To you (and your dream deferred) 

IMG_19282017 broke my heart twice. First, amid the raucous din of Boylston Street, in the finisher’s chute of the Boston Marathon, a malfunctioning Garmin beeping manically on my wrist. And again, not long after that, on the corner of a quiet residential street in Toronto, orange streetlamps illuminating the last page in a bittersweet love story.

Athletes are supposed to be good at heartbreak, and marathoners especially so. Ours is a sport that demands months upon months of gruelling, thankless preparation. Even then, there’s no guarantee that the gods of illness, injury or fair weather will be on your side come race day.

That’s why resilience, for a distance runner, is utterly essential; in the marathon, as in love, you can do everything right and still get burned. But in 2017, in the wake of an epic heartbreak double-feature, I felt my characteristic marathoner resilience start to falter.

Redemption stories have always captivated me. When you look below the surface, it’s incredible how many dazzling accomplishments owe themselves to a doggedness born out of heartbreak and failure. Perhaps nothing in recent memory comes close to Shalane Flanagan’s historic New York City Marathon win this past November, less than a year after a stress fracture forced her to withdraw from Boston — an epic, untouchable moment of redemption, bought with the pain of an unfortunate setback.

When we talk about heartbreak, this is often how we frame it. We’re a culture that’s comfortable with failure in the narrowest possible sense of the word. Failure is a trope, an origin story. It’s the thing that happens during the opening credits of the movie, the inciting incident setting our hero up for a greater triumph yet to come. There’s precious little room in that narrative for the reality of what heartbreak so often brings — for the paralysis that grows out of self-doubt, for sadness or anger, frustration or fear.

Embrace your setbacks, people tell us; use them as fuel and come back stronger. But what happens when what doesn’t kill you doesn’t really make you stronger?

What happens when failure is just failure?

It’s a question I’ve wrestled with a lot in recent months, a question that’s dogged my road-weary steps through innumerable false starts — through Netflix binges and missed workouts and halfhearted pledges to “get back at it”. What does it mean when you can’t find the silver lining?

For the better part of this year, my running devolved from competitive training into what can only described (shudderingly so, I might add) as “jogging”. Out of shape and out of excuses, I eschewed racing in favour of easy, contemplative runs through the city at night. I fixated endlessly on the contours of my own disappointment, struggling to shape them into something redemptive, something that might pass for inspiration.

Struggling, but not succeeding.

It’s easy to understand the appeal of the unflappable optimist. But there’s a danger in looking at failure exclusively through the prism of redemption.

If we fixate on the silver lining — if we take the unyielding position that every stumbling block has been placed in our path solely to test us, to push us, to make us stronger — we run the risk of devaluing ourselves in the present. Our worth becomes tethered to the moment-to-moment likelihood that we will, in fact, turn things around and come back stronger. But what if we don’t? What if we continue to struggle, stumble and fail?

In the world of distance running, it’s easy to revel in stories of the big, epic comeback: Lanni Marchant’s record-breaking marathon in 2013, shortly after being left off the 2012 Olympic team; Kate Van Buskirk’s banner year on the track, after a devastating spondylarothropathy diagnosis in 2015.

All too often, though, we forget about the stories where crushing defeat goes unavenged. Think Kara Goucher’s heartbreaking fourth-place finish at the 2016 U.S. Olympic Trials, or Rob Watson’s emotional post-race debrief at last year’s London Marathon, after missing the Canadian Olympic standard by more than five minutes. Think of Paula Radcliffe, arguably the greatest marathon runner of all time, whose record-shattering career nevertheless saw her shut out of an Olympic medal of any colour.

We can’t fit these stories into the tidy narrative of failure as an origin story for later success; Radcliffe’s competitive days have ended, and the prospect of a future Olympic berth for either Goucher or Watson looks increasingly unlikely. There will be no big, epic comebacks here — at least, not in the traditional sense.

But there’s a grandeur, an undeniable glory to these endings that goes beyond the prospect of what might lie ahead. There’s greatness in the act of striving for something, a greatness that is not diminished by the dream left unreached, by the barrier left unbroken.

Sometimes there are no silver linings. Sometimes that’s okay.

Resisting the urge to rationalize this year’s disappointments as part of some bigger plan, I have forced myself to look at them, instead, for what they really were: the end result of a series of random, mostly arbitrary events outside of my control. Boston wasn’t great, but it wasn’t for lack of training. My relationship ended, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. Give me clear sinuses and cooler weather (and, maybe, better taste in men) and both outcomes might have been entirely different.

The tipping point between success and failure often has nothing to do with us. In a way, that’s a profoundly scary thought, because if our failures ultimately hinge on chance and luck, that means our accomplishments might, too. So we plumb our heartbreaks for lessons that aren’t there, instead of celebrating the nobility of the attempt. But in the end, we’re all at the mercy of the whims of fate.

And so, if you’re like me, and you’ve had a profoundly unlucky year, I’d like to take this moment to celebrate that: to every dream job you didn’t get, every PB you didn’t set, every meet-cute you missed, every spark that failed to fly.

Here’s to quitting (at least you started). Here’s to heartbreak (at least you cared). Here’s to failure (at least you tried). Here’s to you — not your potential, not your goals, not your still-pending comeback.

Here’s to you, right now, just as you are. Silver linings or not.

Chase big dreams.

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The Paper Chase: An incomplete history of Olympic cross-country

Ind_cross_country_1924_Summer_OlympicsSomewhere in the past week, you may have noticed a subtle shift: the days are getting shorter, the air is getting cooler, and the leaves, in a few scattered pockets, have begun to turn. And even though the imminent pumpkin-spice-and-blanket-scarf invasion is just about upon us, I can’t help but feel — and I’m sure I’m not alone in this — that it isn’t quite fall until cross-country season begins.

Cross-country was, in many ways, my first love. While track can be characterized by precision — by perfectly-level surfaces and precisely-measured distances — cross-country has always had a certain romantic haphazardness about it. Something about running over raw, unmanicured terrain speaks to a more natural, primal, childlike desire to run. Cross-country, to me, has always felt like the essential iteration of distance running. And perhaps as a result of this, the way in which administrative bodies think about cross-country has long puzzled me.

I was about twelve years old when I developed what has proved to be a particularly enduring indignation about cross-country’s exclusion from the Olympic program. Here was a classic contest of distance running in its purest, most exciting, most unpredictable form, and for some baffling reason it was absent from the most prestigious international athletics competition in the world. How on earth could this be?

As it happens, it hasn’t always been this way.

Cross-country did, in fact, enjoy inclusion on the Olympic program for three consecutive Summer Games, in 1912, 1920, and 1924 (the 1916 Games, originally planned for Berlin, were ultimately cancelled after the outbreak of the First World War). During its brief Olympic tenure, the sport was dominated by Swedish and Finnish athletes; the 1924 Paris Games saw Paavo “the Flying Finn” Nurmi capture gold in a now-infamous race that would ultimately prove to be the death knell for Olympic cross-country.

That ill-fated contest — a 10.6K course run along the ragged banks of the Seine, adjacent to the smokestacks of a nearby chemical plant and in temperatures exceeding 40 degrees celsius — ultimately wiped out more than half of its field of 38 elite distance runners. Of the mere 15 finishers, eight had to be carried away on stretchers. News reports abounded of delirious athletes, stricken with sunstroke, vomiting or falling unconscious; Edvin Wide, a Swedish Olympic medallist and fan favourite, was briefly reported to have died (he didn’t).

Officials beheld the carnage they had wrought and, so the legend goes, immediately struck the discipline from the program of future Games; Olympic cross-country was dead.

With nearly a century’s hindsight, the decision to exclude cross-country from the Olympics feels, at the very least, contestable. Parallels are often drawn between the 1924 men’s cross-country race and the famed 1928 women’s 800m, which was similarly reduced to a spectacle of exhaustion and medical distress. Yet the movement for women’s inclusion in the modern Olympic Games pressed on relatively undaunted. Conversely, whether viewed in terms of distance parity or Olympic inclusion, cross-country remains a discipline comparatively mired in the irrationality of eras long past.

If there is one compelling argument to be made for the exclusion of cross-country from the Summer Olympic program, it is this: cross-country, quite simply, is not a summer sport.

The genesis myth of cross-country’s expulsion from the Olympics leans heavily on tales from the 1924 Paris Games; it was in this dramatic yarn of athletes laid waste that my twelve-year-old self once so confidently formed her indignation at my favoured discipline’s exclusion from the Games. But the essential character of cross-country running is inextricably tied to the season in which it is contested. Cross-country is a fall sport; it is as defined by the unpredictability of autumnal weather — the mud, the rain, the sleet and snow — as it is by rolling hills or inexact distances or spikes caked in leaves and earth.

Recent years have seen a renewed push for adding the discipline to the Winter Olympic Games, with influential voices like Haile Gebrselassie, Kenenisa Bekele, Paul Tergat, and Sebastian Coe leading the charge.

It’s an idea that’s easy to like. Winter Olympic cross-country has the potential to extend interest in the Winter Games to East African nations who might previously have had little-to-no stake in them, while simultaneously expanding the opportunity for Olympic competition for distance runners worldwide; instead of competing in the prestigious championships every four years, distance runners would now have the opportunity for Olympic competition every two.

And yet even this inclusion remains problematic, requiring that the IOC rather liberally massage their existing definition of a Winter Olympic sport — that is, one requiring snow or ice — to accommodate a discipline in which such conditions, while common, are essentially incidental.

And therein lies what has (for me, at least) become the most persuasive argument both for the greatness of cross-country, and for its Olympic exclusion. Cross-country is a maverick discipline — it doesn’t lend itself with ease to categorization, to standardization, or even, it seems, to modernization. It sets itself apart from the modern athletic movement in the myriad ways by which it resists being logically ordered.

It’s a problematic anachronism of athletic endeavour. And in spite of the deeply-felt convictions of twelve-year-old me, I think I might just like it better that way.

Chase big dreams.

For God’s Sake, Stop Burning Your Sneakers

img_0260Yesterday morning, buried in my news feed among alarmist and often distressing Trump-related tweets, I came across a headline that immediately grabbed my attention: “New Balance is the first major sportswear company to publicly back president-elect Donald Trump”.

The article in question was published by Sole Collector, a magazine devoted to all things sneaker. It cited comments from the company’s VP of public affairs, suggesting that the Obama administration had “turned a deaf ear” to the Boston-based brand through its support of the Trans-Pacific Partnership, and expressing hope that under the new administration “things are going to move in the right direction.”

Lets pause for a moment here.

I will be the first to tell you that this is not a political blog. What I love more than anything else about running is the tremendous capacity it has to unite people who might ostensibly have little in common. By extension of this, my writing has always attempted to eschew the divisive and the political; what interests me are the things that bring us together, not the things that tear us apart.

The recent election has been the most contentious, most divisive political contest I have had the displeasure to witness in my lifetime. By any metric, America appears to be a deeply fractured nation. I am shocked and saddened that a person with so little regard for the values of freedom, democracy, rule of law, and the inherent dignity of all human beings, could be elected to the highest office in the most powerful nation (yes, still) in the world.

This election went beyond the usual business of partisan politics; opposing Mr. Trump’s platform of bigotry, hatred, sexism, racism, and xenophobia has become a moral imperative. But opposing his views on the Trans-Pacific Partnership is not.

I watched this morning as my social media feed exploded with righteous condemnation of New Balance. Horrified customers declared that they would boycott the brand. Some posted photos of their sneakers, tossed into the trash; others went a step further, and set the shoes on fire.

While I sympathize with the feelings of anger and disgust that underly these actions, I cannot help but feel that they are ultimately misguided, and a waste of valuable energy and resources. A cursory reading of the article itself made it clear that the brand anticipated positive changes with the coming administration with respect to the Trans-Pacific Partnership. But for the reactionaries on Twitter, the content was irrelevant; the click-bait headline was enough.

New Balance, with its New England-based factories, has significant interest in protecting the viability of American manufacturing. The Trans-Pacific Partnership, a multi-national agreement to reduce trade restrictions, arguably puts that in jeopardy. Though championed by the Obama administration, the TPP has been met with significant bi-partisan opposition. One of its most vocal critics is president-elect Donald Trump; another is Hillary Clinton.

Look, multi-national trade agreements are complicated. The world we live in is complicated. It’s also deeply flawed, and desperately in need of the kind of impassioned moral outrage that sneakerheads and road race junkies showed toward their New Balance kicks yesterday.

But that moral outrage only gets us somewhere if we direct it at the right targets.

You can’t take down a demagogue, or save the world from the spectre of proto-facsism, if you can’t manage to get past an incendiary headline. Politicians have long relied on superficial diversions like these to provide a focal point for public outrage. They’ve relied upon them because, properly mobilized, there is nothing so dangerous to a corrupt regime than an angry and organized populace.

There are so, so many things you can do to fight back against injustice in this world. But setting fire to your shoes isn’t one of them.

Chase big dreams.

A Glimmer of Hope: Robert MacDonald and Team I Will

Robert MacDonald knows how bright a glimmer of hope can be.

Four years ago, the Toronto-area native lay broken in a hospital bed, unable to move (or even to feel) anything from the waist down.

While vacationing with friends in Cabo, Mexico, MacDonald fell thirty feet from a hotel balcony, dislocating his spine in two places, fracturing nine vertebrae, breaking eleven ribs and his scapula, and puncturing a lung. The fractured vertebrae pinched his spinal cord, obstructing vital blood flow; the longer the obstruction went on, the more extensive the damage.

In need of immediate surgery, MacDonald was taken via air ambulance to St. Michael’s Hospital in Toronto, where a team of surgeons straightened and secured his spine using a computer-guided 3D intra-operative scanner. In terms of spinal cord injury, it was the gold standard in care: the fastest, most precise, and least invasive intervention possible. Even still, his diagnosis — asia B paraplegia — did not paint a promising picture.

For seven agonizing days, the twenty-six-year-old MacDonald struggled to come to terms with a future he could never have imagined. The lifelong athlete and former hockey and squash player now had a one-in-twenty shot of ever walking again.

“For those first seven days, nothing in my lower body moved,” MacDonald recalls. “I was in the ICU and I was pretty banged-up, and I thought, you know, I’m not gonna walk again. I know I’m not gonna walk again. I can’t feel anything in my lower body, I can’t move it. This is it.”

And then something happened — something terribly ordinary, yet quietly significant:  the big toe on his left foot began, ever so slightly, to twitch.

It wasn’t much. But for MacDonald, that small twitch was enough.

Read the full story on the Canada Running Series blog.

Ten Mile Island: A love letter to racing in St. John’s

13775933_825174908620_8488907590925073164_nTen years ago, I fell in love with St. John’s.

On the eastern shores of Newfoundland, in the frozen North Atlantic Ocean, St. John’s lies nestled in a narrow harbour, sheltered on all sides by a wall of great hills. It’s a city defined by paradox: shrouded in cloak of grey fog, broken only by the vibrant hues of brightly-painted clapboard houses; a relatively tiny town that still boasts better nightlife than the best of Montreal or Toronto (yes, really); a rugged coast perpetually battered by brutal winds and inhospitable weather, and yet somehow still famous for its hospitality.

Isolated from the mainland (and in outport communities, from each other), in the face of a volatile climate and an unstable fishery, the distinctive Newfoundland character has emerged. Theirs is a culture defined by a curious blend of long-suffering pride and irreverent humour. Newfoundlanders understand mainland English, but answer back in their own strange language – something akin to an Irish brogue, a dialect born of generations of islander isolation. They’re a universally bilingual people; music is their second language.

Raised partway in Dublin, Ireland as the child of Canadian expats, Newfoundland had long intrigued me for the way it seemed to blend my dual, conflicting identities. So at eighteen-years-old, in the spirit of fearlessness that defines so much of early adulthood, I decided to move there.

13776019_825369628400_6247510789619107240_nWhen you’re a mainlander living in Newfoundland, you can’t help but feel like you’ve stumbled upon one of the world’s last unspoiled treasures; the island’s inimitable charm is oddly unknown away from her own shores. And the islanders are quick to embrace the “Come-From-Aways” like myself who choose to settle there. The result is that St. John’s, and the extraordinary people who make their lives there, never really lets you go. You leave this town with a perpetual sense of unfinished business. Newfoundland, even if you’re not a native Newfoundlander, will always call you home.

This past weekend, I came home to St. John’s for what I thought would be a destination race. But really, it was a pilgrimage.

Newfoundland boasts one of the oldest road races in North America, a ten-mile course that runs a straight shot from the town of Paradise into the heart of old St. John’s. Second only to Boston and Around The Bay, the Tely 10 (diminutively named, in true Newfoundland style, for title sponsor the Telegram newspaper) is the island’s marquee athletic event.

It’s a mid-sized road race by most standards: this year saw just shy of 5,000 participants. But like so much else in Newfoundland, its modest size belies its mammoth significance in the insular island community. The local paper runs a detailed predictions page in the days leading up to race weekend. Every bit of the 16 kilometre course is lined with cheering spectators. The finish line crowds are packed five-deep, and the winners’ smiling faces are all but guaranteed to run on the cover of the paper the following morning.

In a sport so often relegated to the periphery, the Tely 10 offers a brief, shining moment in which distance runners can feel like kings.

It might look to mainlander eyes like a smaller race, but a victory in the Tely 10 is no small feat. The competitive field runs remarkably deep, and despite not having an elite program, the race consistently attracts world-class athletes from across the country.

(An unofficial elite program operates primarily in the form of local distance runner David Freake’s Twitter feed. Freake’s method is a targeted, earnest, and unrelenting year-long promotion of the event, complete with proffers of free accommodation and rides to the airport – a truly St. John’s approach if ever there was one.)

Like the island it calls home, the Tely 10 is unselfconsciously eccentric. A midsummer road race of non-standard distance with the gravitas of a championship event, it heralds the peak of racing season for Newfoundlanders. Forget the usual spring/fall training schedule; like the island’s peculiar half-hour time zone, the Tely 10 refuses to be bound by a mainland timetable. Never mind the ordinary – this is Newfoundland, after all.

mile105Even the course markings are no exception to this. The Tely 10 mile markers aren’t your usual sandwich boards or flags, but actual road signs – permanent, integrated fixtures in the town’s infrastructure. There’s a sense of rigidity, a characteristically Newfoundland stubbornness, to be inferred from this; here is the course, as it is, as it always has been.

This isn’t an event; it’s an institution.

With the benefit of hindsight, I would have been hard-pressed to choose a better year for my first Tely 10 than this one. The 89th running of the race, 2016 is destined for infamy as the year Kate Bazeley shattered Nicola Will’s 30-year-old course record, in a finishing time of 55:34.

13620842_925056590953649_6918761983485022350_nBazeley, who ran to a ninth-place finish in last year’s race just weeks after giving birth to her second child, has been enjoying a banner year, with a strong performance in far-less-than-ideal conditions at the 10K road championships in Ottawa this spring. Her record-breaking run this Sunday, while not entirely unexpected, was one of those rare, dizzying moments of athletic transcendence. Make no mistake: the unofficial ambassador of Newfoundland athletics is a woman on the brink.

But though Bazeley’s competitive zeal and undeniable fitness are a force to be reckoned with on the roads, she cuts a surprisingly disarming figure in conversation at the Nautilus Running Club‘s post-race celebration later that evening.

There, in the quiet of Pippy Park, in that long, suspended summer moment between daylight and dark, is where the real weight of the Tely 10’s long history is unpacked. There are tales of high winds, and bad weather, of years that went favourably and those that didn’t, of the dominance of Paul McCloy, of the record that was broken today, and of ones that might never fall. It’s an unwritten saga, a living, oral history unwound over music and laughter, and just a bit too much of that unforgettable Quidi Vidi Beer.

“There’s a saying ’round here,” one member tells me, as a friend laments his running prowess hasn’t translated to success in today’s race. “If it’s not done at the Tely, yer not worth a damn.”

…he may not have said damn.

Chase big dreams.

The Good Fight: Why the world needs Canadian athletes

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The sport of athletics is in crisis.

You don’t need to look far to see the evidence; it’s everywhere. From a state-sponsored doping network that has seen Russian athletes banned from the upcoming Olympic Games, to a slew of positive retests suggesting the London 2012 Games may have been the dirtiest Olympics on record, the global athletics community has been rocked in recent years by a level of scandal not unlike the world of endurance cycling.

On the face of it, the recent doubt and controversy surrounding Canadian marathon record-holder Lanni Marchant’s place on the 2016 Olympic marathon team might not appear to be connected to the broader, seemingly intractable problem of doping in athletics. But in fact, the two are deeply and inextricably linked.

As Canadian Running editor Michael Doyle surmised in a recent editorial for the CBC, the peculiarities of a results-based funding system (through organizations such as Own the Podium) have created a bizarrely risk-averse culture in the sport’s national governing body.

One would think that, in the absence of athletes in serious contention for Olympic medals, Athletics Canada would be content to send the best possible athletes we have, in the hope that they would use the experience to develop in their discipline – if not to win, then to “fight well”.

The reality, sadly, is a far more results-focused funding model that penalizes inauspicious Olympic performances, without consideration for the variable depth of field across disciplines. It’s why Marchant, who had attained the rigorous Olympic standards in both the 10,000m and the marathon, was told early last month that she may be sent to Rio to run the 10,000m alone.

Marchant is arguably a far stronger marathoner than she is a 10,000m track runner. But the Olympic marathon field is notoriously deep and fiercely competitive. In the last Olympic Games in London 2012, 118 world-class athletes took on the marathon, compared to just 22 in the 10,000m. Faced with a mandate to produce top-12 performances, it’s easy to see why Athletics Canada might feel compelled to steer a star like Marchant away from the roads, towards the comparative easy pickings of the track, where she would likely prove a boon to their bottom line.

Today, Athletics Canada officially announced that Marchant would be included on the Olympic marathon team – a widely popular and warmly-recieved decision, albeit not an entirely practical one for the governing body itself.

And while it’s tempting to write this announcement off as mere common sense, and more tempting still to characterize it as kowtowing to public pressure – a would-be PR blunder that the organization has now narrowly averted – the fact is, it’s much more than that.

The decision to field Marchant in the marathon is a rare and desperately-needed moment of idealism.

For all of the hand-wringing about doping in athletics, one of the most overlooked contributing factors to the doping crisis is the toxic, win-at-all-costs culture that has begun to permeate this sport at every level. We blame and disparage athletes who dope as cheats and frauds. We lament their lack of honesty and ethical conviction – and rightly so. But we fail to acknowledge the uncomfortable, underlying truth of the doping problem: that in many cases, our governing bodies are tacitly endorsing this widespread fraud by prizing results as the highest, or only, goal.

Drug cheats don’t exist in a vacuum; they are the monster that we have created.

What gets lost in the often-defeatist discourse on doping control is any sense of how one might fight back. In their decision to field Marchant in the marathon, Athletics Canada is doing just that – quietly, subtly, the way that Canadian athletes themselves have been doing for years.

If we truly wish to see clean competition at the highest levels in athletics, then the world needs Canadian athletes more than ever.

Canadian athletes are, and should be, fighters; they fight long and hard through the tedium of preparation, through the agony of competition, and against very concept of human limitation. They struggle and succeed against impossible odds, on scant funding, in complete obscurity. If you’re looking for a model of the self-made Olympian, you won’t find much better than the Canadian distance runner. And under the regulation of the much-lauded and well-funded Canadian Centre for Ethics in Sport, Canadian athletes are some of the cleanest and most rigorously-tested in the world.

“Some races I would feel there is someone that I’m competing against that is probably cheating,” says Olympic marathoner Reid Coolsaet. “Most races in Canada, especially national championships, it doesn’t even cross my mind. I think it’s clean.”

The Olympic Dream is about a process – it’s not about a moment. And the greatness of our athletes should not be measured by one race, one record, one medal, or one performance. The very purpose of funding and supporting the top-level athletes in our country is an investment in their emotional currency.

By naming Marchant – by every account a clean, hardworking, self-made marathoner – to the Olympic team, Athletics Canada has refused to hollow-out this currency with an algorithmic, results-oriented paradigm, and taken a stand against the win-at-all costs culture that has allowed the doping crisis to continue.

Athletics Canada has set a precedent for what history will come to see as the legacy of Canadian distance runners through one of the greatest ethical crises our sport has known: that in the face of championship fields stacked with drug cheats, our athletes did not lose the courage of their convictions, nor our governing bodies abandon those athletes in a preoccupation with podium finishes. That we did not become a monster in order to defeat one.

That we stood fast. That we fought well.

Chase big dreams.

Wreck Runner: Notes from a race run way off pace

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When I started running three years ago, all I wanted was to kick a few bad habits and get myself off the couch. I didn’t think I’d ever run a race, much less a marathon. I wasn’t competitive; I was what you’d call a rec runner. And I think I still am.

The running community is an overwhelmingly positive crowd. But among a small subset of competitive distance runners, rec runner can be an almost pejorative term. It’s the sort of elitist attitude that you can find in anything, really – a small but vocal minority who seem to think that mass participation, or the non-competitive pursuit of a personal benchmark, somehow lowers the overall standard for athletic achievement.

You know the type: they’re the ones who complain about charity runners in the Boston Marathon, or the ones (ahem, Steve Jones) who hand-wring about how a four- or five-hour marathon doesn’t really make you a marathoner. This crowd despises people like John “The Penguin” Bingham, the champion of ordinary, non-competitive marathoners the world over.

I abhor this type of narrow thinking.

For one thing, I think that this burning need to draw a line in the sand between competitive elites and the “ordinary” runner is bad for the sport.

It’s true, only a fraction of athletic greats come up through the ranks of the rec runner set. But those that do have more than proven their mettle. Krista DuChene, who will represent Canada later this year as part of our first Olympic women’s marathon team in two decades, debuted in the marathon at an inauspicious 3:28. Pan Am marathoner Catherine Watkins ran her first road race for fun while in her mid-thirties. And Newfoundland’s David Freake, who in 2015 ran to an impressive fourth-place finish at the Scotiabank Toronto Waterfront Half-Marathon, regularly competes at an elite level which belies his humble rec runner origins.

To write off the tens of thousands of ordinary marathoners in a race as “not really athletes” is to risk losing out on the development of powerhouse athletes like Watkins, Freake, and DuChene. But there’s more to it than just the untapped potential of the rec runner rank-and-file.

Running is hard. But rec runners know how to make it fun. They don’t always run after PBs – sometimes, they’ll run entire races side-by-side with a pal, focused on completion over competition. They dress up in costumes, and high-five spectators. They coordinate their shoes with their shorts, and take “runfies” (that’s running selfies, for the uninitiated). They organize beer runs, and make funny signs, and come out to man the cheer stations for races they’re not running. And while it’s easy to cast aspersions at those who run solely for completion, theres something to be said for the fact that rec runners almost never DNF; good race or bad, they always make it to that finish line.

Rec runners are the beating heart of a sport that can easily turn from a beloved pastime into a lonely, thankless grind. They’re what got me into this sport in the first place.

This year, my training has become far more rigorous than it used to be. My 2016 is a long, tough prelude to what I hope will yield a sub-3:00 marathon finish in 2017. It’s a tall order – and by no means a foregone conclusion. And though I’m enjoying the process, I have to admit that it’s changed the way I experience races.

I’m constantly gunning for times that are just outside the margins of my capability (and for the most part, I’ve been pleasantly surprised by the results). But the trade-off is that I don’t get to quite savour the race the same way that I once did.

So this weekend, when my 10K race fell spectacularly to pieces over the space of less than two minutes, I had an opportunity to fall back into the old rec runner race experience. And it was incredible.

Heading into Ottawa race weekend, my initial goal was to recreate my recent sub-40 10K time on a more challenging course. But with temperatures in the mid-30s, my time goal (along with pretty much everybody else’s) went out the window. Cold, wind, and rain don’t much bother me in a race, but heat will get me every time. And get me it did.

I held onto my adjusted goal pace for the first 3.5K, but shortly after the 4K mark, the wheels came off. I staggered to the side of the course, and threw up. By the time I had dragged myself back onto the road (about 90 seconds later), I knew that even my adjusted time goal was out the window. I felt like hell, and badly wanted to step off the course and call it a day.

The thing is, I’ve never dropped out of a race. It’s a weird point of pride with me. I know there are plenty of very good reasons for throwing in the towel; I expect that one day, one of those very good reasons will compel me to do just that. But it’s never happened yet – and when it does, it’s gonna take a lot more than just the heat.

So there I was, not quite halfway through my shambles of a 10K, stuck between no prospect of a respectable time, and a stubborn unwillingness to DNF. And with nothing else to gun at in my sights, I decided to just run the damn race, and relish it – rec runner style.

I high-fived spectators, and laughed at their funny signs. I ate a freezie that a kid handed me from the side of the road. I cheered on my fellow runners who were labouring through the race. I actually slowed down, kept my eyes open, and took in the experience. I did all the things that running after rigorous marks leaves you too busy to do – all the things that made me fall in love with running to begin with.

My time in the Ottawa 10K wasn’t anything I’m proud of, but my experience on that course was incredible. And though I’m still determined to push myself to exceed my own expectations, I’m grateful that I was given a moment this weekend to remember what it is that I love about this sport.

You’re gonna get knocked off pace once in a while. You might as well enjoy it when you do.

Chase big dreams.