Here is my story about two things:

Hope & Focus

 

It starts with focus. On Saturday, August 17th, I lined up to attempt running the Squamish 50/50. The 17th was the 50-mile leg of the race, and when you start at mile zero, 50 sure seems like a lot. But at 5:30 in the morning, with the sun still not up and the headlamps of rock climbers scaling the Chief behind me, I wasn’t even thinking about the finish line yet; I just focussed on what was directly ahead of me. The race starts, and it’s just one foot in front of the other, a nice slow, steady pace to get the body moving for the day.

 

Before I knew it, I was at the first aid station, 10km in. (I converted the 50 miles into km, so I had around 80km to work with!) The first 10km was fast and flowy, with single-track paths and dirt roads that did not have a lick of hills. So I refilled my water and electrolytes, had a few pieces of fruit and was on my way.

Still not focused on the finish, I was looking at the first big climb of the day and the aid station. After that, I’d see my friends and family who helped me out. So with a smile on my face, and the sun now up, I headed out onto the next leg, a nice easy pace, and some fun challenging hills to climb!

So there I was, steadily moving up and up through the winding hill and back down the other side. I never focused too far ahead, ran when I could, and walked when it was too steep, but I kept moving.

Well, I got to the next aid station, Alice Lake. Dropped my running vest with my crew consisting of my partner Jess, Mom, Dad, Sister Meaghan, and my friends Laris and Sian, and doubled back to the toilet to empty my ostomy pouch. 20km in, first empty, not bad.

I ate a bunch of food here, peanut butter and jam sandwich, some fruit, took on more fluids, chatted with the crew. Honestly, I felt really good at this point.

Again, focus, I was 20km in, had 60km to go, but just a short 10km to the next aid station, so that’s my next goal, the next 10km. Keep moving, more hills to climb, but it’s a good mix of runnable and fast walkable trail. And again, before I knew it, I was at the next aid station. In reality, it probably took me an hour and a half, or 2 hours, but time wasn’t fully registering at this point. Just the next station.

By now it was well and sweltering. It was about 30 degrees and not a cloud in the sky: aid station, toilet to empty my ostomy pouch, fuel and hydrate. I mostly ate oranges and watermelon at the aid station and consumed gels on the trail for nutrition.

Now I’m 30km into this thing, and the next 10km is interesting, as it’s a mini loop within the 50-mile course that brings you back to the same aid station. So off I went, and the first km was super fun, flowy single-track, though I lost focus during the next downhill and tripped over a rock, falling so fast I didn’t know you could hit the deck that quick! I was okay, though, with a minor scrape on my knee and a cut on my hand, but I was back on my feet and back moving.

This 10km block proved difficult for me. It was so hot out there, and my ostomy pouch seemed to fill up earlier in the loop. It was bothering me with the weight and its inability to stay put how I usually have it tucked into my shorts. So, with the fall, my ostomy bugging me, and just the heat, I went a lot slower than I anticipated but made it back to the aid station not feeling too bad.

Refuel, rehydrate, toilet. Back out there.

This next leg of the course has the most extensive, nastiest climb of the day-750 meters over 4km. Its gruelling. It was scorching, and the hill just never stopped. It was relentless. I swear it was a 10km hill. By the time I reached the top, I was almost out of water, and I still had 5 km to go to get to the next aid station. And the next 5km were going to be a challenge, steep technical downhill, it wasn’t going to be a fast 5km. With my focus purely on making it to that next aid station, I just kept moving. Dragging myself forward, knowing I’d have snacks and water soon.

And so I arrived, watermelon and oranges have never tasted so good! I ate as many as I could, sugar rushing into me. Water and electrolytes, sit in the shade for a minute to try and cool down.

I know the math doesn’t exactly work as 10km blocks; it makes storytelling easier. But from here, I had about 5km to get from this aid station to the next, and it would be about the 50km point, and more importantly, I’d get to see my crew!

This 5km was surprisingly difficult. It was so hot, and I felt like I had no energy at all. Every corner I rounded, I wanted an aid station to be there, and it would just reveal another corner. When I finally popped out of the woods and saw Jess, Mom, and Dad, I burst into tears. The last 15km had been so hard.

They had set up a chair for me in the shade. I grabbed a sponge from an ice bucket, doused myself, then sat in the chair and cried. I was just overcome with emotion. I felt so much love and support coming into that aid station. I was in pretty rough shape at this point. I had help changing my shoes and socks. My mom wrapped my big toes and baby toes in moleskin to help alleviate some impending blisters and give extra padding as my toes were in so much pain. I took in as much food and fuel as I could—a couple of pieces of quesadillas, a bunch of chicken broth, more fruit. I honestly can’t remember everything I ate here, but my crew kept pushing food, and I mindlessly ate what I could. I made it over to the bathroom, applied some runner’s lube on my thighs as I was getting quite badly chaffed, and with the pit stop completed, I hugged my team and ambled out of the 50km aid station. I’d see them again in 20 kms.

As I left the 50km aid station, everything hurt. My legs weren’t moving too well, I was extremely chaffed on my thighs, and every step hurt; it felt like sandpaper rubbing between my legs. I did feel refreshed compared to how I got to that aid station, seeing everyone and all the encouragement really helped. I had 30km to go, but I didn’t focus too far down the line. I kept moving, one foot in front of the other. I don’t know the elevation gain coming out of that aid station, but it felt like it just kept going up. I was now on the aptly named “climb trail.” At some point along here, I went pee for the first time all day, which was a sure sign I had messed up many hours ago with my fluid intake. There was no time to worry about that now… gotta keep plugging along.

Eventually, I made it to the next aid station, desperately having to empty my bag. But by now, I was racing cut-off times and didn’t have long to recoup at this aid station. Managed to fill my water and electrolytes, eat some more fruit, and take off for the next aid station, hoping against hope to make the last cut-off before the finish. I had not done 60km, and I don’t know what time it was; I was running on instinct and mostly shambling along, hardly running at this point.

Through this leg, I was watching the time wind down, and I was pushing myself as fast as I could, which, admittedly, was not very fast! I knew I was close, but was having trouble getting any speed. The trail seemed so hard to run, with loose gravel, wood slat bridges, awkward footing, and many ups and downs. Eventually, I popped onto a gravel road and started jogging as fast as possible. Not too far down this path my girlfriend and a buddy greeted me and urged me on. I was cutting it close and needed to pick up the pace. They got my adrenalin going, and I picked up the pace, even managing a full sprint down one section, leaving them behind and passing another runner. I was so spent, but I had 500 meters with a small incline to go. As I approached, I had my whole crew, plus the aid station team, urging me on. I was delirious; I didn’t know which way to go. As I was so close to the cut-off, my hydration flasks were frantically changed out by my crew, and a bunch of 5-hour energy was handed to me, along with some more gels to try and fuel me.

70km done, it was now somewhere around 7:30 at night. I had 10 km to go and 3 hours to get there. I was exhausted. The effort to get to the last aid station was immense. I didn’t know I had that in me, the last 3km were such a push. If everything hurt at the 50km mark, I don’t know how to describe the 70km mark. I was barely functioning, but after making it this far, I only wanted that finish line. 10km to go. Oh my god! There was not a flat piece of trail to be had. I made it a couple of km in and passed a few other runners stopped along the trail, but I tried to keep moving. Eventually, I succumbed, and I found a log and sat for a brief rest as I drank and tried to give my body a chance to finish this thing. I was so tired, and 7km seemed so far away.

Another racer approached, helped me up, encouraged me, and dragged me along. We chatted, or mostly he talked, and I tried to keep up. His name was Paul, and he was the oldest person registered for this race. As we went, we gathered another runner into our group; of the 3 of us, Paul was in the best shape. I was crumbling despite Paul’s effort to keep me moving. I don’t remember when, but eventually, I fell off the back and lost them. Paul got me an extra couple of kilometres, though. I will forever be grateful for the effort he put into helping me there. This last section was so tough. I was getting closer and closer to the end; if I could just make it out of the woods, I’d have a flat 3km to the finish. I saw the time winding down, and my legs were moving slower and slower. I was on the last downhill section; it was so dark that I was now running with a headlamp; as I was on this last down, my hope of finishing within the timeframe was fading fast. I kept pushing; every step was excruciating, and my body was screaming at me to stop. I had 3.5-4km to go, and the time limit on the race passed while I was still out there. I was crushed. I came to a flight of stairs, so many emotions going through me, so disappointed that I had gotten so damned close, but also knowing I still had to get back, and I could hardly walk.

I phoned my crew to come get me. I was in tears. I was so close, and yet the finish seemed years away. The hope of making the finish line that I had been holding and using to fuel me had faded, and I couldn’t move.

I had hoped to run 50 miles on Saturday, and go back and run 50kms on Sunday. In the end I ran 76-77kms. I found out a week or 2 after the race that I had 30 minutes left to make it to the finish when I called my crew. I was crushed all over again. I know my body was hurting, but when I thought there was still a hope of being able to finish, I was able to keep pushing. Once I thought I was past the time, all my hope disappeared and I felt so defeated.

My hope really wavered. Within 24 hours of my finish, I pledged to try again next year and I had already begun planning based on what I learned. The entire experience was a valuable lesson, there is always hope….keep pushing. While I may not have accomplished my goals this time around, but I hope that when you read this and whatever it is you are going through right now, keep pushing, I know I will.  I can’t wait!

Follow Tales From The Bag

Alex MacInnis embodies unwavering determination and inspires many with his resilience in the face of adversity. Diagnosed with Crohn’s disease at 12, he lost his large intestine in 2018. Rather than letting circumstances control him, he’s marking five years with an ostomy by tackling the challenging Squamish 50/50 trail race series. This race once seemed impossible during his darkest days, but now he’s pushing boundaries by conquering ultramarathons. Running in support of Ostomy Canada Society, Alex’s journey symbolizes hope for a vibrant life post-surgery. Join him as he showcases the strength of the human spirit and redefines living with an ostomy.

• Visit Alex’s website, Tales From the Bag
• Follow him on Instagram
• Donate to the Squamish 50/50 campaign

The post Running the Squamish 50/50: Alex MacInnis’ Inspiring Journey first appeared on Ostomy Canada Society.