A pact was made in Manning Park,

Caught in a snowstorm in July.

It’s easy to say stupid things

When you’re expecting that you’ll die.

We never thought we’d see it through,

But as it turned out, we survived.

We should have known we’d make it,

For in adversity, we thrive.

Eleven months it hung around,

Deep in the backgrounds of our minds.

But then the day had come at last,

To lace up our shoes and grind.


Logistically it was a mess

To think this business through,

And caused no small amount of stress

Planning car-drops, gear and crew.

At Cleveland Dam we left a car,

And at Deep Cove park as well.

My own car waited at the finish line;

To reach it, we’d run through Hell.

The mighty Bird offered his wife;

Mama Marina brought her daughters.

Myself I was content to mooch

Off what they all had to offer.


The weather started out quite fine,

It’s a shame it didn’t hold;

For we would spend that whole first night

Under showers, feeling cold.

All three of us were sheathed in shorts,

I wore a specific denim print,

Anticipating Mijinke’s Jorts

On a booty worth compliment.

I started out with Naked Band

And my matching Man-bra too.  

But I later donned a heavy pack,

My minimalism through.

For the night is dark and full of terrors

That one must always be prepared for;

Naked’s stretchy mesh would surely tear

If all ten essentials were shoved in there.



A classic start-line at Deep Cove

Where the fire hydrant stands.

Our spirits soared as we set out

To meet the trail’s demands.

Well the Baden Powell’s a surly bitch,

But she gently lures you in,

Until the switchbacks start to switch

Into a rocky root prison.

But on we marched to Cleveland Dam

And sometimes even jogged

On the rare occasion when the trail

Wasn’t a godforsaken bog.


Our first of many cameos

As Dam-ward-Ho we went,

Was Heather of the Fatdog Race;

Her presence Heaven-sent.

She supplied us all with salty chips

And mini pecan pies,

And since we weren’t expecting her

It was a great surprise!


Our path next crossed a merry group

On a baby-shower run!

‘Cause Tara Berry’s pregnant state 

Won’t stop her from having fun.

“30 weeks along” she said,

Her balloon announced “a boy!”

Alicia Woodside led the way

And meeting them spread joy.










At Cleveland Dam we took some chäir,

Seating our sweaty asses

On a rolling hill by Mama’s car,

Our legs brushed by gentle grasses.

I chugged my first of six cold beers;

A lovely palette cleanser.

And Erik Bird soon changed his tune

About drinking on adventures.

We bid adieu to our fair chäirs

And found that sitting took its toll,

As our running legs were clunky stiff

When departing from our knoll.

We made it close to a km

When Erik abruptly said “Ahem,”

“I’ve left behind my poles.”


We received a text from Jarvis

That he was lurking about,

And our estimated meeting time

Gave him plenty of time to pout.

That trail is just an asshole though;

30 minutes becomes an hour.

Although messaging “you’re fucking slow,”

When we met, he wasn’t that sour.

In fact Nick Jarvis was glowing,

For he’d recently finished showing,

His trail-newbie friend, 

The wrong end

Of an ass-kicking in roughly an hour.



(At the mention of Nick I find,

I’ve slipped into limerick rhyme.

It’s fitting you see,

Because to me,

Nick’s the biggest troll of all time.


And limerick’s the most troll-y verse

That ever could be rehearsed.

And his partner in crime,

Another friend of mine,

Is possibly additionally worse.


They royally roasted my QBU Fail,

Now I must retaliate on similar scale.

Despite all that was said,

Hannah shit the bed.

Hence the trolling tone of this tale.


Yes Hannah deserves introduction,

As she’ll be joining this production.

We’ll meet her real soon,

When greeting the moon.

So please pardon the interruption:


There once was a girl from Squamish,

Who the Baden-Powell demolished.

She brought up the rear,

And shed many a tear,

And by trolls she was sorely admonished.


Couch-to-ultra peacocking!

Suffice to say it was shocking,

When she called it a day

25 percent away,

And her trolls continued their mocking.)










At Hollyburn we hit the snow

Around 800 meters high,

But we had much more climb to go;

Beware of postholes to your thigh!

And then adjacent, down she went!

Marina punched through snowy crust,

Face-first into a riverbed,

And we all made quite a fuss.

But Mama’s knee-pads saved her then;

The same ones that to me,

Provoke such childish dirty jokes

About her getting on her knees.


At Cypress Lot we took *real* chäir;

Erik’s lovely wife Christine,

With pizza and beer, was waiting there;

The perfect dinner scene.

Nick and his demolished friend,

Who was also christened Nick,

Were chilling, drinking post-run beers,

Which we cheers’d with an audible click.

I was offered a blue blanket,

Which I took with gratitude.

For the elevation had a chill,

And I craved warmth along with food.

But all good chäir must sadly end.

On our feet despite their ache.

Again we pressed on, West and Up,

To summit Black, then reach Whyte Lake.


We cheered upon the crest of Black!

Then on to Eagle Bluffs,

Where treated to a fine sunset,

Before boulder fields at dusk.

The descent to Whyte is super sketch,

But at least the first time we were fresh,

Though it was still my ardent wish

To not become a bloody mess

Or a paraplegic husk.

We made it down without a tumble!

And soon six tired legs did stumble

Into Whyte Lake aid in quite a rush

To ease our hungry tummies’ rumbles.


Our feast commenced, but suddenly

A most spirit-lifting sight!

Our headlamps illuminating Jorts!

Alan’s booty in the night.

Reinforcements had arrived!

Yes there was Hannah by his side,

And some dude named Matthew over there,

Incoming pacers extraordinaire

And trusty forest guides.

Our pacers had their own set goals:

“A hundred k or bust” we’re told.

Perhaps -based on their training- bold?


The time had come to turn around

And do the whole course in reverse.

12 hours gone, 55k in,

And now to do it all again!

The route was less than that of course,

But we had wandered lost before,

And likely would get lost some more;

Expecting things to get way worse.

‘Cuz back up Black our path now led;

A 1200 meter climb ahead.


Speaking of lost, as we began,

We quickly became lost again

In darkness on steep slopes of Black,

Forcing tactics of “Back-track!”

Then “Wait! What’s that over there?!?”

Some random dude with Pokémon hair!

Calling him Random is barely fair;

The understatement of the year?

Yes he was in a *state*, you see,

Exclaiming of underwear hanging from trees!


1 thought on “Van160 “Race Report” Part 1

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