The Race

Before cancer, I really loved trail running. I did a fair share of road races, but my real love was skipping over roots and logs on winding, forest trails. There is something about running in the woods that I find remarkably freeing. It brings back precious childhood memories of traipsing through the trees in homemade cloaks and wooden swords. All stresses melt away when I can run in the woods. So when I landed in the hospital and heard the word “leukemia,” I wondered, among many things, if I would ever trail run again.


On Saturday, less than one year from my bone marrow transplant, I ran my first trail race. My pre-cancer, type-A self would have been really amped up about the race, gunning for top five if not a podium placement. But my post-cancer self was remarkably calm, there for the fun of it, completely unconcerned with placement or time. I was just thrilled to be there. As long as I wasn’t last, I’d be happy.

Before my race, my two-year-old nephew and my four-year-old son both had their own races. Watching their little legs go as fast as they could over the finish line was almost as good as doing my own race. They were so pleased with themselves and their little finisher ribbons.


Afterwards, as I prepped for my own start, I ate a few energy gummies. My son, with his uncanny ability to spot junk food from 1000 metres, immediately saw them and asked for one. I acquiesced – one gummy, after all, was not a big deal. It wasn’t until after he had popped it into his mouth that I realized I had given him a caffeinated gummy. I quietly backed away and eased myself into the starting line, leaving any potential consequences for my dad to sort out.


The race itself was amazing. It was at Golden Ears Provincial Park and the scenery there is breathtaking. The course had crazy climbs and super technical downhills, so it was hard to go fast, and everyone’s ankles were in constant danger, but it was really fun. I kept playing leapfrog with these two other women who had different strengths from mine. I would pass one woman on the uphill, and then another would pass me on the uphill. Then I’d catch her on the downhill, and then the first woman would catch us both. And the cycle would repeat. This went on for the entire second half of the race, but in the end, I beat them both. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a little bit pleased.


I had forgotten what racing was like. I had forgotten how much faster you can run in a race than you can ever run during training. I had forgotten how hard you can push yourself. In the last two kilometres I started to fade, but I kept reminding myself of my victory over cancer, and how this was my celebration of life, and suddenly my energy came flowing back.

When I crossed the finish line, I immediately burst into tears. No one was more surprised than I was. I sat down on a rock and just sobbed. I could tell people were looking at me funny. One of the woman I had been leapfrogging came up to me and asked what was wrong. I told her I was just happy, as I almost died a year ago. After briefly telling the story, I realized that I had essentially just told her that she was beaten by someone who could barely walk 11 months prior. I'm guessing she'll run harder next time.

Some people came and clapped me on the back in sympathy, even though they couldn’t possibly have known why I was crying. But I could imagine their thoughts from their quizzical expressions:

“Jeez, woman, it’s not a marathon.” Or “I’m sure your time wasn’t that bad.” Or “It’s not the Olympics, honey.” 

I tried to pull it together. But then I saw my dad and brother and burst into tears all over again. It was hopeless. Let them stare. Let them wonder. I’m alive. I raced. I wasn’t last. And I even beat some people. 

Victory lap complete.