I texted my girlfriend, “I think I’m going to drop babe. This might be my last loop,” as I hobble-jogged past my second-last aid station.
I never thought blisters would take me out, but here we were. Just 25 kilometres in, and those little bastards started forming on the balls of both feet. It started with mild irritation, but the combination of heat and sweat exacerbated the discomfort, ripping the skin off right off, and leaving me with a raw, searing pain I’d never experienced before.
It was dark out now as I descended the ski hill into the transition area. One more leg, and 19 kilometres to go. On a normal day, 19k in a 108k race would feel like child’s play, but when each step feels like walking barefoot on burning coal, finishing seems unfathomable.
I plopped my ass into a chair, relief washing over me. Getting off my feet felt incredible. For just a brief moment, the pain subsided, and I caught a glimpse of what stopping would mean: warm clothes, a hot shower, a comfty bed. It all sounded heavenly.
But as in life, when things get unbearably hard, we’re faced with a choice: keep going, knowing it will only get worse, or call it quits? I’d been grappling with that question all day, and in all my years of running, I had never been so close to dropping.
The Hard Road to the Start Line
Getting there wasn’t easy.
Just six months earlier, I wasn’t sure I’d ever run again, let alone run ultras.
The year had begun at one of the lowest points of my life. I was still battling a string of mystery injuries that baffled the countless doctors I’d consulted with. First, it was plantar fasciitis. Then bilateral stress fractures. Then compartment syndrome. Then chronic regional pain syndrome (CRPS). Whatever it was, nothing was improving. I could barely walk without pain. My feet would burn hot and turn red at the slightest activity, and flare-ups were an almost daily occurrence.
January was dark and dreary, and my hope for a full recovery was dwindling. The negative thoughts, that once whispered at the back of my mind were now screaming at me from the moment I woke until the moment I went to bed:
You’ll never run again. You’ll never even walk normally again. This is who you are now: someone with chronic pain.
Doctor’s told me I may just have to “live with it.”
Strength training and aqua jogging were my only escape from the relentless soundtrack from hell playing in my head. But things weren’t all bad. I still had something to look forward to.
Getting engaged the year before had lifted my spirits, and planning a wedding for the following summer felt like a beam of light cutting through the dark hole I found myself in.
But then, life found another way to gut-punch me.
In early January, my fiancée broke up with me and moved out suddenly. The wedding was off. I had to break the news to friends and family, and scramble to find a new place to live.
I became catatonic: numb, displaced, shattered—like I was stuck inside a tragic comedy. Could things possibly get any worse?
Running had always helped me process heartbreak. The physical discomfort helped soothe heart pangs and grief, at least temporarily. It gave me a place to zone out and process my shit. It helped me feel more in control—better equipped me to tackle the heavy emotions flowing through me. The unbearable became just a little more bearable with running by my side.
But if the past year had taught me anything, it was this: acceptance is the only way through, whether I hated it or not. Resistance to reality only deepened my suffering. As Steve Magness wrote in Win the Inside Game, “Whatever we resist, persists.”
Pain wasn’t optional, but choosing to suffer was.
Luckily, my friends and family were there with open arms, ready to help me through it. My sister booked an emergency trip from Ontario and stayed with me the week of my break-up, which consisted of sporadic crying episodes, apartment viewings, and repetitive venting. Daily FaceTime calls with my mom, couch cries at my best friend’s place, and lots of walks with my good pals, got me out of my head—a place I no longer enjoyed being in at all.
I also started taking myself on little solo dates to Squamish: a 20 minute loop around Alice Lake followed by a few hours of working at my favourite coffee shop. It gave me a sliver of peace, and with it came a decision that I had been put putting off for years: I was finally going to get a dog. No more waiting around, I’m going for it.
I put a deposit down in late January.
Looking at photos of my soon-to-be bestie gave me something to fight for. I wanted to heal not just for myself, but for her—regaining enough mobility to give her the fullest, richest life.
I found a beautiful apartment back in my old neighbourhood, Olympic Village, and once settled, I finally had the space to process everything. Until then, I had been in survival mode—so busy sorting out logistics, that I hadn’t fully grasped the reality of what just happened.
So I journaled. I cried. I meditated, I went to therapy. I walked when I could and if the pain was too much, I just sat on a bench. Rain or shine, it didn’t matter.
Then in March, Billie came home and everything changed.
I wasn’t lonely anymore. She was always there, happy, excited, affectionate, adorable—the unconditional love I desperately needed.
I was no loner focused on my injuries or my heartbreak.
I was focused on her.
My Return to Running
And slowly, I began to heal—mentally, emotionally, spiritually, and physically. I still had setbacks: moments of weakness, sad thoughts, the occasional flare-up. But they were less frequent, and I was able to bounce back quicker.
In early March, I experimented with some walk/jogs, and by the end of the month, I ran my first continuous 5k. In April, I was doing longer efforts. And in May (in an unexpected turn of events), I met an amazing woman.
Life had done a complete 180 from the beginning of the year. I had a new apartment in my favourite neighbourhood, a new dog, and a new girlfriend. Life was not only feeling normal again, but exponentially brighter.
By June, I was tackling longer hikes and runs, and after consulting with my doctor, she gave me the green light to put a few races on the summer calendar. No pressure to perform. This wasn’t about proving anything—this was for me.
I signed up for the Buckin’ Hell 50k in North Vancouver in July and Black Spur Ultra in Kimberly, BC at the end of August.
Buckin’ Hell went surprisingly well. My feet held, I felt good throughout the race, and somehow managed to shave 21 minutes off my time since 2022.
But would my body hold for Black Spur too? I believed it would. No flare-ups for months now, and I had put in the training time. Endurance events are always imbued with risk and unknowns, but sometimes the only way to test our limits—to know what we’re capable of—is to dive right in.
The Black Spur Ultra
Before I knew it, race week was here. I was laying out my gear, packing drop bags, and pinching myself that this was really happening again. Just a year earlier, I couldn’t manage more than a ten-minute walk at a time. Now I was gearing up to run 100k through the mountains.
The Black Spur Ultra is a six-leg loop course for the 108k distance, and three legs for 53k.
- The first leg (GOAT) is a gnarly ascent and descent of North Start Hill (+900m of elevation and 16 kms)
- The second leg (TOAD) is a rollercoaster-style cruise with runnable, well maintained trails (674m elevation and 18kms);
- and the third leg (BEAR) is similar to the second leg in distance and elevation (670m and 19.4kms), but ends with a climb up Myrtle Mountain.
Once you finish all loops, you get the pleasure of doing it all over again!
To be honest, I didn’t know how I’d feel about a loop course…I’d never done one before and repetition can make the miles drag. But I was curious, and wanted to try something new. Kimberly is a trek from Vancouver, but my girlfriend, McKenzie and her pup, Tiki, joined me for a little gal’s road trip. With the stunning scenery and great company, the long drive flew by.
Race Day
The race started at 8:00 a.m., and I woke up at 5:00 a.m., as per usual, to down some hotel coffee, get organized, and squeeze in multiple bowel movements before we made our way to the start line. My stomach was a bit iffy that morning—maybe it was the two large mugs of hotel coffee I pounded back, maybe the tacos, pizza, and ice cream I had the night before, or maybe it was just my nerves. I couldn’t stomach a lot of food, but managed to eat a bit of a peanut butter protein pancake.
Surprisingly, I felt calm on the drive to the start. I was nervous, of course, but the anxiety I was accustomed to pre-race was non-existent. McKenzie’s soothing, reassuring voice kept me present and excited for the adventure to come, and I was already looking forward to seeing her at the end of each leg—the emotional fuel I knew I’d need.
The start line buzzed with energy. It had been two years since I ran a race over 100k, and while I was happy with how my body performed during Buckin’ Hell, this felt like new territory all over again. But I didn’t focus on whether my feet were going to be able to bear this challenge or not; I was focused on just taking it one aid station at a time.
And then we were off.
The first climb (and 4th) would be the biggest, so I was happy to get it out of the way earlier when my legs were the freshest. The ascent started immediately up the ski hill, then shortly after, we were climbing up North Star. I reminded myself to take ’er easy: no burning legs, no heavy breathing, start off uncomfortably slow, and stick to the plan. I remember thinking how bad this climb is going to suck the second time, but I tried to remain present. When I reached the first aid station, it was a technical cruise down the back of the mountain before wrapping the first 16k of the race.
I was feeling pretty good early on. I stayed on top of my nutrition and hydration, pre-emptively taking chewable electrolytes and eating as much as I could. Leg 2 was much more runnable. While the trails were very much up and down, I felt strong and kept an easy, slow jog pace. But around 10k in, I started to feel some blisters forming.
Over my years of ultra running, I’ve never had to deal with blisters. I’m not really sure if it’s the shoes, the socks, or what, but this summer, blisters were a new problem I had to deal with. I had second-skin bandages in my drop bag, but I didn’t think they would hold, so I texted Kenz asking her if she could grab some medical tape.
As I wrapped the second leg, my feet were starting to throb. I pulled off my sock and some skin came off with it. My feet were looking mighty raw. After some bandages, some medical tape, and holding onto hope that my new tape job would do the trick, I made my way to Leg 3.
After this leg I’d be halfway there.
Unfortunately for me, the tape wasn’t helping at all and the pain began to worsen yet again.
I pulled my phone out and texted Kenz on course:
My mind was no longer focused on enjoying nature, the scenery, the adventure, but was instead, laser-focused on the pain—something I had habitually done when injured. That’s when the alluring sound of quitting first entered my mind. Without some sort of intervention, I didn’t think I could do another 53k with pain like this. On top that, the afternoon sun was blazing, and the mix of altitude and heat became puke-inducing. I started to feel not-so-hot.
After mummifying my feet and doubling up on the socks, I decided to keep going.
The second grind up North Star was treacherous, as expected, but as with all ultras, I reminded myself that the pain would eventually end. Taking a massive endurance event like an ultra and breaking it down into bite-size pieces is the only way to make it digestible. If you’re so focused on how much mileage you have left, it’s going to make time crawl and the sufferfest ever more in your face.
As I summited North Star, I was ready for some real food. I’d given up gels long ago and was only eating bars now, which were starting to make my stomach curl. I was pleasantly surprised to see some boiled, salted potatoes, shovelling them into my face, and forgetting all manners as I thanked the volunteers while chewing.
The descent felt long and painful: my legs were burning, tummy turning, and blisters throbbing. I couldn’t wait to plop down on that chair again, re-tape my feet, and eat something salty and savoury. When I finally made it down that ski hill, I felt a wave of comfort seeing my gal there. Helpful, as always, Kenz had organized my gear, making it easier for me to grab bandages and extra socks from my drop, and had already grabbed a whole slew of different snack options to choose from. The only thing that somewhat interested me at this point was a bag of plain Lay’s chips, so I ate a few, and made my way to my next loop of death.
Leg 5 was the worst loop yet. The pain had become unbearable, and I wasn’t sure I’d even make it through this section. My stride became a jog-hobble, where I tried to step a certain way to avoid putting pressure on the hot spots. Quitting felt like the only option. I couldn’t bear running another 30k+ with this kind of pain. No way.
As I shuffled along, I reflected on this past year and everything I went through to get here, envisioning how I’d feel if I threw in the towel. Unlike past races, this one wasn’t about proving anything. Black Spur was supposed to be a celebration for all that I’d endured over the last year—my comeback.
I’d never DNF’d before, and never believed there was shame in it. Still, I didn’t know how I’d handle it emotionally. My mind took a turn down memory lane. I thought about the adversities I faced in past races: the twisted ankles, the chafing, the puking, the sore feet and log legs…. And beyond running, the heartbreaks, the grief, the year of having my favourite activity in the world ripped away with no promise return. Then the thought hit me: Was I really going to let some blisters take me out?
While I wrestled with my inner dialogue, Kenz had been busy problem-solving. By the time I saw her again, she had a new plan ready to go: Vaseline and Polysporin.
At the aid station midway through Leg 5,, I resorted to something I’d done countless times over the past year: I peeled off my shoes and socks, and squeezed my feet with my hands until the throbbing dulled. The gentle massaging bought me a little relief and after about five minutes, I laced up again, feeling 10% better. The pain was still bad for sure, but that small shift changed my attitude. I went from deciding to drop to giving lube a try. Hope crept back in.
As I arrived at the transition area for the last time, I knew I needed to eat something substantial. I barely ate anything on the last leg, and was feeling mighty bonked. I slurped down some ramen, a few meatballs, and got my nighttime gear ready, and gave Kenz one last kiss before making my way into the darkness. Based on my pacing schedule, I was hoping to finish this last loop in about three hours.
The nausea hit fast. Everything I just ate soon took up residency in my throat and unable to hold it in any longer, I was puking up the nastiest combination of ramen noodles, Coke and coffee. My feet still hurt like hell, but the Vaseline was helping just enough to keep me moving steady. I reverted back to the basics: steady pace, run the flats, hike the climbs, and just keep moving.
I didn’t see a single person that entire leg, when some rustling in the bushes reminded me of cougars and bears. But I was too exhausted to worry. If I did happen to see one on the trail, I’d probably would’ve just scooted on by, being annoyed that they were keeping me from my bed.
Finally, a glow appeared in the distance. I was approaching my last aid station with only 9.4 km to go! I chugged back more Coke, which turned out to be a terrible idea, because I was Burpy McGagginson going up that last climb.
I kept grinding, pushing as hard as I could. I couldn’t help but wonder how different my race might’ve been if it wasn’t for these damn blisters…
But that’s the thing with ultras—you never know what kinda pain cocktail you’re gonna get. Something unexpected and unwelcome almost always makes an appearance. But when it does, it forces you deeper into yourself, to discover the reserves you didn’t know you had. The hardest moments in race, and in life, reveal our true character. Self-knowledge lives in the lows, and with ultras, the many hours spent alone with your own mind, can bring you to places you may have never otherwise traversed.
As I was nearing the last 5k, I began to get emotional. This wasn’t my first ultra rodeo, and I’d gone longer before, but I had never endured physical pain like this.
I needed finish, not just for me, but for Kenz. She’d been at every transition area, running back and forth from Cranbrook to track down all my random requests: Canadian Tire, Shoppers, Starbucks, back to the hotel, and then back to the course again. And she did it with such patience and positivity. I was just so…touched.
To be loved like that is an indescribable feeling. When someone doesn’t just support what you do, but is an active participant, giving up their time and energy so that something you can love be the best it can be—that’s rare. As I was made my through the final stretch, I felt overwhelmed with gratitude. This finish wasn’t mine alone—it was a team win.
When the lights from the resort finally came into view, I knew this painful adventure was now coming to an end, and a dumbass smile spread across my face. One last descent then warm clothes, a hot shower, the bed I’d been dreaming about all day.
And just like that, it was over.
There’s something strange about running for 17 hours then…stopping. It’s a feeling of two minds; one is here, exhausted, depleted, satisfied, accomplished; the other is still out there in the dark, grinding along the trails, replaying the day on repeat.
Final Thoughts
Black Spur took so much out of me. I was wrecked, puking on the way home, at the hotel, and again the next morning.It took me about a week to start feeling like myself again.
Old, run-streak me wouldn’t have allowed any rest post-race. I would’ve laced up the very next day to keep the run streak alive. But this new version of me made a different choice. I let my body recover so I could continue to doing what I love over the long haul.
If there’s one thing this race made clear is this: life’s most important moments are infinitely more meaningful when shared with others. This summer, I paced my pal Jade through her final stretch at Fat Dog. Watching her cross the finish line after 44 hours of running, was sublime—a moment I’ll remember for the rest of my life.
The Germans have a word for this: Mitfreude— “joy with” or “shared joy”—where you bask in another person’s happiness and success, as if it were your own. That’s what I felt at Black Spur. When I finished, I knew Kenz had been right there with me, feeling the same joy.
Running can be a solo endeavour, but the deepest nourishment comes when it’s infused with love. Love for the people who crew us and carry us through; love for the running community and volunteers, and love for ourselves—being courageous enough to sign-up, to go for it, to endure.
For what really matters in life isn’t the success or failures, its’ the people we share it with.
Fons vitae caritas.
Love is the fountain of life.