laughs. He doubts my sincerity.

Leaving the Island, we begin the long, slow ascent to Bridger Jack along a narrowing canyon wall that ends with a stunning view to appreciate how far you’ve come. The day was scorching, so we keep it slow and steady, taking in lots of salt tabs and water to stay ahead of dehydration. It’s common to pass other runners laying in small bits of shade under a rock, trying to find reprieve from the heat. Some look in rough shape, so we always check in; getting weak smiles and waves in reply, dismissing our offers to help. This is just part of the journey, and the strange human that willingly signs up for this seems to embrace the suffering without complaint.

Bridger Jack aid station means we have hit the 100-mile mark and were about to begin a very challenging section of the course heading up to Shay Mountain. (For my Alberta friends, picture running Sin 7 and THEN starting Leg 6). I make sure to take my time with this re-group, eating two burgers, re-examining my feet and enjoying the giggles of a little girl volunteering with her dad. It’s getting harder to re-energize with each new start, but I rally with a smile and pull myself out of the chair yet again.

Keep. Starting.

Mercifully, the sun was losing its power and we begin a descent into a lush valley with technical winding trails and all new terrain yet again. Moab is full of surprises. Of course, to add further challenge to my day, my nose starts to bleed, dripping down my hands and mixing with the orange dust on the road, making it difficult to breath for the rest of the race as my nose fills with dried, dusty blood.

A long, wash out section with next to no flagging and lots of creek hopping has us both frustrated at how our progress had slowed. Nolan paused for a pee break and takes a wrong turn, leaving me on my own for about 45 mins as the trail grows dark. I trust he will find me again, and indeed he does, apologizing profusely. Thank god I don’t have to go into the night alone.

Knowing that the ascent up Shay Mountain is brutal helps me steel for the climb ahead. Thanks to encouragement from Nolan, I dig deep and power up the long and technical trail. I turn on my playlist, but to my dismay realize that only a few songs out of 12 hours of music have downloaded, leaving only a handful of songs on repeat. Oasis, over and over in my head:

“All the roads we have to walk are winding”.

Exhausted, I sit down to eat a handful of candy and my whole-body screams ‘Lie down’. Nolan scrambles to find a softer place, maybe pull out my bivy sack. But I told him no. “Right here. Right now. Just like this. Wake me in ten.”

 “There are many things that I would like to say to you, but I don’t know how…Afterall, you’re my Wonderwall” My body rests but my brain does not.

The break is enough to renew my push up the trail to the summit. The cruel and unusual reward of climbing a mountain at night is you never know what you should be seeing. All I knew was the trail took a downward turn and the hardest part of the night is over.

There comes a time in an ultra where you have the choice to hold your emotions in or keep moving forward. You can’t have both. So, as we crested the top of the mountain I start to cry. I choose forward motion over suppressed emotions. Nolan is at a loss, checking that they were happy tears “Yes, of course” and gives me a quick hug.

My brain struggles to fill in the complicated gaps in sensory input I am unable to process. Hallucinations creep in to confuse me; a rock morphs into a chicken, a stump becomes a teapot, people and creatures jeering at me from the trees, shifting position as I pass. Even though I keep reminding myself it isn’t real, I still have to ask Nolan a few times for confirmation, each time his answer a patient “It’s just a rock”.

I had been warned the descent off Shay was followed by another relentless gravel road climb up to the aid station that was more than a little heartbreaking, and indeed it was. So, when I reach the aid station, after nearly 20 hours on the trail with Nolan, I cry again as Kirk, Tania and Denise meet me, the girls in cute onesies after volunteering for hours already that night. I wasn’t the only one who was bleary eyed and exhausted.

I had been told the race started and ended at Shay. If you could get there, you would finish, but your position meant nothing until you got there. I congratulated myself on making it halfway, resisting the nagging thoughts that I was already 11 miles past my previous furthest distance, and I was still only half way. While I slept for a few hours, warm in the truck, Kirk sat outside in temperatures below zero and shivered so I could get some rest; sacrificing his own comfort for my race. He was nearly hypothermic as he helped me and Denise (my next pacer) get ready to go. Nolan long ago showered and back at our cabin in Moab, fast asleep.

Half. way.

I had already hallucinated, bled, roasted, froze, climbed, descended and surpassed my furthest previous distance, all on blistered, bandaged feet.

Zero thoughts of quitting.

I just had to put everything I had already done behind me, start fresh and do it all over again.

And fast. The clock keeps on ticking.

Read the rest of the story here.

How do you train for a 240 mile race?

The short answer is: You can’t.

The long answer is much more complicated. And it’s full of a LOT of unknowns. I read up on every bit of training theory on multi-day runs, watched a couple documentaries on 200’s and followed the Moab 240 Facebook group to glean some wisdom from previous finishers. Then I thought long and hard about what kind of experience I wanted to have leading up to the biggest race of my life and very quickly decided that there was no one right way to do this and I was just going to enjoy the journey.

What was my ultimate goal with training? Get to the start line feeling happy and healthy.

I’m just a few days away from toeing the line and am so happy to report that I’ve done exactly that.
Getting ready for this race has been years in the making, ever since we spent a few days in Moab on the way to run Rim2Rim2Rim of the Grand Canyon. I was enamored with the Mars-like landscape and wild canyons and of course had to Google “Trail Races in Moab”. My eyes nearly popped out of my head when Moab 240 came up. I knew immediately where I wanted to set my sights.

At the time I was training for my first 100 miler at Sinister 7 in 2019 and lacked the confidence needed to even think about something as big as 240. But as I sat at the finish line at Sinister looking at my newly earned belt buckle I asked myself if I could turn around and do another 100 miles. My answer was an unwavering yes.

Moab up next.

We all know there was a lot about the next few seasons that didn’t go as planned. And although I technically got into the race for 2021 off the waitlist, it was only a few weeks before the race and I wasn’t even sure how covid regulations would impact my trip so I passed up the spot and hoped to get in on the lottery for 2022. I did a couple more 100 mile (plus) distances and lots of high volume and was pumped to get in for this year.

I settled on a training plan that felt very manageable, and similar to what I had used for training for 100 milers. High volume is important to get your body adapted to the high stress needed for race day, but pushing too far has diminishing returns. Eventually you spend more time trying to recover from big training efforts and you are no longer building your capacity, and may even be overtraining. I liked that this plan had a few big days and weeks built in, but that overall I just needed to be consistent and stay
healthy. There was also a lot of flexibility within each day for how long I should plan to run, dependent on recovery needs and time constraints, which meant that some weekdays days, if all that I got in was a 6k, instead of a 16k, that was ok, at least I got out. Most days I aimed for the big number on the plan, but it was also really important to me to recognize that the body doesn’t count miles, it counts overall stress. And with a full time job, three kids (with their own busy schedules), a masters degree (nearly done), race directing Run On, co-leading Trail Sisters, and a cute dog that demands snuggles, I have plenty of other things to juggle on top of training.

I worked in a few races and big mountain days during my training to make the journey more interesting and because I love getting out with my incredible run family. I also had to somehow work in a five week hiatus to my training right when I should’ve been building, thanks to another once in a lifetime journey this summer with our 35 day road trip across Canada in Van-nessa. (Worth it!)

So, how did it look? How do we answer the unanswerable question about how to train for a 240 mile race?

I averaged about 100km weeks of running, and aimed for 1500-2000m elevation gain. My peak weeks took me closer to 150km and maxed at 4000m elevation gain. I worked in one speed session per week to build aerobic capacity, and had one or two days a week with double runs to build volume, which was pretty easy to do thanks to shorter runs with my son’s afterschool run club and 5-7km Thursday sessions leading Trail Sisters. I cross train with road biking, either on the trainer in winter or bike commuting
when I can once the snow clears. While I still maintain strength sessions as best I can, I generally struggle to find the time for weight training when I’m already spending so much time running. So instead, I focused on mini-strength sessions throughout my day with things like lunges after a run or a couple sets of core or upper body before bed.

My longest run this training session was 100km at Klondike Ultra in June, but I made sure to build on that by following up with a 120km bike in Banff the next day to simulate long days on tired legs without burning out with high impact.

I also had plenty of big back to backs, like Iron Legs Mountain Race on Saturday followed by leading a Trail Sisters mountain summit on Sunday.

Or Assiniboine Pass followed by a brutal road run early the next morning.

The best simulation for a multi-day was at Golden Ultra Stage Race which had me feeling faster and better with each day of the race and was a nice peak to my training for Moab.

While my training plan was 20 weeks on paper, my actual training has been going on for years. Muscle and cardio strength can develop quickly but soft tissue strength is a much slower process. The body needs a long time to adapt to withstand high volume without suffering soft tissue injury. Thanks to years of consistency and bit of good luck, I have avoided injury leading up to this race and have generally maintained good energy levels. I say ‘generally’ because I did struggle with loss of my period and fatigue at times last year, however a couple diet and lifestyle changes helped me get my period back and have kept my energy levels high throughout these last six months.

But enough about training theory and numbers. As always, I’m far more interested in the other side of this ridiculous sport called ultra running. Or in the case of Moab, mega-ultra-ridiculous-can’teven-wrap-my-head-around-that-distance-‘running’. The enormity of 240-miles is mind-blowing to me even though I am the strongest I have ever been. As I pour over the race manual and study the map, I can hardly fathom how I will hit Shay Mountain Aid Station at 120miles (193km) at my longest distance
yet, and will only be half way done the race.

Half. Way.

I will likely see four sunrises, maybe even five.
Will climb the equivalent elevation gain of Mount Everest (8800m) and cover the distance from
Edmonton to Canmore (383km). I will go 12 or more hours between seeing my crew and will encounter weather conditions ranging from blistering exposure in the desert basin (hitting 30’C) to snow and extreme storms in the La Sal Mountains (as low as -7’C). All while carrying minimum 3L of water, and a few pounds of food, clothes and safety gear on my back.

There is a reason the race manual says “This is an Endurance Run, not a race. As such this is not considered a competitive event, but rather a life accomplishment”.

And it’s way to much to think about all at once. Whenever I do, it all feels too overwhelming. And that is where the psychological side of this training comes in. It is too easy to let self-doubt swallow you whole. I guarantee that every single racer that will stand at that start line on Friday
morning will struggle with imposter syndrome. Who am I to think that I can do this? I’m not some elite athlete, I’m just some soccer mom that likes to run. Easy to think I have no business being there. That is just one of the many lies I combat every time I think of the magnitude of 240 miles.
Instead of giving into self-doubt, I am choosing strategies that strengthen me and will propel me forward. A lot of those strategies require the acceptance of dichotomies.

Both/And.

I worked hard for this and deserve to be there.
AND this is an incredible privilege I am not worthy of.

I am strong.
AND I am devastatingly fragile against these harsh elements.

I can choose an attitude that rises above the discomforts of the moment
AND its gonna hurt like hell and be a constant battle to ignore the pain.

I choose to remain curious, humble and embrace each stage of the journey.
AND I need to be vigilant and aggressively solve problems as they arise.

I will enjoy the beauty in the people and scenery around me.
AND I will want it to end so I can be done and return to comfort.

Other strategies are to break it down to make sections feel more manageable. That may require thinking of the race in chunks, breaking it down by days, sections with pacers, or between aid stations. Or even smaller if needed and tackling each kilometer, distance between trees or even by seconds. Like Amy Alain said, ‘you can do anything hard for 60 seconds’ The crazy thing is, time passes at the same rate whether I am sitting on my couch watching Netflix or if I am running 383km. I can go without the Netflix, but I don’t want to miss a thing out there on the trail.

The strategy that is already bringing me the most joy, and I am certain will carry me through some dark hours, is the incredible support around me. In addition to the messages and encouragement from friends who may think I’m crazy, but still think its cool, I have a phenomenal team joining me.

This would not happen without them.
I don’t even think I fully asked Nolan, he just unhesitatingly said yes when I said I could use some help for the hardest section of the course. An accomplished runner himself, the timing felt right in his life to join us to experience an event like this.
I didn’t formally asked Denise either, she was just always a given. Unwavering in her
commitment to the sport and her friendships, I know she is 100% dependable and the perfect companion for a long time on the trail.

And of course, Tania, cause it would be weird to go on an adventure without her. Even though this is a huge ask from her, and for her support system that fills in for her, she seems so excited to be joining and I know she is exactly who I want out there with me for the experience.

Holding all this together is Kirk, crew chief and rockstar husband that has not only been fully supportive of my training, he is now taking the time out of his newly (and unexpectedly) rearranged life to get me there and take charge of the incredibly difficult job of keeping me held together and moving forward.

This definitely wouldn’t have happened without him. Thanks hun 🥰

The best part is that we are planning to have him pace me for the last section, about 30km to the finish line. It will be at an agonizingly slow pace. But together we will shuffle to the finish line where my kids and parents will be waiting. This is their race too, they’ve all put in work and sacrifice to support me to get here and they all get sweaty hugs even though they will squirm away and tell me I smell terrible.

I’m ready.

I can never be ready. Another dichotomy.

I’m excited. I’m terrified.
At peace. A bundle of nerves.

It’s kinda like those days towards the end of your pregnancy, where all that hard work of pregnancy is behind you, and although there is so much unknown ahead, you are ready to get on with things cause you know the journey is going to be amazing.

I wanted to write this ‘before’ because I know that once its all over, I will see everything so differently.
Those days in the desert will change me. Kinda like how becoming a parent changes you. Parenting is far more incredible, and far more difficult then you could ever begin to explain to someone who hasn’t experienced it, and I wouldn’t change it for anything.

I suspect running 240 miles will be a similar experience

I’m ready.
Yep. I’ll leave it at that.

It is bittersweet now that it is all over. While I look forward to clean showers and melting into a cuddle puddle with Bruno, I’m sad that years of dreaming about this trip are over. Of course, we have more adventures ahead, but we simply won’t get these years with the kids back.

Katie is especially impatient to get home. She misses her friends, her privacy and the comfort of her bedroom. But as she stands on the edge of starting high school, I want to tell her I know something she doesn’t understand yet. Once she takes that next step towards adulthood, everything changes. She will jump to test her wings, returning to us for safety and support as needed, before leaping away again. Tegan is not far behind; she is already so much older then her age. And I swear, Levi has grown three inches in only a month on the road. Must be all the fresh air and ice cream. This trip was so important for our family to take.

It was never about making it east at all, it was about making it there together.

Along the way we gained a whole new appreciation for this incredible country of ours and how we won the lottery of geography and history to be right here, right now. We were fortunate enough to have countless beautiful encounters with other Canadians along the way, with Newfoundlanders and Quebecois showing the greatest kindness, and Ontario drivers showing the greatest impatience.

I was also amazed at how safe I felt everywhere we travelled. Whether it was running alone or walking around late at night, we never once felt like our personal safety was threatened in the cities and towns we visited.

In contrast, we learned a lot about our dark history, and ongoing issues of race and injustice we continue to sort through as a country. So many of the historical landmarks we visited are riddled with the horrors of colonialism and deep rifts between the English, French and Indigenous peoples that were here first. On our way back through Winnipeg, we stopped at the Human Rights Museum to learn the moving accounts of Human Rights violations, and reparations we have undergone as a nation. A good reminder to remain humble, curious and willing to set aside our privilege to give equal voice and power to those that have been denied that in the past.

Apart from the people, what makes this country amazing, is the land. And there’s a lot of it. Vannessa barely scratched the surface when you consider the amount of wilderness that extends north, mostly uninhabited and loudly calling my name. And we’ve got a lotta trees. And rocks.

And soooo much water.

We stood in the Pacific, and Atlantic Oceans and swam in all five Great Lakes because that was Levi’s big goal for the trip. We even made it to Lake Michigan, which required an American detour on the way home but was definitely worth it.

We stopped at countless waterfalls; most notably the big flashy ones like Niagara and Montmorency.

And lots of rivers and lakes, also called ‘brooks’ and ‘ponds’ if you’re in Newfoundland, and I was so impressed at how easy it was to find water that was safe to drink everywhere we went. So many countries in the world do not have such accessible safe drinking water, and we have it in abundance here. Sounds like a resource worth protecting doesn’t it?

You know what else is worth protecting? Ice cream. If you’ve read any of my previous posts, you know that we take our ice cream very seriously in this family. While the best ice cream award still goes to the Big Scoop in Waterton, AB, we found some close contenders in Percé, and St. John’s, and Winnipeg and Old Quebec City …ok we ate ice cream every day everywhere we went and who are we kidding, it was all good.

We even had an emergency ice cream binge in Cavendish where we had to eat two pints of melting ice cream after our freezer ran out of propane. What a hardship.

Once and a while we introduced other foods into our diets, like poutine in Quebec, and fish and chips in Newfoundland, and bagels in Montreal, and Hard Rock Café in Niagara, and lobster, mussels and clams in PEI, scallops in New Brunswick, cheese and more cheese in Quebec, smoked meat sandwiches in Montreal, pizza from a vending machine in Ontario, pasties in Michigan and Halifax donairs in Halifax.
Obviously.

To wash it all down we made sure to drink wine from Niagara and Gaspe, Moosehead Radlers from Saint John, Iceberg beer from Newfoundland and ciders from Anapolis Valley. And some American wine on the way home just cause it’s so much cheaper and I wasn’t about to argue with that.

It’s kind of fun when you travel to pick out little goals along the way to give some purpose and structure to your ramblings, and so one of our goals became to find the parliament building in each province to get a picture. Thanks to spending a year in Europe, I just love old buildings, and it seems our parliament buildings are the closest thing we have to old buildings in Canada, so mission accomplished.

We found ‘em all.

We also found the ‘Welcome to” signs of every province except Prince Edward Island! Either it didn’t exist or we missed it while travelling across the bridge in the dark. So, I guess that mission isn’t over yet.

Levi started collecting the dog tags from the Xplorer program in the National Parks across the country and amassed 11 of them despite visiting a lot more National Parks then that. Our National Park system is incredible and having an annual pass more then paid for itself several times over. I highly recommend.

Our favourite? Going to Levi National Park and finding a tag that felt custom made for our little explorer.

You know what else we found? A lot of weird ‘big’ things. Ya know, like big apples, and geese and a dime, and a nickel and lobster and moose.

So. Many. Moose.

Plus, the highways are riddled with signs warning drivers to be cautious of moose while driving, with the moose on the signs in Newfoundland looking especially formidable.

Guess how many real moose we saw?

One. Just one.

Thankfully we saw lots of other real-life animals too. Caribou in Port-aux-Choix, deer EVERYWHERE and a mama black bear and her two cubs at Riding Mountain in an incident a little too close for comfort even for this trail runner.

We found lots of smaller creatures like a bobcat near Thunder Bay, red foxes in PEI, mink in Michigan, black fox with a white tail in Newfoundland, Mississauga rattle snake in Bruce Peninsula, skunks, beavers and so, so many racoons in Nova Scotia. Most of them dead on the side of the road, but one adorable family was alive and well and looking mischievous.

Herons, pelicans, common gannets, cormorants, yellow finches, wild turkeys, peregrine falcons, bald eagles, quirky puffins and of course so many angry Canadian geese mixed in with a few million squawking seagulls.

We got some glimpses of whales and porpoises but have to go back because Kirk is dying to see a whale breach and that didn’t happen on this trip.

Vannessa did amazing. Far better then we ever imagined a 1981 Chevy Van would ever do. Other then adjusting a few things along the way, lots of oil top ups and a new wheel bearing, she preformed flawlessy. I mean, her window leaks a bit and the furnace cover won’t stay on, but that’s ok.

Oh. And she’s a guzzler. But we decided early on we weren’t going to worry about addressing her drinking habits right now as she is still able to function at a high level despite her indulgences. Her next family can host an intervention if they want her to change. We just practice harm reduction and love her as she is. She lost four out of five of her top front light covers, a fender, some trim pieces, and a sewage hose, but
don’t worry, Karma sent us another one that Kirk actually fished out of a dump station.

That’s my man.

As I was writing that last paragraph, we heard a pop, and the sound of sprinkling glass while barreling along the flat roads of Saskatchewan. The top front window took a rock from the grain truck ahead of us, and shattered, raining glass all over the bed and onto Levi at his spot at the table. Spoke too soon.

Good thing we only had a few more hours to go. A piece of scrap melamine and some duct tape and we Red-Greened it good enough to get home. Phew.

To sum:
35 days

9 Provinces

14980km with Vannessa + 2750km with a rental SUV for a total of 17730 km.

(If we include our BC trip in April, our total is 10 provinces with an additional 2500km for a grand total of 20 230km, or half-way around the world.)

17 hours on three different ferries.

A 4 hour bus ride

5 people in 147 square feet.

More $ in fuel then we ever imagined with prices ranging from 1.25/L in Michigan to 2.10/L in Northern Ontario and Vannessa guzzling 24L/100km. We aren’t even going to bother with that calculation.

Countless bags of Spitz.

One long playlist.

One big country.

One pretty great family.

Exploring New Brunswick actually happened in two parts. First, on the way to Prince Edward Island, and again after our return from Newfoundland. Which is fitting, since it felt like an in-between province anyway; not quite French, and not quite Maritimes, it has its own quiet charm and we enjoyed a few of the gems it has to offer.

But first, Vannessa needed some love. You know how it is with us middle-aged ladies, we’re tough as nails but we still require occasional maintenance. We were noticing a new sound that Kirk figured was the wheel bearing needing to be replaced. Some very helpful parts dealers and a few detours to parts stores along the north coast and we got the parts we needed. ‘Operation Wheel Bearing’ happened in Shediac, mostly because it was a good place for the kids and I to explore while Kirk got to work.

Lobster roll dinner and pictures with a giant lobster was enough to keep us entertained, while Kirk was entertained by a old local guy that saw him in the parking lot and stopped to keep him company (or maybe to supervise?), even coming back with water and an ice cream sandwich for him. Another example of maritime kindness we certainly appreciated.

Unfortunately, the strange sound persisted after the wheel bearing change, and even seemed to be getting worse. Kirk made the rounds with a tire iron and was horrified to realize that four out of five of the lug nuts on the back wheel were loose. Something he definitely checked before the trip started. Which means there is a good chance someone loosened them on us. We blame the racoons with their tiny opposable thumbs. I’m not sure what is scarier, the racoon theory or the more likely theory that a human lacking a conscious targeted Vannessa for some reason. Either way, we fixed it before calamity struck and were happily on our way. It takes more then a loose lug nut or two to shake us up.

New Brunswick is perhaps most famous for the high tides on the Bay of Fundy, where all the power of the ocean is funneled into a shallow bay, making for dramatic tide changes throughout the day. One of the best places to experience the changing tides is Hopewell Rocks, where unique rock formations are submerged, and exposed within each six-hour tide change, and you can walk on the ocean floor among the rocks at low tide, as long as you are mindful of how getting out quickly, so you aren’t trapped by the water that rises as fast a foot a minute. Squishy mud, hermit crabs, jellyfish and lotsa cool rocks made
this a fun place to play for the morning. Then picnic lunch, a nap and voila, back to the same viewpoint that looks completely different at high tide.

A stop to explore Fundy National Park where we were hoping to swim at the outdoor pool near Alma, but a severe staff shortage meant they were operating at half capacity so the wait to get into the pool was far longer than Levi’s patience allowed. We hit pause on the province and crossed the Confederation Bridge to PEI .

A few weeks later, we were headed back to New Brunswick to finish the tour.

It was a hot day, so we took a long stop at Heather’s Beach, (which is actually in Nova Scotia), near Pugwash, where I saw ZERO pugs. I want pugs, and I want them getting baths. I’m very disappointed.

I miss my puppy 😢

Despite feeling so let down over the lack of dogs, we enjoyed playing in the red sand and walking out into the shallow water to perfect our new clam digging skills and find more hermit crabs. Tegan, the fish of the family, could spend all day in the sea and be perfectly happy. Is that why we say “Happy as a clam”?? She was definitely that.

Happy as a clam.

Turns out, there wasn’t wasn’t a whole lot more to do in New Brunswick. By the time we started heading west, it was hard to muster the enthusiasm for much else. The kids had even lost track of where we were. Tegan casually commented that it was so weird that there were so many New Brunswick licence plates all of a sudden. Erm… cause we are in New Brunswick maybe??

Into Saint John where Kirk remembers watching jet boats take tourists up the reversing falls in ’94 and being very impressed. However, after checking out what Wikipedia has declared is “The Worst Tourist Attraction in the World” we decided that what 13-year-old Kirk was actually impressed with was the jet boats, not the reversing falls. It’s a cool concept though, the outflow from the Saint John river competes with the inflow of the high rising tide and the water churns and reverses directions as the tide changes. Not worth the visit, but worth the laugh we had about. We will take a jet boat ride another day.

Our stop in Fredricton was also short lived when Tegan tried to jump a post and rolled her ankle instead.

But just when we thought we were done the New Brunswick, we made the excellent decision to pull over to see one of the covered bridges that the province is noted for. I’m sure it was haunted, but it made for some pretty pictures.

And some creepy ones.

New Brunswick makes some great potato chips and has excellent seafood and impressive fluctuating tides but other that we weren’t sure what else to explore.

One last goodbye to the Maritimes before heading inland for good.

“Next available ferry is next week, July 31st”

“Um. Are you serious? How about the overnight ferry?”

“August 2nd. There’s always room for foot passengers though.”

There goes our dreams of driving Vannessa all the way to St. John’s.

We really didn’t do much pre-planning for this trip. But the one thing we did do, was look into the ferry to Newfoundland. I had checked the website repeatedly, and saw that advance reservations were not required, although were recommended. And every time I checked availability, it showed there was lots of space. Since we weren’t following a schedule and had no idea when we would be ready for the ferry, we decided to wait until we were a few days away before booking. However, thanks to a heartwarming campaign called “Come Home 2022” put on by the province of Newfoundland, unprecedented numbers of travellers were going back to their beloved island after two years of pandemic restrictions kept the Newfoundland diaspora away.

Great news for Newfoundlanders returning home.

Bad news for us and Vannessa.

The amount of problem solving (and cost) of navigating a massive province with three children, no vehicle and not great public transit felt overwhelming. At one point in Nova Scotia, we even gave up, accepting that we wouldn’t make it all the way east. But after a good sleep, some fresh resolve, and a lucky phone call to Enterprise as soon as they opened, we managed to snag what was likely the only rental vehicle left on the island. Unfortunately, it was in Deer Lake, a few hours from the ferry terminal, and only available for four days and there was still a whole lot of logistics to sort out to make it happen.
We booked the SUV and decided to go for it.

We picked up some duffel bags at Walmart, packed the bare minimum essentials, found a parking spot for our dear Vannessa (promised her we would be back) and set out on foot.

We felt a bit like the intrepid explorers of Ernest Shackleton’s Endurance expedition to Antarctica, being forced to leave behind their beloved ship and venture into the unknown with survival their only goal. Except instead of lifeboats across the polar ice, we had a comfy ferry, followed by an SUV with AC and satellite radio. Regardless, our brave little explorers did a great job of rolling with the changes, even digging deep when travel felt pretty uncomfortable.

The ferry drops you in Port-aux-Basque, a sleepy harbour town with not a lot going on. However, the hearty souls that live there are some of the friendliest you’ll ever meet. The lady at the front desk of our hotel offered us her vehicle for the week!

Instead, Kirk opted to take the arduous bus ride to Deer Lake while the kids and I loitered around the town, killing time like a couple of vagabonds. We wandered the streets, made friends with the staff at Tim Horton’s, found a purse that belonged to a woman that lived in Alberta and helped her reunite with it, shopped at Riff’s and had a contest at the grocery store to see who could find the weirdest local food.

Levi won when he came back with a giant jar of pickled wieners that had us laughing so hard I was worried we would drop it and get kicked out of the store. We ended up buying Purity’s Square Milk Lunch which are quite possibly the most blah food product you could imagine.

After an hour of playing at the only playground in town, Tegan said “Today was awesome, I forgot how amazing it is to just do nothing for a day.” I agree. I don’t remember the last time I just did nothing for the sake of killing time and how refreshing it was to know that there was nothing else I could (or should) be doing.

I also don’t remember when I last laughed so hard with my kids. Coincidence? Nope.

Kirk, on the other hand, did not have such a great day, covering all that ground just to come back to retrieve us with our new ride. But finally, we were off on the final stretch east.

Except first we went north.

I was on a mission to find caribou.

Throughout all my travels, and despite all my valiant efforts, I had never seen a caribou before. When I was 13, my family went to Aklavik, NWT to visit family, and we spent an entire day on snowmobiles and dog sleds (with the huskies riding in the dog sleds with us instead of pulling us!) looking for an elusive migratory herd that we never found. Then in Iceland we found domestic reindeer, which was pretty cool, but not the same. Then I missed out again when running Tonquin valley with zero caribou sightings. We had it on good authority that Port-aux-Choix was the place to go since they rarely left the peninsula. And sure enough, it was just as easy as that. They were waiting for me by the lighthouse, just chilling with their babies.

Bucket list item checked.

Back through Gros Morne National Park where we took in a few hikes to see some gorgeous views and explore one of the few places in the world where you can see the Earth’s Mantle, the layer of rock below the crust, that was pushed up and exposed during continental drift. The rock is toxic to plant life so the hills look naked and kinda orange thanks to oxidation of the iron in the rocks.

Like Trump on a beach vacation. You’re welcome.

We could’ve spent a lot more time there, but the northern peninsula is huge, and the clock was ticking so we kept heading east, taking the scenic route through cute fishing villages where the cod industry once thrived before the cod moratorium changed Newfoundland life forever.

Kirk and I often commented that Newfoundland reminded us of Iceland, and we were pretty excited to stop at rock in Elliston that was covered in Puffins, just like we had seen in Iceland. Same adorable birds, an ocean apart, this time with our kids to witness them too.

Finally, we arrived in St. John’s on a gorgeous summer evening. We walked through downtown, strolled Water Street and Jellybean row with the quirky colourful houses and found some pretty amazing ice cream thanks to a recommendation from my Newfoundland friend Jill. We definitely weren’t done with the city, but the sun was down and we had an early morning date with the sunrise.

(Have you ever tried getting a 15-year-old nightowl up for sunrise?)

Bleary eyed kids, cursing missed turns and racing east on winding roads before we made it to Cape Spear just as the sun peaked over the horizon at the most easterly point in North America. Could this moment get any more beautiful?

Just to make sure it was perfect, some whales decided to play close by while we watched. OK, now its perfect. Let’s just enjoy this moment. Its all roads west from here.

Travelling is funny like that, sometimes you work so hard to reach some arbitrary destination, stop, look around, and move on. The goal is to experience it simply because you haven’t before. Don’t get me wrong, making it to Cape Spear was incredible. But although that was our ‘goal’, it really wasn’t the purpose of the trip. The purpose of this trip was all the moments along the way to make this absolutely unforgettable. Whales, lighthouses and a sunrise was the bonus.

Kinda like the medal at the end of an ultra. The true value is in the journey that led you to the finish line, the medal just commemorates it all.

Speaking of running.

I was thankful to sneak in a quick run up Signal Hill to let these restless legs fly before another long journey back to our overnight ferry scheduled on the other side of the island.

A seven hour drive, with lots of construction delays and stops for food at busy, understaffed fast food joints, then a four hour bus ride to the ferry, then a seven hour ferry ride, ten minute walk and we were back at Vannessa, happy with our whirlwind tour of gorgeous Newfoundland that left us wanting more.

Hey Labrador, you must have some treasures waiting to be discovered? Seriously though, what is up there? (They have mountains!)
For now, we were just excited we made it all the way across this vast country of ours. What a strange feeling to be closer to Europe then to home, yet still in the same country.

So far from home. I guess this journey isn’t over yet.

Photo Dump!