EVER since I arrived in the Lower Mainland from my home on the Prairies, I've lived in fear that one day I would be railroaded right back out of here by an angry mob of giant-calved outdoorsy type people clad in shirts so moisture-wicking you could mistake them for cacti.
The reason? I haven't learned how to snowboard. I once owned a mountain bike, but its claim to fame was that I used it so little that it took me three years to realize it had been stolen out of my back yard. I've never even, gulp, done the Grouse Grind. I believed these crimes against verticality were all enough for me to have my West Coast card rescinded and be banished back to the flatland.
Oh, the flatland. That's where my loves of beer, not climbing stuff, team sports and not being eaten by bears all blossomed. But it's that flat-headed lifestyle that has kept me from going vertical and exploring the magnificent mountain world just outside our North Shore doors.
This year I decided it was time for that to change - I signed myself up for a trail race. Run the North Shore has an event called My First Trail Race - I liked the sound of that. Five kilometres of Sunday strolling.
Envisioning the challenge I was facing, I decided in the weeks before the race to increase my regular training regimen by zero per cent. Two days before the run I headed to event headquarters at North Shore Athletics to talk to race director and all around rad dude Keith Nicoll about whether I should start out fast and then go even faster or just go open thrusters for the whole five kilometers. His answer was a bit concerning.
"A lot of people take this race for granted," he said. "It's not a jog in the park. . . . They don't train for it and then they show up and try to run it, and it's a lot harder than you think."
"Ha ha," I laughed, a little too quickly. All those stupid other people taking it for granted. Nicoll then listed off a bunch of trail-friendly gear that people normally use for races like this. Things I don't own. Things like trail shoes. Right.
Then it got weird. "The other thing is probably to use some personal lubricant on your nipples and other parts where you chafe," he said. "You see it a lot at the end of races - guys come across and they've got bleeding nipples syndrome.
That happens when it's wet and cold."
But hey, he added, there will be lots of pretty girls there. That didn't do much to undo the knot that had just tied itself in my gut. Nothing says flirty time like lubricant smeared on a hairy chest.
"Hey, fella, are your nipples bleeding or are you just happy to see me?"
In the moments before the race I nervously paced around, noticing how hard it was to pick out the pretty girls hidden underneath all those toques and mittens.
As the countdown began, I said my final goodbyes to my wife, my toddler son and my unlubricated nipples. Then we were off. After a wide open, slightly downhill start I got feeling a little cocky. Picking up the pace, I danced past runner after runner. Gaining strength, I ripped past what appeared to be a 10-year-old boy. Then I blasted past a pack of middle-aged women, or, as I for some reason labelled them midstride: MAWs.
Then things got tricky. So much for a Sunday stroll - the race took a turn into a trail I assume is called anklebreaker alley. And then came the stairs. Holy schnitzel, the stairs.
Rounding a bend that I was certain led to a short jaunt back to the finish line, I asked a smiling volunteer how much was left.
"Oh, not much, and wow, are you Donovan Bailey?" was the answer I expected to hear. What actually came out of the man's mouth was more like a bemused chuckle followed by, "Oh, there's still a long way to go."
You know what the proverbial runners' wall feels like? It feels like walking. And swooning. And getting passed by a large pack of MAWs.
Along with the wall, I was introduced to that other friend of the runner, the second wind. With the finish line in sight I stalked the MAWs, chasing down two before losing a footrace (in my case using the word "race" here is pretty generous) to one more gutsy MAW.
I took a little satisfaction in seeing her keel over after crossing the finish line, sit down and stare off into the distance, mumbling nonsensical answers like a teenager awaking from dental surgery. Oh wait, that was me. She was just fine.
"How you doing?" my smiling wife said.
"Not good." Then I did see something that perked me up - just finishing now . . . the 10-year-old. Take that, kid.
So anyway, congratulations you MAWs, lubricators and speedy children - I have a new respect for all that you do. Keep on running up and down those mountains. In fact, everyone should find an event they can handle and get out there and try it. Although for me, on my dying day I would not be disappointed to look back at my life and realize that My First Trail Race was also My Last Trail Race. Judging by how I felt after running a measly five kilometres, that dying day might not be that far off. At least when I go, I'll still have my nipples.
