Are
you aware of your own physical limits? Do you know just how far you can
physically push yourself before your body will just simply collapse into a
little heap of blood and bones? Well, I don’t either, but I can say that
after what I took part in a couple weekends ago, I am one small step closer to
knowing.
The event, dear readers, was the Kusam Klimb. It’s a trail run. I use the term "run" loosely here. There’s no way you can run most of it unless you’re superman, or at least have some Kryptonian blood running through your veins. Or, perhaps, are a parkour master. The Klimb is held in Sayward, BC, on Vancouver Island. Normally Sayward is just a sleepy little town that barely even has a grocery store, but on June 23 of this year it was home to the most hellish, physically devastating 23 km I have ever run in my life.
We know people in Sayward. Pat and John go way back with Glen’s mom and his family, and I first met them when Glen and I moved to Campbell River just south of Sayward. They’re awesome, super friendly, very generous people who have been trying to get us to try the Klimb since we got to the coast. So this year, I happened to mention it to a friend at work, Michelle. We decided to give it a go, along with a friend of Michelle’s, Rebecca, and my husband Glen. Pat and John were incredibly kind and not only offered to let us crash at their beautiful comfy house, but they also fed us. And let me tell you, the Hansen Inn is the place to stay in Sayward. The food’s awesome, too.
The event, dear readers, was the Kusam Klimb. It’s a trail run. I use the term "run" loosely here. There’s no way you can run most of it unless you’re superman, or at least have some Kryptonian blood running through your veins. Or, perhaps, are a parkour master. The Klimb is held in Sayward, BC, on Vancouver Island. Normally Sayward is just a sleepy little town that barely even has a grocery store, but on June 23 of this year it was home to the most hellish, physically devastating 23 km I have ever run in my life.
We know people in Sayward. Pat and John go way back with Glen’s mom and his family, and I first met them when Glen and I moved to Campbell River just south of Sayward. They’re awesome, super friendly, very generous people who have been trying to get us to try the Klimb since we got to the coast. So this year, I happened to mention it to a friend at work, Michelle. We decided to give it a go, along with a friend of Michelle’s, Rebecca, and my husband Glen. Pat and John were incredibly kind and not only offered to let us crash at their beautiful comfy house, but they also fed us. And let me tell you, the Hansen Inn is the place to stay in Sayward. The food’s awesome, too.
So
did I train? Of course. What kind of runner would I be if I didn't at
least attempt to train? I'm always
running. I run every day. But sitting in front of a computer screen and
seeing the immense altitude gain in the first portion of the race, I knew just
being able to cover 23 km simply wasn't going to cut it. To the Grouse Grind, then! The elevation gain on the Klimb is nearly
equal to 2 Grouse Grinds, so a couple weeks before the race I pounded my way up
the Grind twice, just to see if I could do it. Incidentally, I can, and it's actually not too
bad. So I felt pretty good about my
ability to actually make it up the hill.
So did it help? A bit. A teeny, little bit. The problem is, the Kusam Klimb is steeper
than the Grind. Right now anyone who's
done the Grind is staring at their screen in disbelief. It's simply not possible, you say. Oh, but it is. I know firsthand that it is. While the Grind seems to go straight up
Grouse mountain, it actually switchbacks enough that there are less steep sections. The Kusam Klimb laughs in the face of
switchbacks.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s start with a quick description, shall we? The race is run on Bill’s Trail, a trail built by an older resident of Sayward. It’s 23 km long, and goes over a mountain. No, really, it actually goes over a mountain. Had you asked me that day what I had done, I would literally be able to say “I climbed a mountain”. It starts with a 5+km section with significant elevation gain, at which point you end up in a saddle between 2 peaks, and the highest elevation you will reach. You gain nearly 4000 ft in 5 km. Switchbacks? No need, my friends. Straight up is the only way. Straight freaking up. What’s that? You need a break from the straight up? Well, let’s throw a cliff with a rope in there, just for fun. Then, after that incredibly tiring and seemingly endless climb, you go straight down a gully-and I mean straight down-another km or more. At that point it levels out a little, and is downhill to a lesser extent for the remainder of the distance along a deactivated logging road.
There are checkpoints along the route where they take down your number, and most have gatorade and water. Checkpoint 3 also had watermelon and Nanaimo bars, which I think may have been one of the reasons Michelle actually signed up for the race. They were quite delicious, though I only stopped long enough to chug a gatorade and snarf one Nanaimo bar. It was a good Nanaimo bar, too. Good enough to help keep me going for another 16 km or so-well, along with the margarita shot blocks and water. I think part of the reason there are checkpoints is that in case you get injured there's someone within a few km's that could help evacuate you. That, and making sure that everyone who started the race actually finishes the race. Surprisingly, there were actually not many serious injuries this year. I say surprisingly because the course was, well, let's go with gnarly. And that’s putting it mildly. I’m still in awe of how the race organizers manage to get event insurance to run it every year.
Not
only is there a lot of intensely steep up and downhill, but there's a lot of
very slippery mud. And the mud gets
everywhere. On your hands, in your hair,
and all over your clothes. And especially
your legs. From the knees down we all
looked like we’d waded through a lovely mud pit with our shoes on. I’m sure it was good for the skin, though. And since you haven’t suffered enough with
the mud, there's snow, which presents whole different kind of challenge I will
address later. Then it’s on to the
deactivated logging road, with gravel the size of boulders, which I learned
firsthand are excellent for torqueing your ankle on. I wore a tensor bandage for about 3 days
after the race. Given that it's a
deactivated logging road, it also means that they've removed all the culverts
that kept the road reasonably flat underneath all that bouldery gravel. So there's also stream crossings, where you
quickly realize that your only choice is to truck right on through with your
shoes on, 'cause there's literally no other way to get around them. Actually, the stream crossings were kinda
fun-after you got used to the idea that your feet weren't gonna be even
remotely dry. On a side note, while
waterproof shoes and boots sound like a good idea for the Klimb while you're
standing in a nice dry sporting goods store, they're not. No shoe or boot is truly waterproof,
especially if the water goes over the top of them. And while they might keep water out, they also
keep water in. Thus making them a bit of
a stinky foot swimming pool after a couple streams. So go for the non-waterproof trail shoes with
good ventilation, because they'll actually drain the water rather than keeping
it in.
The volunteers on this run were awesome, and I’m not just saying that because one of them let me sleep in their house and eat their food. All of them had to be up literally before the crack of dawn in order to get in position for the race. And some of the spots they were in you couldn’t drive to. John, for instance, was up at 5 am so he could take a bumpy ride down a deactivated logging road, only to have to park and hike another hour or more to get to the checkpoint he was manning. That’s dedication to the race, my friends. Not to mention the fact that they literally needed to be there all day. The person who finished last took over 12 hours to finish. Which means most of the volunteers were out there for at least 10 hours. That’s a long time on a chilly rainy day. And the best part? They were cheerful. Not only were they up before the crack of dawn and having to sit and watch people run by all day, but they were happy about it! That was one of the things that made the day truly an experience-the happy volunteers. Kudos to you all my friends, I hope I get to see you next year.
There were ropes on this course. Why? Because in sections of the course the hills were literally too steep to get up or down without them. Hogwash, you say! I say nay nay. There were parts on the uphills, before the snow started, where the trail ended at a rather solid-looking wall of rock. Where did the trail go, you ask yourself? Well, you need only look up to find your answer. Yup, that’s another pink ribbon hanging just at the top of that cliff. Oh, and look, a rope to help haul yourself up with. Super. Well, up it is, then. In fact, of the few times I felt a little lost on that uphill section, the best thing to do seemed to be to simply look directly above me. Sure enough there would be another pink ribbon marking the trail. So if all else fails, straight up.
The ropes were also in use for the downhills. Oh, yes, the downhills. The soul-crushing, quad-killing downhills. For the most part, the ropes on the downhills were put there because of the snow, which was another oh-so-lovely part of the race. How to best describe it...
The snow section was only 3 km long. 3 km of snow, you say? That doesn’t seem so bad, does it? Well, see, there’s where you’d be wrong. The snow was hell on wheels. It’s not the happy, fluffy snow we all know and love from skiing. It’s icy, crystallized, scrape-your-fingers-and-laugh-hysterically-at-you snow. It’s hard packed and slushy. It’s the snow that’s been sitting up there all winter and then baking in the sun and getting watered by rain for months snow. And your mission, as a Klimber, is to cross it, get to the saddle of the mountain, and then somehow make your way back down the other side without killing yourself. Good luck with that.
What about traction devices? Wouldn’t they work to make it easier on the snow? Well, I’m pretty sure the snow would laugh at you anyways. I saw quite a few people with traction devices strapped to their feet-yak traks and the like-and they weren’t doing any better than I was. Anything short of full-on crampons on that stuff just didn’t really seem to help. The one thing that really did seem to work was just having a pair of trail shoes with really knobby grips on them. All hail to the La Sportivas I was wearing, which worked fantastically. They were even good on the muddy uphill sections before the snow, which most people were slipping on. I love those shoes, man.
The volunteers on this run were awesome, and I’m not just saying that because one of them let me sleep in their house and eat their food. All of them had to be up literally before the crack of dawn in order to get in position for the race. And some of the spots they were in you couldn’t drive to. John, for instance, was up at 5 am so he could take a bumpy ride down a deactivated logging road, only to have to park and hike another hour or more to get to the checkpoint he was manning. That’s dedication to the race, my friends. Not to mention the fact that they literally needed to be there all day. The person who finished last took over 12 hours to finish. Which means most of the volunteers were out there for at least 10 hours. That’s a long time on a chilly rainy day. And the best part? They were cheerful. Not only were they up before the crack of dawn and having to sit and watch people run by all day, but they were happy about it! That was one of the things that made the day truly an experience-the happy volunteers. Kudos to you all my friends, I hope I get to see you next year.
There were ropes on this course. Why? Because in sections of the course the hills were literally too steep to get up or down without them. Hogwash, you say! I say nay nay. There were parts on the uphills, before the snow started, where the trail ended at a rather solid-looking wall of rock. Where did the trail go, you ask yourself? Well, you need only look up to find your answer. Yup, that’s another pink ribbon hanging just at the top of that cliff. Oh, and look, a rope to help haul yourself up with. Super. Well, up it is, then. In fact, of the few times I felt a little lost on that uphill section, the best thing to do seemed to be to simply look directly above me. Sure enough there would be another pink ribbon marking the trail. So if all else fails, straight up.
The ropes were also in use for the downhills. Oh, yes, the downhills. The soul-crushing, quad-killing downhills. For the most part, the ropes on the downhills were put there because of the snow, which was another oh-so-lovely part of the race. How to best describe it...
The snow section was only 3 km long. 3 km of snow, you say? That doesn’t seem so bad, does it? Well, see, there’s where you’d be wrong. The snow was hell on wheels. It’s not the happy, fluffy snow we all know and love from skiing. It’s icy, crystallized, scrape-your-fingers-and-laugh-hysterically-at-you snow. It’s hard packed and slushy. It’s the snow that’s been sitting up there all winter and then baking in the sun and getting watered by rain for months snow. And your mission, as a Klimber, is to cross it, get to the saddle of the mountain, and then somehow make your way back down the other side without killing yourself. Good luck with that.
What about traction devices? Wouldn’t they work to make it easier on the snow? Well, I’m pretty sure the snow would laugh at you anyways. I saw quite a few people with traction devices strapped to their feet-yak traks and the like-and they weren’t doing any better than I was. Anything short of full-on crampons on that stuff just didn’t really seem to help. The one thing that really did seem to work was just having a pair of trail shoes with really knobby grips on them. All hail to the La Sportivas I was wearing, which worked fantastically. They were even good on the muddy uphill sections before the snow, which most people were slipping on. I love those shoes, man.
Still skeptical about the horror of the snow?
Well, step closer and I’ll tell you what happens to those that weren’t
staying at John’s house for the warning.
We were warned the night before to not wear shorts. Why?
Because the snow, crystallized as it is, chafes. That’s right, it chafes. Try to slide down on it, and it will cut you,
man. John told us that if we wore shorts
that we shouldn’t slide on the snow, because your shorts will slide up and the
snow will literally take off your outermost layer of skin, and then some. Michelle and Rebecca witnessed this firsthand
when they got an eyeful of a woman whose backside looked roughly the color of
maraschino cherries. Thankfully we all
heeded the warning and at least wore capris.
I’m glad we did-it wouldn’t have been pretty going anywhere in the car
if we hadn’t. Thank God John warned us
about that. See, that’s why it’s good to
have connections, man.
Before
I did this race, I estimated that it would take me about 4 hours. If it were on flat ground, 23 km might take
about 2 hours and 15 minutes. I was
wrong. So very, incredibly wrong. In fact, I had just barely made it to
checkpoint 2 when 4 hours rolled around.
My final finishing time was 5 hours and 39 minutes. To put that in perspective, it takes me about
4.5 hours to run a marathon. A marathon,
which is nearly twice the distance of the Kusam Klimb. Given that, I guess I can understand why I
was so exhausted at the finish line.
Glen took 6 hours and 32 minutes to finish, which was impressive given
that I thought it would take him at least 2 hours longer than me. It didn’t help that he made a wrong turn and
ended up going 2 km farther than he needed to, though. Michelle and Rebecca, who speed-hiked the
whole thing, took just under 8 hours.
While
I'm sure I make this run sound completely awful, it really wasn't. True, after I had finished I have never felt
so physically wrecked in my life. And
yes, I was approaching my limit for physical endurance near the end. But isn't that the point? Wouldn't you rather finish the race knowing
you left it all out there, gave what you could and finished in a way you feel
is satisfactory? Well, that's how I
feel. Yeah, it was hard. Yeah, I felt completely insane for doing it
while I was out there. But then I looked
around me. I'm not the only crazy person
on that mountain. There were nearly 300
other people just as nuts as me. Some
faster, some slower, but all equally as twisted as to sign up for this race. That's a huge part of why I race-to
participate. To know I'm not the only
nutball out there that wants to hammer their body into the ground just to see
how far they can go. That, and the fact
that I can eat nearly as much cake and pasta as I want without having to worry
about where the fat's going to deposit itself.
I’m
going back next year. Why? Because now I have a time to beat. And because I can.
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