The Divide 200

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 🍦