This year has been a bit of a throwback to my first in the sport. A year where I took the time to train on the courses I’d be racing. Where I could get as “game-realistic” as possible.

All of my best races have been on courses I know inside out, including what I consider an extremely strong showing at Run Ridge Run 25K earlier in February.

The Whistler Half Marathon had the makings of something similar. I’d been on course enough in the month leading into the race, and had the experience of running fast along several key sections.

My fitness also felt at its strongest since Run Ridge Run, after spending the next month injured.

I should have been able to put any mental blocks from my previous performance at Trail des Collines aside and race well.

But for a few reasons, I found myself floating for most of the first half of this race and couldn’t get into that next gear. The ghosts of that last race were still haunting me.

I reached the start line later than most, surprised to see no familiar faces. Most of the elite BC contingent had gone away to Coaster for the weekend, dividing competition in two places.

After the horn, I led from the front against the plan, and found myself entrenched with four or five others.

No one made a move to really take a hold of the lead or put some pressure on the pack, so we all hovered in and out of first position for the opening miles before two runners veered off course.

Ironically, it was those two runners who then led the first charge to separate the pack as soon as they returned to the front. The eventual winner of my race went with them. Knowing it was a long race and feeling comfortable with my ability to navigate the trail sections that were to follow, I held back, letting myself be caught by two others.

For the race’s own convenience I’m sure, the 32K and 21K started at the same time. Everyone’s bib looked the same and I had no intention of spending the time studying minute colour differences. So, inconveniently, I had no idea if any of these five other runners were in my race.

This, I think, rather foolishly, contributed to my lackadaisical approach in the opening miles. I could have been first in my race or sixth, and I guessed that I would be about third. I felt fine with that and with my heart rate in a decent spot, I held back as those two runners began to ascend faster than me.

“Long race!” I thought to myself, as they continued to make ground. These were words I’d definitely come to regret. The top three were already gone, and the other two had put ten or so seconds on me.

As the curvatures of the trail fluctuated and undulated, I would regain ground with these other two runners. But I never wanted to get too close. I felt confident I could overtake them at any time, but decided not to engage in their battle, and maintain my own distance to see the trail properly.

This was also a mistake. I should have been hovering behind the lead pack of three, not the chase pack of two. Little did I know, I was losing substantial ground on the podium that would never be made back up.

As time ticked on and I remained in my own kind of la la land, I went in and out of focus, and lost the plot on all those ahead of me.

I glanced down at my heart rate to see 155 – a number that I don’t normally associate with races of this distance.

But still, “long race!”, I thought again. Knowing that I was stronger – or at least under the continuous impression that I was stronger, I told myself that I would have no problem catching them with ease.

I reminded myself of Harricana 42K in 2024 – a race I ran intentionally on my own, gradually knocking down pins to soar from fourth to second.

But unlike Harricana, this wouldn’t be a four hour race. It wouldn’t even be a two hour race. So by the time we reached the turnaround – the first time I could really see where I stacked up to what was both ahead and behind – it was too late.

Ironically, it was in this moment where I finally thought: “I’m still in this.” That was the inciting incident toward trying just that little touch more. It was in that moment that I really started to push and probe. It was in that moment that I escaped tempo workout mode and went into more of a threshold, race mode.

I know how to race shorter distances, and I know how to race them well. There’s a certain groove and flow to racing fast on undulating courses. I did it at Javelina’s Jackass 31K last year in October, and when I won Sulphur Springs 20K two years ago.

Sulphur Springs was a race where I came from behind. I could do it again.

I reminded myself what that feeling felt like, and started to just “go for it.”

I left the thoughts and the doubts behind, and just focused on running each section of the race as fast as possible.

And it wasn’t long before I picked off one of the five runners. Unfortunately, it was just before the 32K race diverted from the 21K.

“How many runners have gone this way?” I asked the volunteer.
“Three.”

Up to this point, I had been operating under the assumption that I could be fifth/sixth, or first. I had no idea. This was the second moment in the race that kicked my legs into a higher gear.

With that little piece of information, I knew I had to do everything in my power to claim a spot on the podium.

I could feel that the guys ahead were clearly strong athletes. But I knew where I belonged.

As I reached the bottom of the Lower Panorama, I finally got my first glimpse of two of those three on a long straightaway. They had more than a minute on me, so I knew it would be a difficult task.

But, like at Sulphur and Harricana, I’ve come from behind many times before. I knew that if I kept on fighting and they slowed, anything could happen.

Unfortunately, the next key sign that I saw said “3K to go!”.

It was already too late.

To make up an entire minute in just 3K would mean that I would have to run more than 20-seconds faster than them across each kilometre remaining. If they were at 3:50/km on a trail half marathon, I would need to hit 3:30/km.

Instead of doing the math that I’m now doing here, I continued to tell myself “go for it.” No other thoughts in mind. Just “go.”

It’s a mantra my old university cross country coach used to say and one that’s stuck with me for these shorter races, where it can be all about grit and fight rather than intelligence and versatility.

Even then, saying this now, I never reached outside of myself. I stayed within comfort limits, and never really pushed the envelope too far to chase after it.

As I approached the final 500m, I could see one of the runners ahead. It was amazing I had even managed to close the gap to less than twenty seconds.

Had the race been five kilometres more, second to first was mine, without a doubt.

But I left it far too late.

In reality, this was an incredibly short race. Not a long one at all!

Unfortunately, I treated it more like a trail marathon, rather than a half.

That showed in how much energy I still had to push at the end; and after it was over. I felt like I could have genuinely carried on at that pace and effort for another 21K. I didn’t feel sore or tired at all.

Even the next day, I could have run without any post-race soreness. That’s rarely ever happened before, especially when giving it my all.

I just didn’t do enough in that early to middle third of the race. I needed to trust my fitness more, go with the front three, and hold on if I then fell off the pace.

Had I done that, I would have either won this race or comfortably finished in second, which would have been more apt to where my fitness truly was on the day.

I think any race is a great learning experience as it allows you to do better for the next one. But I’m getting a little tired of learning lessons! I just want to run fast and well from start to finish again, and I’m sure that will come with more time and experience, and likely more distance. Hopefully, that’ll come next time in Squamish, or when I finally go back up in distance again next year.

Thanks for reading and see you soon!