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dirtanddistance · 3 months ago

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Squamish50 Race Recap: Fool Me Twice, Shame on Me

"Won't make my mama proud, it's gonna cause a scene // she sees her baby girl, I know she's gonna scream // GOOOOOOOODDDDD WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?! You're a Coast Mountain girl, and you run in the woods // oh mama, IIIIIIIIII'M JUST HAVIN' FUN, on the trail in my vest, it's where I belong, down on these // COAST MOUNTAIN TRAILS, I'm gonna keep on running on these COAST MOUNTAIN TRAILS, I'm gonna keep on running out in WEST CANADA, I'm gonna keep on running on these coast mountain trails, coast mountain trails"

Phew. Now that that's out of my system...

When I was growing up, the concept of 'peer pressure' never made much sense to me. I was not intrinsically tempted by drugs, or alcohol, or skipping class, or the social points that might have been gained by participating in such shenanigans. Outside of what that might say about me as a person, it led to an interesting revelation as I got older: my so-called peers back then just weren't doing anything interesting enough to make me feel compelled to join. All of this changed the moment I encountered my first overnight relay race in college. I was sold. Things would only escalate from there. My mama was not proud. There were actual fights over these endeavours. It culminated in me running my first ultra before I even had a bachelor's degree, setting my life in a direction no one predicts for their child.

It would come as no surprise to find me signed up for a 50 mile race eight years later in an entirely different country, if you had much of a background on ultrarunning. And after watching the 'vlog clip' my husband so charitably took of me at the finish line vowing that I would never do such a thing again, a seasoned member of the ultra community would have laughed and said 'see you next year'. Which is where our story begins, one year after the infamous 'never again' caught on film.

I did not feel an aching desire to run farther than 50 miles again, or even to do that particular event again. I had achieved my Gary Robbins hug and shiny medal, I had proven whatever it was that I needed to prove (see, dad? Not all ultras are just 'a few more miles than a marathon' AND I'm alive to prove it!). Cue, peer pressure. I wrote a silly little race report talking about how much I cried and a few of my friends read it and talked about it and were like 'that sounds great I'm in'. And if there's one thing I can't abide, it's my friends and peers going on an endurance adventure without me. A whopping three or four months had passed by the time it was sign-up day so there I was at 7am on a Friday before work on Run SignUp and the group WhatsApp open as we all digitally shared the high of registration day and collectively ignored the implications of signing up for a 50 mile race.

Fast forward to last weekend and we're all at the starting line hemming and hawing about how we didn't sleep so well last night, and we're scared, and 'just gonna go out there and have a good time'. My little brother was texting me, because unlike here in BC it was a godly hour of the day in Florida and he was at the ready to remind me that he had gone to a T-Pain concert the night before, and that T-Pain is a resource in times of need (?). This is salient because one time in high school, my cross country coach told us to do a particular warm of exercise with the kind of energy and enthusiasm we would have if we were rushing the stage at a T-Pain concert, so referring to Tallahassee Pain when I am going for a run will always resonate. Yes. The T stands for Tallahassee. Not Tylenol extra strength, which may also resonate during long runs. Anyway, I put all my worries away in a mansion somewhere in Wiscansin, we snapped a start line selfie, and off we went into the brief dark.

The first couple of miles slipped away as I kept up with a few much faster compatriots. I got Travis talking about his upcoming trip to Japan, which is a subject I can listen to/speak about endlessly. Alas, being the personality hire of the run group meant that I would fade to the back fairly early, and eventually we reached the first climb of the day, DeBeck's hill. This was where I broke last time. I was crying. This isn't even to the second aid station. Full blown tears, panic attack. I was determined not to break this year. I made everyone I knew very aware of my goal for this year: do not cry before aid station two. I'm very happy to announce I did achieve this goal, but was almost brought to ruin on the Midlife Crisis trail as I discovered TRAIL LORE. Trail lore is in fact the best part of not being a complete hermit during your race, which was my other, unspoken goal of the race - interact with fellow runners enough to become emotionally invested in the outcome of at least two other participants beyond just 'wow I hope everyone has a nice day'. The fellow behind me as I was hot stepping from rock to rock about to throw up and/or throw myself down the hill goes 'don't rush! I'm not trying to pressure you! Don't fall, my friend built this trail and he wouldn't want you to fall!' Right there we almost got the first cry of the day. Not because I was panicking or sad but because THAT WAS SUCH A NICE THING TO TELL ME! PEOPLE ARE LOVELY! I was then provided the added details that this friend designed that particular singletrack run when he turned 50 to prove he could still do hard things. Which, if true, is way more wholesome than my interpretation of the name Midlife Crisis, which was that the trail is so stressful that 31 is going to be my midlife with the years this trail is taking off my life span.

I rolled into aid station 2 at Alice Lake without a tear having been shed, and ready to hit the bathroom. I ran into a fellow trail homie from the run club at the bathroom line (so, like a regular club? Very brat.) and rolled on. I thought briefly 'wow, I wish my husband hadn't had a combination migraine-food-poisoning-slash-general-itis and thrown up last night making it very unlikely that he'd make it to the first crew aid station in time' but mostly I was proud of myself for not crying and it was time to carry on to my previously favorite section of the race.

Corners is the best trail ever because it's pretty and flowy and there are wildflowers everywhere and fun signs that say that you might get zapped by the powerlines overhead. It's also where the professional race photographer hides out and catches you when you're running at a decent clip with a pretty background. I was so confident going into these parts. Then I watched the gal ahead of me almost eat some dirt. Not too bad, she recovered quick. Couldn't be me. Except a few minutes later it was me, fully supermanned out on the ground, covered in the gritty sandy stuff and bleeding. I hopped back up and kept moving, knowing that sitting around evaluating myself would probably just make it all hurt more. Blood streamed down my leg, but it seemed nothing particularly important was hurting as I resumed my journey. Ah well, I thought, maybe this will just make my race pictures look more badass. Another familiar face caught up to me, which was quite a surprise because I do not have any idea how anyone I knew could possibly be behind me at this point in the race. It was nice to have someone to whine about my fall to, and who also admitted to having taken a little tumble himself. We rolled into Aid Station 3, and I declined having anything done about my bloody leg because, well, what was there to do? Fall on the ground or not, everyone is coated in layer upon layer of dust and sweat out here anyway. We trekked on to the little loop that would eventually lead back to AS 3 and slowly parted ways as I kept a conservative pace. Then it hit me - the ground again. This time, not only was the knee bleeding again but I got my left hand pretty good, with blood streaming across it from a few difficult to evaluate spots. At this point I was big sad. I let myself cry a little. My finger HURT where it was cut. I gimped along feeling sorry for myself until my brain generated the thought 'you're having an Eren Jaeger moment' while looking at the blood streak across my palm. I had the power of God AND anime on my side now. I dragged my sad little self back to the aid station when miracle of all miracles occurred. There was a familiar face with a volunteer vest on on. I don't think I'd ever been so happy to see someone in my life. Before I could say anything, I was pushed into a camping chair and another volunteer was swiping away at the blood and dirt with a paper towel and some saline spray. Not exactly how I would do it, but hey. It became obvious that while gnarly, these injuries were probably not life threatening and I was probably gonna make it. After a little bit of whinging and snacking and the affirmation of 'see you at the finish line' (this will come in handy later), I wandered back into the woods for the trek up Galactic.

Galactic is, like, the most fabled section of this race. If you look at any race report, or even the race description itself, this is described as kind of a piece de resistance. It's a hella long incline is all it is. You're in the woods, walking upwards, for longer than you would like to be. It's just inclined enough that an amateur like myself does absolutely zero running for like, half an hour straight. It's a drag. It's also not particularly 'hard' in the sense of being technical, or super steep. Last year, this was an unremarkable section of trail for me. I was feeling pretty okay having conquered last year's Most Wanted incline on DeBeck's and thought nothing of the trudge up the hill. And then my subconscious came out to play. Covered in blood and dirt and with like, half the race or more to go, the 'why are you doing this' crept in. Now, I also faced down this question last year, starting like 15k into the race, so not having to wrestle with it until several aid stations in is actually a good thing. However, I was out there with my little vest and my little philosophy minor degree ready to Conquer The Question of Purpose in Ultramarathoning, and the answers were not looking good for me. I was deconstructing with every footstep forward. Is there intrinsic value in pain? And if there is, what is it? Why am I out here alone? Time doesn't exist and I have no concept that it has probably been less than an hour since I spoke to a friend and would probably either find more friends or make more friends as the day wears on. I am alone in this forest, and I am going to cry about it. Like, ugly cry. Sobbing, gasping, this-character-is-being-hella-overacted crying. I want to quit RIGHT NOW. But I told Tam I'd see her at the finish line. And like, it'd look kinda lame if I DNF this for no good reason besides getting too sad. At this point, I determine that it's probably time to Eat Something, so I pull out the super dense gel sugary thing I picked up at the aid station to avoid eating my own carefully curated snacks. And what would you know, approximately 5 minutes after consuming 200 calories of pure maple syrup with added salt, the world suddenly seemed less bleak and finishing this race seemed like a less awful proposition. My new attitude and I finally rocked up to aid station 4.

Aid station 4 was uneventful until we heard over the radio 'first female has cleared Smoke Bluffs'. Oof. The aid station volunteers graciously reminded those of us who had just been confronted with our weak paces that those who are finishing now did not get to spend time having snacks at the aid station. I took off, and found myself chatting with a fellow from Squamish. It was his first ultra, with an eerily similar story to my decision to run this race the year before - the 50k sold out too fast and thought, 'eh, how bad could 50 miles be?'. Officially invested in my unknown friend's fate now, we eventually rolled up to Aid Station 5, which I refer to as the family tailgate aid station. At first, I looked about helplessly for my husband without the faintest clue whether or not he'd even gotten out of the house. I wandered over to the medical tent where the nice medic scraped the hell out of my knee using alcohol swabs. Honestly, this might have been the worst part of the whole day if not for what was in store between aid stations 5 and 6. Finally I caught site of my spouse and parked myself in the grass to eat a sandwich and whine some more while he recorded it as a 'vlog' to share with everyone else I know. He had in fact remembered to bring the Scandinavian Swimmers I had emphatically requested the day before, but I ended up forgetting about them moments after he told me he had them. I considered letting them squeeze the cold water sponges on me before I headed out, but thought better of it when I contemplated the water cleanliness and the oozing scrape that we decided against bandaging for the sole reason that no bandage was going to adhere to me at this point in the day.

I rolled out of the aid station around the same time as my new friend, and we continued on our little trek. At this point, my right knee was starting to do The Thing. Previously, only my left knee had been known to do The Thing. It's a sharp sharp pain on the outside, near the knee cap when I land on that side. Sharp enough to make you not want to land too hard because that leg might buckle from the pain. It wasn't so bad, and only every few steps, so I got by just fine walking more than I wanted. Until I didn't, and it hurt with every downhill step I was taking and I started crying again because THIS TRULY SUCKS. I didn't even do anything to that leg! I did not bring this upon myself except by maybe having been born with kinda messed up legs that turn inward instead of straight ahead but I DID NOTHING WRONG! I will add at this point, this section of the run (despite being reassured that all distances are as marked and completely correct) at least FEELS exceptionally long compared to how it's advertised. You think you're almost to AS 6 for a VERY long time. As I cried about the unfairness of life, I remembered I had put every kind of OTC medication one might even think about needing in my vest, so I popped a couple of ibuprofen and grumpily walked on. For some reason, despite being an entire doctor, I never believe that ibuprofen could fix MY problem. It is a solution for someone else. Fortunately for me, ibuprofen doesn't care about my skepticism and went to work, rendering my knee functional and capable of being run upon and allowing it to carry me to Aid Station 6.

Aid Station 6 is kind of a letdown. Not because it's not fully stocked and staffed by fantastic volunteers - it absolutely is. Every aid station is a 10/10. It's just wedged between two very exciting aid stations where you get your crew and there is generally a lot of activity and cheering. However, a familiar face again saved the day when I realized the ice water bucket manager was in fact another run club friend. This friend in particular I had pressured into running the Valley Vertikiller as a fairly new trail runner. I was not, in my current state, doing a great job of selling the idea that trail running is a fun and safe activity, but his enthusiasm and selfie taking renewed my spirits and made me believe that I could make it to the next aid station, which would in turn mean that I could make it to the finish line.

It was at this aid station that I started to chat with a couple of ladies; the conversation with an aid station attendant about the insanity of doing this race multiple times had come up, so naturally I was prepared to contribute to this conversation and inform them that I was, in fact, completely unhinged. As we rolled back into the woods, these ladies were talking in miles which was my second cue to start talking, because where there are miles there are, typically, fellow Americans. These lasses were from Colorado; when I mentioned I was originally from Florida but had moved out to BC, they, without skipping a beat, went, 'wow so a total upgrade'. Ahhhh, to be amongst my kind of people. This was not their first 50 miler, and had come all the way out here to run it. I passed my original compatriot somewhere during this phase, which flew by in good company as I pulled ahead and in to aid station 7. Aid station 7 has you run across a bridge and going downhill for a bit. I saw a few folks standing before the aid station on the sideline; I assumed it was just course marshals or someone taking down bib numbers for checkin. I spotted my husband with his Real Camera, and as my brain slowly processed the blonde girl cheering for me by name (as an Experienced Runner, I am now conscious of when I have my name printed on my race tag and no longer become completely frozen in horror when I hear my name called by enthusiastic strangers) as not just a random volunteer with a lot of energy, but my BC Bestie Elise! And then as I got to the aid station proper, I realized that I was in the presence of my husband, BC Bestie, AND my Aid Station 3 trail angel friend! As disoriented and overstimulated as I was by this, it was honestly magical, I almost cried, and I reluctantly accepted/delivered the most disgusting hugs I've ever been a part of. I was truly ready to tackle the final 8 miles now.

The last section of the race includes an additional unpleasant climb that kinda never ends, but did include an exceptional sunset. As much as it meant knowing I'd be rocking up to the finish line in the dark, the striking purple and orange on the horizon as I crested the false peak on my way up Mountain of Phlegm was first class. As we finally neared the stairs, I chatted with a woman who was here from Alberta to do the 50/50 (for those of you fortunate enough to not know what that is, it means running the 50 mile race on Saturday followed by the 50k race on Sunday). It rained just a little bit, and I wished her good traction and tacky surfaces for Sunday (and warned that if it rained too much that slippery might be a concern to monitor). When we reached the stairs, the course marshal eagerly assured us that we were done with the stairs! Which was quickly disproven upon reaching several smaller flights of stairs... sigh. After this betrayal, we eventually made our way out of Smoke Bluffs to the sight of a disco ball and Von Dutch blasting on a bluetooth speaker in the parking lot. Fortified by the power of brat summer imbued in that melody I took off onto the pavement princess section of the race. Several very, very enthusiastic high-five soliciting children ambushed me with their excitement and encouragement as I ran past the hostel I was staying at, onto the final stretch of road.

You might be thinking to yourself at this point, wow, she's run 50+ miles in the woods without encountering a single bear! What luck! And you'd be right, except then I encountered a bear. On the street. Walking down the opposite side of the road. This is an inconvenience, and I suppose I should have exercised better bear manners. I gave it the little bit of 'hey bear!' I could summon and basically hoped it would continue on its way down the street because nothing was going to delay me from reaching this finish line right now, not even this unbothered black bear. Fortunately, he or she seemed utterly unmoved by my antics and continued on down the street as though they were also a taxpaying member of the community and I barreled down the street and into the finish chute where I was immediately granted my second Squamish50 Gary Robbins hug and the attention of many friends who had to witness my (again) overstimulated and disoriented presence. After a finish line group photo, it was time to start recombobulating, relaying stories to Toby and Elise, and drinking an orange juice juice box like any good Floridian would.

While I haven't quite sorted out my running purpose deconstruction, being reminded that I was the reason someone else signed up for something challenging or ridiculous seems like a good enough proxy for now. I hopped on the results page as soon as it was up to ensure my Squamish and Colorado friends also made it across the finish line (yes, they did!). I only made it four days before I was talking about signing up for my next ultra (not alone... not ready to do that again), which may be a new record turnaround time.

I cannot sign off without reiterating how absolutely blessed and lucky and fortunate I felt to have so many familiar, happy faces out there on the course last Saturday. From my other pals running the race that I felt I couldn't be the only DNF of the crew, to the volunteers and friends that came out to cheer me on and my ever-attentive forever race crew member Toby, this race reminded me that no matter if you're racing or just out for a run, going fast or taking it easy, the real magic of running is the folks you meet along the way. Without this sport, I honestly don't think I would have had some of the most important relationships and experiences I've had in my life.

Tune in next time for my musings about my mid-race existential crisis and the ever elusive 'why do I run?'!

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dirtanddistance · 7 months ago

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King of Pain and Festival Ready: Diez Vista 50k 2024

10 years ago, I decided to run my first 50k. As all good running ideas are, it was a suggestion from a friend and running partner. While she did not end up on the starting line with me, it was the beginning of a path that would lead me to the start line on Sasamat Lake, far from alone this time. The 50k distance has always been special to me. It was the race that made me an ultramarathoner, it introduced me to trail running. Every 50k I’ve done has been so deeply impactful on who I have become as a person; from that first race in Florida, to the 50k I ran while I was in podiatry school in Ohio that showed me that I had no idea what a trail race actually entailed. The 50k back in my hometown, a repeat of my first that I signed up for because I knew that I needed it to force myself to keep eating, keep taking care of myself while my dad died right before I graduated. I can still feel how disconnected and lonely I was out there that day if I think about it for too long. How miserable, numb. I won my gender division and felt nothing. I didn’t touch a 50k for years after that. Partially because I was in residency and had no time for that level of training, but also because I just… couldn’t, not after I dragged myself through it just to stay alive that last time. It wouldn’t be until last autumn that I would tackle that specific distance as an event again, this time with a group of fearless friends in my local running club on their run around the perimeter of Burnaby, BC. While I never mentioned it to any of them, getting to run that distance with them, sharing the joys and the pain, helped put together a few little broken pieces I’d forgotten about deep down in my soul somewhere. And along this path, I was delivered at the moment when I would ask Elise if she would like to run a trail ultra.

Convincing Elise to sign up for a trail ultra was actually a pretty easy sell. We’d done some exceptional leaf-peeping trail runs earlier in the season, and a pretty spectacular group trail run up to Panorama Ridge the summer before. We’d gone backpacking together and determined we could wander around in the backcountry for days on end without it getting too weird. More importantly, we’d bonded over our mutual burnout for road racing. It was nerve wracking, worrying about paces and times, comparing ourselves to others and to previous versions of ourselves who we knew deep down shouldn’t be emulated but damn, they put down some good times. Trail runs were a chance to escape that. You’ve never run this course before so you can’t really decide what a good time for you is. It might be the same distance as another one you ran, but the terrain makes them completely incomparable. Only the top three people get awards, so as solidly average runners there’s no need to wonder if you could have nabbed the podium in your age group. Most importantly, it’s far enough of a distance over challenging enough terrain that simply getting to the finish line feels like accomplishment enough, time be damned. So on entry day, one morning in I think December, I woke up an extra few minutes early and texted my running buddy, and signed up for the 2024 DV50. Minutes later, I got a text back confirming it. We were both really in it now.

As an aside, there is nothing I enjoy more than getting to do someone’s first [insert race distance here] with them. Even better if we’re running it together; I highly recommend trying this strategy for joymaxxing your race. You get to turn your competition brain off. Your only job is to shepherd your companion along this journey that you’ve gone on before. You don’t really think about whether or not you can do it or how you are feeling at any given moment. You’re concerned about how they’re holding up, if they’ve got enough water or slept well the night before. Some of my most treasured running memories are watching a friend finally take a crack at a race. You know you can do it. And you know they can do it, and that you’re gonna do it with them.

Race day dawned without a raindrop to speak of. Apparently this was only the 3rd time in the 26 year history of Diez Vista 50k that there was ‘good’ weather on race day #luckygirlsyndrome. I was infinitely thankful for this, if only because I’d already spent hours upon hours trudging up and down Diez Vista completely saturated and covered in mud while training for this race and emotionally I wasn’t sure how much more of that I had in me. We arrived pretty much in perfect timing to park, apply face gems (one must be festival ready when your race falls on Coachella weekend) get our drop bags situated, hit the bathroom, and take a couple photos before the starting gun (except there is no starting gun. This is British Columbia not a Florida high school track meet). As we started to pick up our feet and cross over the starting line while AC/DC’s Thunderstruck blasted, it really, well, struck me that we were really in it now.

First half of the race was well trodden ground after Run Ridge Run a little while back. We fell into a groove, the mass of participants still fairly thick as we crossed the bridge and started our ascent. We ended up near another run acquaintance I hadn’t had a chance to chat with since before Squamish last year, which broke up the first bit of the climb before we all became a bit too winded to do much more talking. The DV climb, which had been the bane of my existence up until today, went by faster than I could ever recall it passing on previous jaunts. There was nothing but the relentless desire to be done with it, to be over the (big) hill and on with the rest of the race where we could actually chat and enjoy ourselves.

Finally, we were past it and pulled up to Aid Station 2. AS2 had impeccable vibes. First of all, we ran into our friend Keri working as a course marshal on the way in, and seeing a familiar face is always a surefire morale boost. There was Dua Lipa playing on the speakers. A woman dressed up as a shark complimented our festival-ready face gems, and another volunteer told us we looked fresh (if anyone reading this has ever wondered what you should say to a runner when you’re volunteering at a race, anything along the lines of ‘you look fresh/strong’ is 10/10). We loaded up on snacks and headed back on our journey around Buntzen Lake.

The toddle to the third aid station was uneventful; once more we were rewarded with a volunteering friend sighting (hi Clarence!) and the Big Fuel waiting in the drop bag - a PB&J and some apple sauce. This aid station had everything, and it was far enough into the race that I was starting to want exactly none of it. Fortunately, the PB&J went down the hatch without much protest and there was a real bathroom on the way out of the aid station to boot.

The next chunk of the race was a bit uneventful; these miles kinda just slipped by, along with aid station 4. We finally ran into another pair of pals course marshaling before the split to head out along the powerline trail, bright eyed and optimistic. We’d run this trail by accident before, not realizing it was actually part of the course. It had been pouring rain that day, in contrast to the blazing sun spilling over the undulating path ahead of us, visible snaking infinitely into the horizon. With no concept of what was about to happen to us, we plodded off in decent spirits. We got to the point in the course where we saw everyone ahead of us passing back and coming back; the quantity of ‘way to go’, ‘looking strong’, and ‘good work!’s that were offered to increasingly bleak-faced compatriots ticked up and up, punctuated with bursts of more heartfelt excitement when we saw faces we recognized charging back towards the finish line. It was during this trudge that I was asked by a physically unflagging Elise, ‘what do you do when the mental game goes south? Asking for a friend.” I realized I was deeply lucky to not be too deep in a psychological rut despite the never ending uphill trudge we were on. The answer to that question is that there really isn’t an easy way to force your way out of it when you have that much race left to run. I let my brain empty itself out and start offering me its very questionable Pandora channel, flicking between songs whose places in my brain I couldn’t even begin to explain. Sometimes it kinda works, but more often you just kinda hang out there and then it shifts. And soon after that conversation, the uphill trek shifted back downhill and the passers by in the opposite direction began to say, ‘you’re nearly there!’ with a sincerity that was not to be questioned. Two course marshals with more enthusiasm than an entire high school cheer squad were all the confirmation we needed before we turned the corner to the shouting and a massive “Swift Kelce 2024” flag.

When I say that Aid Station 5 was a transcendent experience, I am not exaggerating in the least. I hadn’t been so excited to see more people I knew since the last time I’d seen one of our friends on course and the taste of the Sour Patch Kids and peach rings I ate out there will never be matched by any other candy experience in this world. I had no idea how far the power line trail went on before I got to that point, but finally could rest knowing that it did in fact have an end and that we could now spend the next few miles floating back downhill. Which we did, but maybe a little bit more stiff than graceful, filled with candy and lifted spirits. Spirits that were light enough to muster up a jump-for-joy when we ran past the course photographer again. Spirits that were ready for the final push to the finish line.

The final section of stairs before the finish line was definitely an insult but was certainly less than the 200 stairs that were described at the pre race briefing. At the top of the stairs, I caught sight of my husband parking his motorcycle (or doing his best to in the busy labyrinth of the Sasamat Lake parking lots) and remarked that he wouldn’t make it down before us as we made the final descent towards the lake, looking out onto the beach and holding back tears as I said “we did it, we made it!” to Elise. We dodged the children on the beach as we traversed that final gauntlet to cross the finish line together, hitting Gary with that double high five and reuniting with all of our run club friends.

While this was one of the less intensely-trained-for ultras I’ve completed, it was by far the most fun one I’ve done and mentally the strongest I’ve had. An emotional redemption of this distance, and an unforgettable experience with a beautiful friend. There is nothing quite like sharing months and miles together working toward a goal, and getting to cross the finish line with someone who knows exactly what it took to get there. With our sparkly face gems intact, we finished as the kings of pain, and also ever festival-ready.

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