Or do call it a comeback. Whatever, I'm not your mom.
I originally registered for Fat Dog 120 on January 2, 2018. I was coming off the best racing season of my short ultrarunning career, having broken 14 hours at Manitou's Revenge, 20 hours at Vermont 100, and 24 hours at Grindstone, along with setting a new FKT on the NJ section of the Appalachian Trail. I was feeling invincible and was ready to take on a new level of mountain ultramarathon.
For reasons that I will elaborate on in way too much detail, that did not come to pass. If you would like to fast forward, skip to the race section below. For those of you who want to wallow in self pity with me, read on...
 |
| I waited a long time for this view |
What followed was a string of bad luck for the race organizers, for myself personally, and - well - for the entire planet:
2018: Race canceled because of wildfires on course
2019: Race held on a modified course. I deferred to 2020.
2020: Race canceled because of Covid
2021: Race canceled because of Covid
2022: Race held on a modified course because of flooding
On August 5, 2022, four and a half years after registering, I finally stood on the starting line. Rather than using the intervening years to get stronger and faster, I had suffered a string of mild but nagging health issues that had slowed me down a quite a bit from my peak. I was now coming off my worst years of racing, having blown up at Manitou's Revenge, Grindstone, Hellbender, and Manitou's again.
If you've noticed a lack of activity on this blog, that's because for a long period of time, I simply didn't enjoy running any more. I kept going through the motions, hoping to reignite the flame, but my body would not cooperate. Even my easy runs were leaving me feeling drained and sore.
It wasn't until a blood test showed low levels of iron and vitamin D that things started to click. I started taking supplements and immediately noticed an uptick in my energy levels. I bought a gravel bike and a TheraBand and started doing what would have been unimaginable to a young Ryan: stretching and cross training.
My race results didn't immediately improve though. My body was recovering, but my fitness would take longer to return. Also, I was about 15 pounds over my ideal racing weight. Rather than focus on a time goal, I decided that my main goal was to enjoy this experience that I was finally going to have in the mountains. Rather than taper, I spent the week before the race exploring Banff with Alex.
 |
| Moraine Lake. Worth the bike ride. |
 |
| Mt. Rundle. Worth the 8 hour hike on race week. |
Okay, I did have one time goal. They give out colorful buckles for a 36 hour finish. I thought that would be fun, but it seemed optimistic given all of the above. That goal went out the window pretty early on.
Let's get to the race.
The Gang Races Fat Dog
Fat Dog is a 120+ mile race in the Canadian Cascades, running point to point from Cathedral Provincial Park to Manning Provincial Park. Despite being located just across the border from North Cascades National Park, these provincial parks are some of the best kept secrets in North America. The course passes through pristine wilderness, crossing alpine meadows and rugged ridgelines. In 2022 the course was rerouted, perhaps permanently, because of severe flood damage in the Skagit Valley. This added on 5-10 miles and a bit of elevation gain.
 |
| 2022 Fat Dog elevation profile |
I was lucky enough to be joined by my two favorite Alexes for this race: Alex T. (my wife, aka Girl Alex) and Alex G. (my running friend, aka Boy Alex). Their experience in getting my dumb ass through difficult running events is unmatched. With a little bit of fanfare at the starting line, we set off on our 120+ mile journey.
 |
| Boy Alex, Girl Alex, Boy Ryan The tent in the background says "Suck it up whiney baby" which is a pretty good race motto |
The first section was a 4,800' climb over about 9 miles on the Lakeview Trail to the Cathedral Aid station. This was the biggest climb and the highest point of the race, so as usual I forced myself to take it extremely easy, letting the more enthusiastic runners race past me while I stopped to take pictures and enjoy the scenery.
 |
| All smiles on the first climb Photo by Matt Cecil |
The views on the ridge were spectacular. Race weekend happened to fall exactly at peak wildflower bloom and I finally got to see why people call this the most scenic race in North America.
 |
| Stupidly pretty |
After a short traverse along the chilly ridgeline, we made a 3,700' descent to Ashnola Aid station at mile 18. The weather got hotter and the trail got dustier as we descended, so I reined in my effort level. I was excited to see my crew for the first time, but I was also eager to get out of the dusty mosquito-y valley and into cooler weather. I think I got a little impatient with them as they swapped out the dying batteries in my SPOT tracker, but in reality I was only there for 5-10 minutes.
The next section was almost the mirror opposite of the first section: a 3,400' climb to Flat Top mountain over 10 miles followed by a 4,000' descent to the Passayten River. I should mention here that on paper, these climbs all max out at around 800 ft/mi, which is not particularly steep for a mountain race. But I noticed pretty quickly that the trails were not evenly graded. Strava backs me up on this, showing that the ironically named Easygoing Creek trail maxes out around 30% grade in certain sections.
On the bright side, there was this to look at:
 |
| I mean, just... |
 |
| Bruh. |
I'm sure I lost 10 minutes in this section just spinning in circles taking pictures. But when am I going to be back to the Canadian Cascades? Worth it.
Wet Feet and the Search for Meat
Much to the relief of my race time, the sun went down and my view shrunk to just the 10 foot circle in front of me that was illuminated by my headlamp. The descent was pretty straightforward, but what I found at the bottom was a surprise: a thigh deep crossing of the Passayten River aided by a fixed rope. I had read a half dozen race reports to prepare for the race, but apparently this didn't make enough of an impression on those runners to warrant its inclusion. Canadians are a different breed.
 |
| This was a definite highlight |
At 39 miles into the race, I didn't expect to get stuck behind any groups of runners, but this was a major choke point since only one person could use the rope at a time. I considered charging ahead without the rope but didn't want to risk dousing myself in cold water as the temperature was dropping. Instead, I occupied myself by taking pictures and filtering water. After a 10 minute wait, it was finally my turn to cross. I wasted no time, charging ahead and presumably winning a Strava crown for that 100 foot segment (note to self: create the world's dumbest Strava segment).
 |
| Moody shot courtesy of Matt Cecil |
In the original course, this crossing would have been followed by a 3 mile section of highway, which always sounded awful. Instead this year we followed a fire break that paralleled the road. For those of you who, like me, are unfamiliar with this term, a fire break is essentially a path bulldozed through the woods to prevent forest fires from spreading. This one was brand new, as evidenced by the fresh bulldozer tracks, and was basically a mud pit that climbed 1,000 feet from the highway. On fresh legs it might have been fun, but holy cow was this a slog!
Anyway, I finally made it to Bonnevier aid station, which I had been calling Bon Iver in my head for the last few hours. It was just after 11pm and I hadn't seen my crew in over 7 hours. I asked the Alexes to see if the aid station had any cheeseburgers. I had smelled them cooking back at the Trapper Aid station four hours earlier, but someone snagged the last one and I didn't want to wait for them to make more. I had been on a mission to find a burger since that moment, but I was shit out of luck because apparently those were the only burgers in the entire mountain range.
 |
| Boy Alex found me some bacon though, which is a fantastic consolation prize. Get yourself a vegetarian friend who still brings you meat at aid stations. |
With dry shoes on my feet and a handful of greasy animal products for the journey, I got back on the trail. This would be the crux of the race for me and the other runners: a nighttime traverse of the Heather Trail, 37 miles in the backcountry with no major aid stations.
I started the climb with another runner who had run the first edition of Fat Dog. I had previously heard that the inaugural race was advertised as a 100 miler, and it wasn't until runners got close to the finish that they realized it was more like 115-120 miles. Yeesh. I learned from him that the reality was even worse. The race was also marketed as "beginner friendly" and there were runners attempting their first 100 miler that year. As someone who came into this race having finished thirteen 100 mile races and was completely drained by the finish, the thought of doing this with no prior 100 mile experience was horrifying.
I hit the Bonnevier aid station around 3am, happy to see other people for the first time in a few hours. The weather was starting to get chilly, and I saw frost forming in the grass around me. The aid station was a sullen affair with just a couple of volunteers standing shivering in the dark. I filled a water bottle and grabbed a gel and got moving. To those poor volunteers, thank you for standing on a mountaintop in the dark to hand out gels and fill water bottles!
A few miles later I found myself stumbling. My mind was drifting and I suddenly had the irresistible urge to sleep. I've noticed that my ability to handle sleep deprivation has been getting worse as I get older, and for the first time in my racing career I had to lie down in the middle of the trail and take a nap. I left my headlamp on so no one would step on me, took a quick look at my watch, and immediately drifted off into the abyss. I woke up 5 minutes later, a bit chilly but feeling much more energetic.
 |
| Sunrise over Nicomen Lake |
It was now almost 5am, and I knew that the sunrise would help me wake up. I crested Nicomen ridge just in time to see the first rays of sunlight peaking out over the mountains in the distance. A short but steep descent brought me to the Nicomen Lake aid station, where I once again grabbed a minimal amount of food and water and got back on the trail. I was around the half way point in the race with just under 20 hours elapsed. A 36 hour finish was certainly not going to happen, but 40 sounded like a nice round number too.
With the sun now shining down on me, I felt a renewed burst of energy and hammered the descent to Grainger Creek aid station. Just kidding! I immediately began to feel sleepy again, and I staggered down the trail, barely managing a 15min/mi pace on the buttery smooth single track. I zombie shuffled into the aid station, set a 5 minute timer on my phone, and immediately collapsed onto a yoga mat for my second nap of the race.
Once again, the short nap revived me (following it up with a cup of coffee didn't hurt either), and I was back on the trail. I now had a 10 mile climb on the Hope Pass Trail to get to my crew at the next major aid station. I was moving well, but this was a new section of the course, and it had clearly not seen much foot traffic. I could tell how much work had gone into clearing it ahead of race day, given all the fallen trees that had been cut. However, the trail was a muddy, mossy, brushy mess. Despite not having had rain in the last few days, I found myself constantly sidestepping puddles and creeks running across the trail.
I arrived at Hope Pass aid station at almost noon, having gone 12 hours since seeing my crew. I asked if they could find me that cheeseburger, but the hot options were tater tots and bacon. Once again, not bad as far as consolation prizes go. I was craving salt and I vaguely recall saying "Tell them to put a lot of ketchup on the tots. Like, a disgusting amount of ketchup. Fuck them up with ketchup."
 |
| Boy Alex sunscreening my calves and thighs. Not who I expected to deal with that task, but I'm not complaining. |
The Part Where I Got to Run with People!
Now 80 miles into the race, we were firmly in pacer territory. Boy Alex had initially offered to pace more mileage, but with the lack of crew access in the backcountry, the only other option would have been for him to start at mile 40. And while 80 miles with a pacer sounds nice, I didn't want us to both be trashed by the end.
We were back in the high country, and with the sun shining on the wildflowers we felt like we were in the Sound of Music. We had a 24 mile traverse back along the Heather Trail to the next major aid station, and Boy Alex was determined to keep me focused and motivated. Although like me, he couldn't help but stop for pictures.
 |
| Flowers for DAYS, son! |
We reached Nicomen Lake aid station at the same time as Lee Conner, a badass woman with whom I have shared miles at Grindstone and Hellbender. I always know I'm having a good day if I'm near her on the course, but unfortunately she was going through a serious rough patch. She seemed to be struggling to form words and her movement was uncharacteristically slow and cautious. I advised her to get some food in her system and take a nap, not that she needs my advice when it comes to finishing mountain ultras. I left her in the capable hands of the aid station volunteers and hoped for the best as I trudged onward.
The remainder of the Heather Trail was beautiful, if not particularly fast. I hit the 100 mile mark in 32 hours, which seemed respectable to me given the difficulty of the course. I noted out loud that it would have been so nice if this race was "only" 100 miles. But alas, my dumb ass decided that 120+ was a good idea.
At mile 103 we hit Blackwall Road, a winding dirt road that would take us down to the race headquarters at Manning Park Resort. From here we had a panoramic view south into North Cascades National Park.
 |
| View from Blackwell Road Photo by Matt Cecil |
It was nice to be on a graded road and not have to think about foot placements for a while, but the soles of my feet were a mess after running through so much mud earlier in the race. We got to Blackwell aid station, and the Alexes swapped pacing bibs while I did some surgery. I scrubbed the grit off my feet with a towel (a highly useful piece of race gear) and dried them off as best as possible. To add a bit of protection, I double layered my socks, which seemed to help somewhat. With Girl Alex now by my side, I got back on my feet and hobbled onward.
 |
| It hurts but it do be pretty though |
We had a short detour onto a rocky trail that cut a switchback off the road descent, but after that it was six miles of pavement to descend 2,000 feet. I'm typically a strong downhill runner late in races, and I managed a respectable-but-not-aggressive 14 min/mi pace on this section. But let me tell you that my hips and knees were not happy about this sudden burst of what I will generously call "speed."
 |
| Pain cave, party of one |
I felt bad that Girl Alex's section with me was such a low point. She tried to distract me by talking about some dinner plans with my family when we got back, but I informed her in no uncertain terms that I was in no state to check my mental calendar for openings. In fact, I was pretty sure that we were going to have to throw my corpse in a dumpster after the race, so future dinner plans seemed pretty fuckin' irrelevant. So yeah, that's the head space I was in. Sorry babe.
The Alexes swapped pacer bibs again, and now I was back to being Boy Alex's problem. He had chugged a cold brew coffee and was determined to get me to the finish line regardless of my deteriorating state. I spent the next few miles trying to keep up with him as he went into full drill sergeant mode, barking orders to run interspersed with words of encouragement. I racked my brain for a polite way to tell him to fuck off. I considered sitting down in the center of the trail and DNFing in protest of this outrageous treatment, but that seemed a tad too dramatic. Eventually I settled on a very frank, "Hey man, this is not working and I'm totally fine with finishing an hour later if it means not pushing this hard." That did the trick.
 |
| Pic unrelated to this point. I just like the way it looks. Can you tell how hard I'm trying to hold my shit together? |
We passed by the finish line at mile 113 and still had another 14 miles left to go, which if you ask me is a pretty rotten thing to do to a runner. We trudged onwards, but for the third time in the race I was met with an overwhelming urge to lie down and sleep. Boy Alex, having been nudged out of drill sergeant mode, relented and I curled up for a few minutes until I felt a very large spider crawl up my inner thigh. Fine. Fuck. I guess I won't sleep.
Thus began a very slow and sullen ascent of the Skyline Trail. If you had stopped me at this point in the race and asked my opinion on the technicality of the Fat Dog trails, I would have said that it has some mildly rocky sections but nothing too strenuous. Skyline flipped this assessment on its head. Rocky ledges. Steep drop-offs, sometimes on both sides of the trail. If I had done this in the daylight on fresh legs it would have been my jam. In the dark with 120 miles on my legs, it was very much not my jam.
 |
| Cool, but also ouch. Photo by Anne Christensen on AllTrails |
Boy Alex did his best to distract me by practicing his Spanish. It had been freezing by the water at Lightning Lake ("Ryan esta frio!"), and as we climbed we hit a much warmer patch of air ("Ahora, Ryan esta muy caliente!") As my 20 mile miles turned to 30+ minute miles, I did the sort of mental math that every runner does at this point in the race. 40 hours had slipped away. 41 wasn't looking good either. Let's shoot for 42 then. The answer to life, the universe, and everything. It's a better number than 36 or 40 anyway.
We crested the last summit with just over 40 hours elapsed. I tried to run downhill but my feet were hamburger meat and I was losing coordination from the lack of sleep. At one point I stepped straight off the side of the trail and would have fallen 20 feet into some brush if not for a perfectly placed fallen tree that my foot landed on. Get your shit together Thorpe!
I noted with surprise that no runners had passed us since the last aid station, and with that a half dozen people flew by. One of them was Lee Conner, who was back from the dead and poised to finish with her trademark sprint. I gave chase for a few seconds but had to let her go.
At long last, we reached the bottom of the mountain. The finish line came into view across Lightning Lake and we heard cheering from the small group of spectators who were braving the cold in the middle of the night. I shambled across the finish line, gave Girl Alex a big kiss, collected my buckle, and gave that a big kiss too for good measure. Boy Alex got a hug.
 |
| All the feels |
 |
| Just a boy and his Alexes |
Only nine runners had broken 36 hours and twenty broke 40 hours, which made me feel a bit better about missing those goals by such a wide margin. Despite having almost perfect weather, the course changes certainly seem to have added some difficulty to an already difficult race. Nevertheless, I finished feeling healthy (my feet were fine once they dried out) and despite some late race struggles, I really thoroughly enjoyed the experience.
We couldn't hang out long because the temperature was just above freezing, but the next afternoon, after eating all the bacon and eggs they had in our small town, we returned to the scene of the crime and enjoyed soaking our tired feet in Nicomen Lake in 90 degree weather. What a difference a few hours makes!
 |
| I could have spent the whole day sitting here |
Then we had a three hour drive back to Vancouver to catch our flights home. Or rather, the Alexes had a three hour drive. I took a three hour nap and magically found myself at YVR airport.
 |
| It ain't colorful but it's a keeper |
I don't know if I'll come back to Fat Dog any time soon, but I'm glad I finally had the opportunity to run this amazing race. Huge thanks to the organizers, the volunteers, and of course, my two wonderful Alexes!
