I couldn’t resist. The lure of 4 days of backcountry, blisters and blinding headlamps is where I feel alive; where I belong. I knew that I didn’t want to tackle the entire Divide 200 again this year because I needed a quieter year to be with family, focus on my career and give my body a much-needed rest. And yet, I also knew I wanted to be a part of the magic of a 200-mile adventure, so I was pumped when I was asked by a couple people to pace them on their journey.
For those who don’t know, a ‘pacer’ is allowed to accompany a runner during a very long race. Usually, the racer is allowed to pick up a pacer after they have covered about 70 miles or so on their own and then can complete the race with company until the end. The role of a pacer sounds simple enough; keep your racer company and don’t get lost. But let me assure you, from someone who has paced, and used pacers many times, how important that role is. I am sure I would not have finished some big races if it weren’t for my pacers.
(missing Brad Schroeder)
I was asked to pace my friend Matthew, who paced me at the Divide last year and ran the Canadian Death Race with me this year, and Stuart, a friend from Saskatchewan I met last year at the Divide where we shared some pretty magical and definitely delusional hours together towards the end of the race.
It was also important to me to volunteer while I was there because I know how hard it is to cover all the shifts required for such a long race. It worked well to coordinate my volunteer shift with when I knew I could start pacing with Stuart. I also know how important volunteers are when you are racing, how meaningful it is when they offer you something hot in the middle of the night, or help you fill your water so you can sit for a minute and tend to your feet. Some are even brave enough to help peel your shoes off to uncover the most horrific foot care situations imagineable. Again, I knew that I wouldn’t have finished my big races without the help from volunteers on course.
Unfortunately, after a tough first day out there, Matthew pulled from the race, cutting my pacing duties in half. He was sleeping on the couch in the AirBnb when I snuck out at 5 am for my volunteer shift on the second day of the race. He apologized that I came all this way and wouldn’t get to pace. It’s all good. These things happen. There was still a lot of adventure waiting for me out there.
I drove to a pin drop location after following a relentlessly rutted road, and parked. There was no one in sight, no aid station supplies, and no cell service. I waited in the grey morning air until other volunteers emerged from the fog. Still no supplies. We chatted instead, swapping stories of other races, eager to get going. Hours later a truck shows up with a trailer full of gear for us to set up, and I am blown away by the sheer logistics of putting on a race of that magnitude.
One of my concerns after completing the race last year, was that the remote aid stations did not have adequate food, making long stretches between crew spots very challenging. So I was happy to see the menu had improved considerably. However, now on the other side of the experience, I saw how much work it was to provide meatballs, quesadillas, burgers, sandwiches etc. and I felt a flush of shame for complaining. Everyone works so hard to make sure the racers are cared for, and yet I was complaining I didn’t have warm soup at 2 am at a remote aid station that is only accessible by a 4×4 vehicle.
Now, here I was, on the other side of the experience, tending to racers as they came through, rushing to fill packs, serve food, asking what else they need. I loved to hear other crew and volunteers speak with such awe about the racers; everyone united with the common goal of shuffling those few hearty souls onwards to the finish line. Some said they remember watching my tracker last year, even though they didn’t know me, they were rooting for me.
I had no idea. I mean, I knew that my crew was supportive and that some friends back home were following along. But I had no idea that the Sinister staff, volunteers and even other crew members were so invested in other racers’ success. What an incredibly humbling experience. How often in life are there others working tirelessly to contribute to our success without us even knowing? And how often do we have the privilege of doing that for someone else?
After a long and soul-filling day at Check Point 7, Stuart came through at about midnight, ready to continue into the dark and rainy night together. Off we went. My energy level much higher than his, but that big smile I remember from mile 180 last year was just as bright.
The night was cold, the rain continued. The slow but steady hike had me worried about us staying warm enough, so I pulled out my emergency rain poncho to put over my down jacket. Stuart laughed at how ridiculous it looked. It was worth it though, it created a nice little sauna for me and kept me warm and dry. After a while, he relented and put his poncho on too and we laughed at the absurdity of our cheap plastic bags over layers of expensive run gear.
The night eased into the low clouds of morning as we headed south towards Coleman. A rockslide echoed across the otherwise eerily silent air, stopping us in our tracks to marvel at the sheer power the mountain unleashed and I was once again reminded of how fragile we are against the wildness around us. I was thankful I wasn’t alone.
A particularly difficult section at Window Mountain Lake that I remembered from last year, was once again difficult even with fresh legs and daylight. Stuart was handling it flawlessly, still smiling his tired smile, still moving really well for being 125 miles in but as the familiar outline of Seven Sisters and Crowsnest mountain came into view, I could tell his fatigue was setting in. At that point in the race, the prospect of how far you still have to travel can feel soul-crushing. I did my best to validate, comfort, distract and be patient. I encouraged him to eat, to enjoy the stunning view. I didn’t even notice what was going on for me out there, all my effort went into keeping him moving forward and navigating the rollercoaster of emotion that came with it; whether that was keeping him in good spirits, or staying there with him for the lows. I thought of the countless times my pacers did the same for me. Just be there. Isn’t that what we all need?
That is what has me absolutely enamored with this sport, especially 200 milers. The comraderie that comes from knowing you are out there with so many other people, journeying for the same purpose. In your own way. At your own pace. But connected in a way that can only come from struggle. From triumph.
It’s a beautiful metaphor for the way we journey through the rest of our lives. Often feeling like the only ones in the wild, sometimes travelling with someone that can help us feel safer, always knowing there are other brave souls soldiering on even if we can’t see them. Do we realize the number of people out there checking on us? Cheering for us? Waiting in that same wild for us to stop by for something warm and some encouragement as we pass?
I finished my pacer section after about 15 hours on the trail with him and said goodbye. I went back to the AirBnb to shower and climb into a warm bed while he continued on for another 30+hrs after I left, in worsening conditions on difficult trails. Even though I have done it before, I couldn’t fathom how it was possible for anyone to complete something so massive, so formidible. And yet here I was, on the other side of The Divide, cheering with all the other volunteers and support crews, to will those trackers to inch forward along the map, moving ever closer to that finish line where they will stand, knowing they are different people then they were 200 miles ago.
Run me Wild 