Squamish 50k 2018: A Finish Line 5 Years in the Making

Squamish 50 2018. Photo: Hilary Matheson

The Squamish 50 is my favourite running event of the year, and holds a special place in my heart. Two days after I moved to Squamish in August 2013, I went on my first run on the trails and ended up in the middle of the 50 mile race by mistake. Intrigued, I looked up the event and decided to have a go at the 50k race in 2014. I ran that race as my first ultra, despite my life being upended by a breast cancer diagnosis and the subsequent surgery 3 months before the race. I came away with a time of 7h12, a huge, instant love for the sport and the trail running community, and the drive to improve on that time.

The 2014 race. Photo: Brian McCurdy

I trained hard through the next winter and spring, after undergoing and recovering from the final step in my treatment, a bilateral mastectomy. I was feeling great for the 2015 race, until I broke my wrist and did some soft tissue damage to my knee in a bike crash in late July. I barely ran for the 5 weeks leading up to the 50k, and was unsure whether I should run it with a broken wrist. I decided to do it, ran with my wrist in a splint (thankfully my cast was off by race day!), and clocked a finish time of 6h55, an 18 minute improvement on the year prior. But still, I knew I could do better on that course.

The 2015 race. Photo: Brian McCurdy

In the meantime, I was running lots of other races, gaining experience and building up stamina for the longer time on feet than I had ever run before moving to BC. All races are special experiences, and wonderful achievements, but there is something about the Squamish 50 that keeps me coming back for more. In 2016, I signed up once again, but our family was struck with tragedy when in May my dad was diagnosed, seemingly out of the blue, with terminal cancer. I spent most of the summer with my family, by my dad's bedside in the hospital. He died the day before the race. 

In 2017, training was going extremely well until I tore a hamstring in July, effectively ending my racing season. And that brings us to this year. This year, I trained painstakingly patiently. I slowly and steadily build my mileage back up once recovered from the hamstring injury, and had the most consistent 8 months of training that I have ever had, logging over 2000 km and 75,000 m of elevation gain between January and race day. I managed to finally make it to the start line of the 50k fit, healthy, and ready to give it my all on that course. 

Me and Kelly at the start of the 2018 race. Feeling "bright-eyed and bushy-tailed"

Race day dawned with the haze of wildfire smoke pervading the air, the sun a fiery orange orb in an apocalyptic sky. I wasn't thinking too much about the air quality; we had been running in less than ideal conditions for a couple weeks and it didn't seem to be affecting me. However, about 90 minutes into the race I started to feel queasy and lightheaded. This is very unusual for me, and the feeling of nausea stayed with me for the entire rest of the race. I can only assume this was caused by the smoky air; my energy gels were not exactly tasting delicious, but I was getting them down every 45 minutes without feeling any worse afterward. I ran steady and strong through to the Quest aid station at 23k, about 8 minutes faster than I had previously run that stretch, and knew that I was somewhere near the top 10 women. My time goal was 6h30, and I was right on pace to achieve it.

Running into Quest aid station. Photo: Hilary Matheson

Somewhere around 30k into the race, I started feeling sicker and sicker, and was really struggling. I was moving forward, but it felt slow, so slow. I kept mentally checking in with my body, and there was nothing really wrong with my legs - some fatigue setting in, twinges here and there, but no real muscle tightness or unusual soreness. I did a lot of positive self-talk: "You CAN do this"..."You ARE doing this..."... "You LOVE doing this...", and managed to stay fairly upbeat despite the feeling that I was slowing down so precipitously. I was also keeping myself motivated by imagining how well Brendan must have done in the 23k race, which he would have finished by this point. In the next 10k or so, I leapfrogged with a couple other women, and wasn't sure where I stood in the field. At one point during this stretch (which is a part of the course I normally do really well on, from STP through Somewhere over There), I found myself thinking that maybe I should stop pushing myself and just be happy with running a personal best time (anything under 6h55). I even had one brief moment when I thought, Maybe I'll just drop out at 40k and call it a good long run. Haha. But luckily I know myself better than that, and knew that I would not be satisfied with giving less than my all, never mind dropping out of the race(!). Thankfully, my downhills were going extremely well - I felt fantastic and freakishly coordinated (for me) on the descents, like I was dancing over the roots and rocks. Although conditions were exceptionally dry, I didn't feel like any downhill all day was particularly sketchy. It felt amazing, and the thought of each coming descent trail was one of the things that kept me going. I pushed on, determined to get to the Farside aid station where I knew I would see friends to cheer me on.

Coming into the Farside aid station, trying to smile but pretty much just grimacing. Photo: Hilary Matheson

Let me just say that my friends at that aid station pretty much saved my race. I slogged up toward them in a brain fog, with Hilary asking me what I needed - all I could reply with was a pathetic "I don't know what I need!". She changed tactics, got more specific, and asked me if I wanted Coke - I said yes - Rosie had it in my hands in less than 10 seconds. Meanwhile Eduardo grabbed my empty flask that I was holding, asked what I wanted - water - and was stuffing the flask back into my vest before I knew what was happening. The volunteers doused the back of my neck with a sponge of ice water, which felt amazing. And then as a unit, they all (almost literally) pushed me out of the aid station back onto the trails.  

At this point, there is only 10k left in the race, but that last 10k is the definition of a doozy. The trails are punchy and twisty, up, down, up, down, and you feel like you're going mad because they seem never-ending (am I selling this race well, or what?). However, I actually finally started to feel good again on this section. Still nauseated, and one of my calves was now cramping so that I couldn't run uphill on my toes for fear of completely seizing - but still, relatively good. (It's all relative, in an ultra). Buoyed by the boost at the aid station, and laughing at how it had all gone down, I found my natural pace again and just hammered as hard as I could, ultimately running that 10k over 5 minutes faster than I had done previously in the race. I passed two women in this section, and was confident that they were not going to catch me again.

Approaching the finish line, I got really emotional. So many emotions: Joy. Pride. Relief. Something bigger, that I couldn't identify at the time. I crossed the line in 6h36, not quite making that ambitious 6h30 goal but coming pretty darn close to it. It was a 19 minute PB, and I fought hard to get it. As I finished, I could heard Gary announcing my name and then saying "...and Tara will be happy to hear that Brendan smashed the course record in the 23k!", and I just threw my hands up in the air and whooped something unintelligible. Brendan came over to me at the same time as Gary, and he made me go in for the Gary hug first, haha - priorities! And then we were congratulating each other, and he was offering me some of his race winner champagne, to which I am quite sure my face turned greener than it already was. And then my friends Kelly and Hailey were there hugging me too, and I found out that we had placed 6th, 7th, and 8th females in an absolutely stacked women's field. What an incredibly special and proud moment, in so many ways. It was quite overwhelming.

Step 1: Gary hug. Photo: Hilary Matheson

Step 2: Bagginses hug. Photo: Hilary Matheson

What a day. What a race! It was the culmination of thousands of miles of training, hard work, perseverance, and battling through setback after setback. But the thing is, when I think back over those 5 years in between that first accidental encounter with the Squamish 50 and the 2018 race, the "work" and "battle" fades away and all I can remember is miles and miles of fun and joy on these incredible trails running with my girlfriends, with Brendan, and by myself immersed in the forest and the mountains. I don't think about the fear and sadness of breast cancer, or the pain and frustration of a broken wrist; I think about the growth I experienced by overcoming those obstacles to still run the 50k. The race on Sunday, August 19th, fell on the 2-year anniversary of my dad's passing. I know he would be proud of me, and as my mom said yesterday, "that can give you wings". So, that bigger emotion that I was feeling at the finish line? All of those things, rolled into one big, beautiful package. Brendan and I like to remind ourselves before races when we're feeling the nerves that it is "just running", which is, of course, true. But it is also so much more than that. It is happiness and suffering, exhilaration and pain, independence and support, weakness and strength. And all of that is what keeps me doing it, mile after mile and year after year.

Me & Hailey: Years of miles and smiles. Photo by Hilary, with whom I've also spent years and miles of smiles :)