When we finally reached Grand Cache, our team—Vigor Mortis—was complete. In addition to Andy and myself, there was Murray (leg #2), a doctor who lived in Calgary. He knew John (leg #5) and Elsie (leg #3), a husband and wife South African team who had relocated to practice rural medicine in Grand Cache. They had done the race since its inception, and John had done the entire thing solo one year. This, I learned, had less to do with a penchant for ultramarathoning, and more to do with living in a small town that’s main, or only, attraction is an endurance event.
According to locals, the Death Race has been a major boon for the town. The economy wasn’t doing well; there was little reason to visit and even less reason to run around the steep terrain. But since it started, the event had lured more and more participants to the challenge; expanded the activities to a weekend long DeathFest with carnival rides, bands, and food; and inspired non-athletically inclined locals to test their stuff.
The popularity of the run was evident by the number of people milling about the schoolyard the evening before the race, flexing calf muscles, and finishing last minute registration glitches. The death themed vaudevillian charm was also intensified. The race motto—Are You Tough Enough?—and the logo, a skull, were plastered over T-shirts, bumper stickers, and signs. On a large stage, a man dressed as the grim reaper gave a “motivational” pre-race speech.
Our team feasted on pasta, then went to bed early. When we woke, the skies were overcast and there was a faint drizzle as I lined up with others running leg #1 and soloists. I had butterflies in my stomach, as I always do before a race, even though I knew my twelve miles would be a slow, uneventful plod through the forest. At 8 a.m., the gun fired and we were off, the sound of shuffling feet drowned out by the sound of bear bells attached to runners’ water belts and backpacks.
