Thorn/Rose: or, Around the Bay, 2024

by Alison Conway

Is there anyone getting ready for a race who isn’t a bit of a control freak? You may be out there, but my guess is that most of us have lists of gear and race plans that we review in the days leading up to an event; we check and double check our kit the night before; we go over various contingencies in our minds; we formulate back-up plans in case of a disaster.  All this so that the wheels don’t fall off the bus on race day.

It was a bit strange, then, to find myself at an event last weekend where the wheels seemed to be falling off the bus—not my bus, however, but that of the event itself. It began when the race directors of Around the Bay announced, sometime in the winter, that the course had grown from 30 km to 34 km, due to unforeseen circumstances. There would be two finish lines and two finish times for us all, with winners in both groups. I had signed up for the 30k race as an opportunity to re-do my first ATB attempt in 2017 when I failed to take warnings about the hills in the back 10 km seriously and had to live with the consequences. This year, I would beat that 30 km time. The last four kilometres would have to take care of themselves—I wasn’t racing them. Still, it felt a little weird. Two finishes? And, gutted after 30 km, how long would it take me to get to my banana and warm clothing?

The night before the race, we received another notice: a sinkhole had opened along the route, and now we would be running 35.4 km. I mean, really? I felt sorry for the race directors, but I also felt sorry for myself:  it was a weekend of freezing temperatures and those last kilometres were going to be cold and miserable, for sure. I tried not to think about it as we made our way to Hamilton the next morning. It was sunny and I was ready to race.  

But at the stadium, things were chaotic. No one was around for the bag check, so we bundled our belongings into plastic bags and threw them behind a table. At the start, I tried to find my way to Corral D, but couldn’t see any signage for it. My pace rabbits were up at the front, so I made my way to them and talked strategy: they were aiming for a steady pace for the first 20 km, with a bit of time in reserve for the hills. This was the plan. Almost as soon as we started, one of the rabbits disappeared, presumably for a pit stop, and then reappeared a couple of kilometres later.  He pushed the pace and then vanished over the horizon.  The group gamely pressed on with his partner, along the lake and through the rollers. I felt terrific as we crested Heartbreak Hill:  on pace and ready for the final three km to the 30 km finish line. Suddenly my rabbit accelerated, leaving me behind. What? And then a kilometre marker appeared—it said one thing, but my watch said I was almost full kilometre farther along. I ran past the Grim Reaper, looking for markers. All I saw was kilometre signage for that day’s other races. Where the hell was I? Up another goddamned hill and looking for the 29 km marker, which never came. Or did it?  Suddenly a voice shouted, “You’re at 30!” I hit the mat and my watch clicked 30 km, right on time. Or was I?  

I thought that most runners would race the final kilometres to the stadium, but it seemed that most, like me, had raced their 30 and were done. I was frozen after a kilometre of making my way toward the second finish on wrecked legs. Suddenly a runner came up behind me, “Hey, Al!” It was Keelan, a young woman whose running I’ve admired since she was three years old, racing her brother down the street in front of my house.  She, too, had raced her 30 km, and my joy at her successful first ATB warmed my heart. But not my hands. We walk-jogged our way back to the stadium, weary and cold. 

Finally, I found myself in a warm room, with the friends who had driven to Hamilton with me. We were thrilled with our finishes—we hoped—as we waited for the results to be posted. My pace rabbit found me and apologized profusely. He thought he had lost a kilometre somewhere along the way and raced his group into the finish three minutes under the allotted pace time. What had happened out there?

And then another voice called out to me. I turned and said, “Juan!” Juan and I met in a race corral in London, UK, nine months ago. He was wearing an Ontario triathlon t-shirt that morning and I had introduced myself as a fellow Canadian. It was a lovely warm morning and we were both excited to be in London, ready to race through the streets of a magical city. What were the chances of his appearing, here, now, at the end of a race through a somewhat less magical city, where we had circled a sinkhole and frozen our butts off?

The excitement of seeing Juan again was all I needed to set things right, just then. The summer day we had enjoyed in July found its way to Hamilton and the wheels went back on the bus. Because, in the final instance, life is about chances and being thrown for a loop. The same orbital drift that opened the sinkhole and placed the kilometre markers god knows where brought Keelan and Juan to me just when I needed them most, to make the world merry and bright after a long race on a cold morning.

Alison Conway lives and works in Kelowna, British Columbia, on the traditional and unceded territory of the Syilx Okanagan people.