ENDURrun is a seven-stage, 160-K running race held each August in and around Waterloo, Ontario.
At the risk of sounding dramatic, running it was unquestionably a defining moment of my life. As I write this it is only two days since it ended, and I realize it may take weeks or months for me to properly process what a personal accomplishment it was. I'm incredibly proud of myself. I would do it again and I would encourage any long-distance runner to consider doing it at least once in his or her life.
But the experience will not be remembered only for its many enjoyments. I did ENDURrun in part because I love running, but in part with a fuzzy notion that this display of endurance would help bring emotional closure, to ease the personal and family pain felt by the loss of my niece, Julia to leukemia in September 2009 (A third reason was to fundraise for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society of Canada). I know I have satisfied the first part; the second part I realize no act of sacrifice can suffice.
On to the race report.
August 7: pre-event get together and kit pick up
It’s held at Lloyd’s house in Conestogo, a hamlet a bit north of Waterloo; he’s the race director. His wife and their six children form the backbone of the race organization.
We ‘ultimate’ category runners-people striving to run every stage-get two shirts in our kit bags. One is a red technical shirt, the other a white cotton polo shirt with the ENDURrun International logo on the right chest (I silently commit to not donning either shirt until the race is completed).
My bib, which I will have to re-pin to my clothes for every run (and even during some stages, when it starts to fall apart), is number 30.
Lloyd, in a presentation to the group, points out 40 volunteers do the work of about 70. He also emphasizes food-available after each stage-will be plentiful and home made.
We are told that five of the stages start at 8 AM; the 10 miler (stage 4) starts at 6 PM and the marathon (stage 7) starts at 7:30.
He says 52 people had registered in the ‘ultimate’ category, 7 have registered but since dropped out, and one person has opted to upgrade. (ENDURrun has multiple categories-participants can run just one stage, or multiple stages, or enter as part of a relay team).
He notes we ‘ultimate’ runners also must pin a small strip of orange ribbon to the back of our clothes, to help distinguish us from other runners.
Lloyd points out we need to run on right side of road, within two feet of the white line, at all times. He stresses that at no time are the roads closed to vehicle traffic.
The sky this evening is clear and the air is cool and slightly cool. The long-term forecast is for high heat and humidity.
August 8. Stage 1: half marathon
The race start-finish is in a small but well appointed community park in Conestogo.
Lloyd takes attendance and we sing O Canada! (roll call takes place before every run).
The course consists of two loops. I start at the back of the pack, a practice I continue in ever race, notwithstanding the time trials, where our start placements are determined beforehand (more on this later). The first loop starts out going along a farm country road. I say hello to an old Mennonite couple out for a walk; they don’t say anything, just look at me blankly. I get a sense of how alien we runners must look to them.
Eventually the route gets onto a paved bike path that mostly follows the shoulder of the Grand River in bushy but flat terrain; on our right-hand side is a golf course. At times we pass dog walkers, cyclists, the odd runner and even a few golf carts (which Lloyd had warned us about).
We eventually regain paved roads and circle back through the start at approximately 13 K. The second loop is 8 K, and cuts out the paved path.
I had taken it very easy; finished in 2:06.
We get our first taste of the post-race reception; food and drinks are incredibly plentiful, tasty, and well organized.
While my left calf had been aching and painful for several weeks, on this run I don’t feel it at all. Indeed, by part way through the next stage, I never thought of it again.
August 9. Stage 2: 15 K time trial
The start-finish is in a park in Cambridge. Lloyd is to launch us off in reverse order of our half finish times—the stage winner is to be last. I’m approximately 8 or 10 in the start order.
The sky is overcast but it’s humid.
When I stand at the start line, alone except for Lloyd, I get a bit of stage fright. But within seconds I’m off.
There is a relatively sharp climb about 1 K into the route; otherwise, it’s generally flat or down hill. There is a 4 K out-and-back trail section that is pancake flat, passes under highway 401. There is so much moisture in the air and the wind is so still in the woods you can see steam.
For possibly the first time in my life, I finish a race first. But this is also my first time trial-since we went in reverse order, I in fact haven’t won anything, despite passing all contestants who went before me.
I finish in about 1:21, which isn’t even a PB for me. It’s an ephemeral “win.” I savor it anyway. By the time all runners are in I’m well down the leader board.
August 10. Stage 3: 30 K trail run
The course is a six-loop 5K circuit in Bechtel Park.
Lloyd employs timing chips, to make keeping track of loops easier (we also wear chips in the alpine stage). They are the older models that wrap around your ankle, and they are amusingly caked in dried mud.
It’s a very foggy morning, especially in the park where the race is being held.
The sun eventually burns it off, and it becomes very humid and hot, especially on the shadeless part of the course that’s in open field or on the park laneway.
In less than 50 meters of the start, a curious thing happens: all chatting among the runners stops. It strikes me how focused we all are, already.
The terrain is a mix of regularly mowed field grass—often we around the perimeter of a set of soccer fields—and soft, shady forest paths (a stretch by a river, no less), a bit of a rocky, inclined washout, and about a half kilometer of pavement running. Hitting the pavement after the more organic footing feels downright strange—it brings to mind the ‘sea legs’ phenomena.
I peeled off my shirt at the 10 K point. The weather is hot, and the shirt fabric too heavy—it is already utterly soaked. Considering how many very buff and shirtless male runners are here, my shirtlessness is an act of bravery. Duff, when I see him on a loop when I’m shirtless, says something like “you’re going shirtless.” I say it’s just too hot for one. I get the sense he is considering going shirtless, too (he does later, in the marathon).
During the run, while in the quiet and shadiness of the woods and alone, I find myself repeatedly falling in to a meditative state, where I am almost subconsciously running. The experience was like this: my mind would wander…and then I’d be almost startled to see a race sign (a yellow board with an arrow in it usually) pointing the way I need to go and I’d be startled back to awareness by it. I’d only then notice I had no recall of the last few minutes.
In the latter Ks of the race, I would—like other runners near me I saw—walk the few steepest or longest hills.
I finish in 3:06.
Once the race is over the discussion quickly turns to whether this was the toughest stage or not (the counter-point is the alpine stage—no one even brings up the marathon). Obviously it’s a lopsided debate for the rookies, who don’t know what’s in store, but we discuss it anyway. I keep my money on the alpine stage being the toughest.
August 11. Stage 4: 10 miler (16 K)
6 PM evening start and, incredibly, the sky—which was earlier clear—is now overcast. We runners rejoice. However, it is still very warm and humid.
The course is generally a straightforward out-and-back along Wilmot Line, a stretch of country backroad that a local participant tells me beforehand is where all the “hardcore…insane” cyclists, runners and triathletes train.
Lloyd points out that there is construction on a latter portion, and to be careful because “the road is a mess.” He adds it’s a mess for every runner, so we each just have to deal with it.
We start on a steep incline on a paved portion of the road; there is regular (if not heavy) traffic going by. Lloyd stops us, points with his left arm to get us organized behind an imaginary start line, and then informally sets us off (he did roll call at the finish area, which is where we gathered back up the road about half a K). After a short distance we turn left, onto another road.
My legs are very stiff and sore for the first 15 minutes or so. To my surprise and relief however they eventually loosen up.
The first 4 K is on paved roads, and they are generally flat. I begin to wonder about this infamous hilliness. We then regain Wilmot—which now has a dirt surface—with a left-hand turn, and before us is a very long steady hill. When we crest it we can see a dip, then a climb, then another dip, and in the distance a roller-coaster like topography bordered for the most part by open farm fields. Wilmot is almost arrow straight, so we know what’s coming well before we get there.
Being a dirt road the footing is inconsistent; sometimes hard packed, sometimes loose and soft, sometimes ankle-testing washer board. I notice near the turn around point for a K or so the road is wet. It hadn’t rained that day; it occurred to me the county must had watered it, to keep the dust down.
To my surprise, in the latter distances I pick up my pace, and find myself executing a strong negative split. I overtake numerous runners.
One runner, who I gather is only in this one race because I haven’t seen him before, suddenly breaks his cadence to a walk as I close the distance on him on yet another hill. He turns and says to me from 20 yards away “I’m finished.”
There are no other runners nearby and his apparent collapse happens so quickly it surprises me and I don’t say anything.
We regain the paved portion of Wilmot and the finish involves running up a long hill and executing a sharp right turn into a park.
I finish in 1:28.
I feel very strong. After I get a drink I walk part way down the hill and cheer on other runners. I see the “finished” runner coming up the hill, running again, and cheer him on with “I knew you could make it.”
August 12: Day off
I spend the day with Lisa and Leo.
August 13. Stage 5: 25.6 K alpine race
No word of a lie: the sky is this morning again overcast. The temperature is about 20, but humid. The forecast is for the sun to come out (and it will).
The course involves five loops of about 5 K each, with each loop involving two sustained climbs of Chicopee Ski Club in Kitchener. The scenery is remarkably alpine, with vistas at the top over the surrounding exurbs and farm fields as far as the Waterloo airport (which had Learjets flying in during the run—RIM executives’ planes?).
At one point, on a neighbourhood road adjacent to the ‘trail’-at this point it’s a hardscrabble service road, frankly-I see a man sporting two feathers in his long, dark hair, walking by himself up the street. He’s wearing traditional, aboriginal-looking clothing in earth-tone colours and has a kind of pack slung on his shoulder. I’m entirely alone on this stretch of the course, and so have no one to confirm or deny that I’m hallucinating.
Meanwhile, during the race, I realize a benefit of loop courses: You learn to anticipate where the toughest, steepest terrain is and how to use it to your advantage. If you pace yourself right, you can then “recover” on the less demanding passages and hammer (as much as you dare) down the declines.
On the steepest climb-straight up the grassy main slope in view of the lodge-I decide to power march, keeping my chin up, swinging my arms high in front of me as though I have poles in my hands. The technique pushes me to my VO2 max—even though I’m technically walking, which actually has the benefit of easing the stress on the legs (but does stretch the calves). Once at the top, I return to running (albeit running ‘easy’ for a few minutes). I realize I probably look foolish, but it works: I overtake several people who are walking on the slope, arms and heads generally sagging, and, at the top, overtake many others who ran the slope-but have to break into a walk at the top to recover from the effort.
Another benefit of loop courses: I make a point of gelling at each go-through of the start, and hit the frequent water stations on ever pass, too. By the end I’m soaked from sweat, as are all the runners.
There is no outright water or mud to deal with but the surface varies from packed dirt roadway to grassy slopes (which are slippery with dew on the first few passes) to powdery dust to damn forest trail.
The footing can be very uneven, and there are exposed roots and small foot bridges to negotiate and some runners suffer falls, although none serious, and two veteran ENDURrun runners quit during the stage. Another runner accidentally cut out part of one climb, and does a make-good half lap back up the mountain.
I finish in 2:50.
I feel strong enough after recovering from the run and eating to hike part way up the main hill with Leo, and even for a time carry him on my shoulders. It’s an ill-advised show of bravado: when I finally get too tired to carry him anymore, he, horsing around, tightens his thighs around my neck as I lift him and I nearly topple, head first. I don’t drop him and I manage to avoid falling over.
August 14. Stage 6: 10 K time trail
The race is a relatively straight-forward, flat, point-to-point affair beginning in Woolwich, a small village in Mennonite country north-west of Waterloo. We are again set off in reverse order, but this time on the basis of our individual cumulative times. Approximately 30 other runners are also involved, many of them just doing a stand alone race.
Despite the shortness of the stage, it proves to be a hard one for me. My legs, stiff and sore at the start—a very common feeling by now—distressingly remain sluggish and heavy throughout the event. The open countryside means I can watch as runners who overtake me eventually become small specks I have to strain to see ahead of me.
I realize a couple of things: The alpine stage wore me down more than I first thought; I’d taken this 10 K race for granted, and I have to refocus and properly prepare for the marathon the next day.
I finish in 53:06.
August 15. Stage 7: The Marathon
It begins-ends in same Conestogo park as the half marathon, eight days and 118 K ago.
We set off at 7:30, after the final roll call and another singing of O Canada.
The sky is again overcast, but the humidex is already at 31.
I have pinned a picture of Julia to my shirt. I remind myself several times that this is the big one, and that this run, this adventure, is a tribute to her.
The course consists of two large loops, identical in every way, all on paved roads, some of them secondary highways (but the traffic is light and the hard shoulders are usually very wide). There are seven water stations on the course, so we have 14 opportunities to get water or Gatorade. Gels are available at all stations. Despite this bounty, I decide to run with my water belt for the first time during ENDURrun.
Within minutes of the start, a mild rain shower rolls through. It lasts a few minutes only.
The route involves a few slight climbs and descents, but after the three hilly stages, they are borderline insignificant (I would walk a portions of some of them, however).
A group of cheery cyclists goes by in the other direction at one point in the first loop, but with rare exception, there are no spectators except the volunteers (who do a good job of boosting our spirits). For the vast majority of the marathon, I’m pounding the pavement alone.
I gel three times in the first half.
On the first loop I take it easy, keeping my pace to about 6 minutes per K.
At the first go through of the start area, I feel well hydrated and strong, so I hand off my water belt and hat.
A strange thing then happens: it starts to rain, again, as I run through the same location where it rained on the first loop. This time it rains longer and harder, however, perhaps 15 minutes, enough to wet whatever part of me remains dry. The rain does nothing to cut the humidity; in fact it makes it worse, and a small part of me wishes I’d kept my water belt.
Feeling strong, almost without meaning to I quicken my pace somewhat, to about 5:30-5:15 per K, and I slowly but surely catch up to runners, most of whom in the first half I never even saw.
The sun begins to burn through the clouds more and more.
I keep up the quicker pace until about the 30 K mark, and then can’t sustain it. While I keep up the battle and I hydrate a lot-I have been drinking both water and Gatorade at most stations, as I have throughout ENDURrun-the heat and the mileage catch up to me and the battle begins.
As I feel my strength slipping away, at one point I look down at the picture on my front and ask Julia for support.
Later, at one water station, a volunteer asks me if I want water or Gatorade or a sponge or a gel and I have trouble formulating an answer. She apologies for bombarding me with questions. I mumble “mind not working straight” or something like that and have some fluid.
A bit further on, my bib, which I have had on my leg for most stages, is very wet and rips out of the pins for the second time in the marathon alone. Instead of stopping to re-pin it I jam it into my shorts waistband, beneath my shirt.
The heat-and my fatigue-become extreme, and I begin taking walk breaks that have nothing to do with getting hydrated. I keep them to under a minute.
Later still, as I slow into a walk at another water station, I give a thumbs up when one teenage volunteer asks if I want water. But then I hear the other volunteer, a teenage girl who doesn’t see my bib, incredibly ask me if I’m with the race. I’ve already been by this water station today-and isn’t my depleted state obvious?
I say nothing, just pull up my shirt to reveal my bib.
She then says, “oh, cute girl” in reference to Julia’s picture. Already in a dark mood, I think of saying only “she dead” but instead say nothing and soon restart running.
In the last 2 K, despite being on the side of a secondary highway that’s carrying regular traffic, the heat and fatigue are excruciating, and I intentionally repeatedly close my eyes for about 5 to 10 seconds at a time. It sounds hard to believe, but closing my eyes felt good: at least my eyes get to escape the heat and stress for a few minutes.
In the last 200 meters or less, there are a few spectators. Their cheering helps me find a reserve I didn’t think I had and as I get closer to the finish I can hear Lisa and Leo cheering me in and I run as hard as I can into the finish. I raise my hands and cross the tape (which they re-string for each finisher).
I have just completed ENDURrun’s 160 K. I'm elated but all I want to do is lay on the ground for a few minutes.
Before too long, with a bunch of water and Gatorade and Coke, I'm beginning to feel better, and soon I'm barely even hobbling around.
Ever finisher gets a medal, a plague, a finisher's certificate and a poster autographed by all the finishers (yourself included, of course).
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