So when i woke up in April feeling healthy and spry and my inbox dinned with an "Early Registration" email, I decided to do it.
The first race, a 6+ km at Golden Ears Provincial Park in May set the pace. I climbed, ran, trekked, breathed heavily, crossed streams, tripped, and sweat. I was hooked.
I joined a trail running clinic, changed into dirty runners and luon in a washroom stall at work, and battled traffic across the Lions Gate to meet my group for a 6 o'clock run.
Things were hoppin'.
The next week, still on a high from having one peak under my belt and feeling strong enough to start competing again, I tore my MCL, bruised my tibia, and was fairly certain that my dream of completing the 5 Peaks Racing Series had all but vanished.
One fall. One twisted knee. Two eyes welled up with tears.
That's all it took to crush a dream.
The second race, in June, was in Squamish.
As it approached, I was determined to do it.
I'd go for walks with Harley and try to jog a little. My knee hurt. It swelled up. I sat back down.
This went on for weeks.
The Squamish race came – and went – without me at the start or the finish line.
My heart sank as I did slow, methodical movements with my physiotherapist, trying to regain strength.
"I'm going to run Cypress," I said to to my trainer.
"Yes, you will," she replied.
On July 20th I went to bed with a nervous gut and a racing mind.
Yes! I thought. Racing jitters!
It was a sign that I was on a comeback.
I woke up at 5. an hour before my alarm.
I juiced a pre-race elixir of cucumber, celery, parsley, and ginger.
I did a micro-jog with Harley around the block to warm up.
It was raining and cool.
I was happy yet petrified.
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| 15 minutes before the race! |
I promised my chiropractor I would be patient and listen to my body. I promised my trainer that I would suss it out and let my knee guide me and tell me how fast to go. I promised my mom I would not hurt myself again. I promised my travel buddy I would not be on crutches in Iceland. I promised myself I would be okay with just being out there.
At the top of Cypress Mountain, the rain came down in droves. Thicker and harder than it usually does in Vancouver. It was nearly snow. The fog was thick and the start line looked mystical. A race in the clouds.
I stretched. I paced. I started to be doubtful.
Can I do this?
Will I get hurt?
Am I ready?
One of the race officials made an announcement:
It's slippery out there. Watch for rocks, roots, mud. Conditions are very slippery. Be careful.
Gulp.
I had a brief moment of wanting to back out.
But I'm not in the habit of letting my mind prevent me from having a good time.
So I sloughed off the doubt, welcomed the jitters, and relished in this feeling I've missed for 10 long weeks.
I started in the last wave on purpose – so I could pass people.
Hopefully.
We ran 100 meters down a road to the trail head. It was thick and mossy. Muddy and wet. Instantly, a hundred runners panted wildly. I was one of them. My heart keeping beat to rap songs and poetic staccatos.
I was alive!
The thing I love most about trail running is that I forget I'm running. It's a mindful sport. You have to watch your footing below and the trail ahead simultaneously. You have to make instant decisions on footing. It's a brain game.
We went through mud-puddles so deep that my shins seemed painted brown and my steps were stuck for micro-seconds as the mud suction-cupped me to the earth.
There was a steep embankment of scree – tiny rocks and uneasy footing that saw an entire fleet of athletes huffing and puffing (and no longer running) one big step after another to the top.
There were webs of roots and banana slugs.
There were grassy knolls and fern-lined routes.
There was hill after hill after hill. So many ups.
And then a volunteer with a cowbell and a smile at the top of the last big climb.
"You're amazing!" she said "It's downhill from here. The nice kind of downhill. Enjoy it!"
And I pressed on into the foggy mist and the last kilometre of downhill running.
I crossed the finish line feeling tired but happy. My shoes were caked in mud. The hairs on my arms stood at attention. My knee was okay. Not great, but okay.
It had been precarious. There were a few moments when it didn't seem to like holding me up, but like a real trooper and the official joint of a stubborn girl, it carried on with conviction.
"How'd you do?" asked one of the volunteers as I loaded up on bananas and Gatorade.
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| Muddy shoes = fun times! |
I paused. I actually had no clue how I did.
In fact, for the first time ever, I didn't even look at the time.
And even after she asked, I really didn't care.
I was so happy to have finished.
Actually genuinely happy to be on my feet again.
I checked my results at home.
Bottom half (closer to bottom than half).
17 out of 32 in my age group.
An "okay" performance.
Normally, I'd pick apart where I screwed up, where I faltered, where I could have run faster.
But, you know what, this race wasn't about the time, it was about the journey.
Sure, a cheesy cliche perhaps. But it was.
I ran 6.6 km in a muddy, slick forest on the top of a mountain on a dark,dank, foggy afternoon 10 weeks after a knee injury sidelined me and only two weeks after lacing up again.
Screw the results.
I'm pretty proud of me.
