Am I still an Ultra runner if I’m not Ultra racing? 
 Mmm mud. Photo: Adam Ciuk

Mmm mud. Photo: Adam Ciuk

  • 2013: Three 50km races
  • 2014: Five 50km races, one 50 mile race
  • 2015: Three 50km races, one 100km race, one 70 mile race
  • 2016: Two 50km races, one 100km race, one 120 mile race
  • 2017: One 100 mile DNS 

In the past five years I've raced 18 ultras and had one DNS (did not start). Except I haven't actually raced anything since 2016. Which means that I actually ran 18 ultras in four years and then dropped off the face of the racing planet unintentionally. Oops. But why?

My first-ever Ultra race was in August, 2013. I signed up two weeks before, woefully unprepared, and had my ass handed to me. And yet my first thought as I crawled across the finish line was “when can I do this again”? By the time August 2014 rolled around, I’d run seven 50km races, possessed with more enthusiasm than common sense. I equated quantity with quality, and it wasn’t until I started training with Gary Robbins that I started to understand the concept of pacing and recovery. In other words, I chilled the fuck out, and started focusing on racing smarter, not just more. 

 Aww, baby ultrarunner Hilary at Orcas 50km. Photo: Glenn Tachiyama

Aww, baby ultrarunner Hilary at Orcas 50km. Photo: Glenn Tachiyama

In the following 12 months, I ran another six ultras, but strategically — separating them into “A” and “B” goals, with the “B” goals thrown in as I built up my base fitness from 50 km to 50 miles and finally 70 miles, at Fat Dog 70 miler. By doing so, I avoided race fatigue, using the races as training milestones heading into my goal race of the year. I ended up taking first place female at that race, which pretty much affirmed that I was doing something right. The following year I set Fat Dog 120 miler as my goal race, and found myself again racing less as my races got longer. 

 My first winning of a thing! Very exciting. Fat Dog 70mile, 2015. Photo: Brian McCurdy

My first winning of a thing! Very exciting. Fat Dog 70mile, 2015. Photo: Brian McCurdy

With longer races, too, came the need for more recovery time. After Fat Dog 120 miler, I just felt wiped. I needed some down time, and it took me a solid three months to even WANT to run again. When I did start running again, it was while trying to juggle the demands of the hectic graphic design program that I was enrolled in, and I decided to limit my racing to one giant goal race and spend the rest of the year training and focusing on school. You see, it isn’t just the races themselves that are demanding. Hidden costs included the time it takes to get to the race, the actual race, the return trip home, the cost of accommodations and travel, and the time spent tapering and recovering for the race (typically two weeks before, two weeks after, and much longer when they get over 100km).

So for 2017 I made a conscious choice to only pick one race: the Cascade Crest 100 miler. I trained my butt off all summer while juggling full-time school and work, sacrificing sleep and fitting runs in even when I felt like a walking zombie. Six weeks out, I remember feeling that I had actually pulled it off — I felt stronger than I’d ever felt before, I’d logged quality miles and higher-than-ever amounts of elevation gain, and I was so excited to actually line up at a start line again. 

 Putting those miles in the bank. Photo: Adam Ciuk

Putting those miles in the bank. Photo: Adam Ciuk

And then, about half an hour after I finished thinking those things, I broke my big toe while bombing down from the Whistler alpine. One classic Hilary faceplant, and bam. Goodbye 100 miler plans. See ya later Cascade Crest. I have to admit, I found this one a pretty bitter pill to swallow. Not only was it my first DNS, but I just felt that I’d put so.much.time. into training (and away from school), and it seemed cruel that after all of that sacrifice I wouldn’t have anything to show for it.

 I never do anything by half measures. Photo: Stephen Wilson

I never do anything by half measures. Photo: Stephen Wilson

Frustrated and unable to run, I booked a one-way ticket to Nepal right after my school program ended in October, and switched focuses from running to climbing and trekking. Between when I broke my toe (late July) and when I got home from Nepal (mid-December), I ran exactly 3 times. TOTAL. 

 Professional pack mule, I am. Nepal, 2017. Photo: Chris Brinlee Jr

Professional pack mule, I am. Nepal, 2017. Photo: Chris Brinlee Jr

I began questioning during that period whether I could actually still call myself an ultra runner - I mean, if I wasn’t ultra racing, what would I tell people I was working towards? It seemed so underwhelming to simply talk about being a trail runner, without having some sort of epic goal on the horizon. And then I realized how ridiculous that was. My love of trail running has always come from the adventures I’ve had, not the races I’ve done. And even though I didn’t get the chance to race in 2017, I still got to go on all of the incredible runs that formed my training — which is the best part of ultrarunning anyways.

A few weeks ago, I photographed the Coastal Challenge, which is a 235km six day stage race in Costa Rica.  As I watched each runner cross the finish line after six days of battling epic terrain and facing their inner demons, I realized something. Being an ultra runner has nothing to do with how much racing I am (or am not) doing. It has everything to do with understanding what it takes to finish these epic endeavours, be it a race, an FKT, or just a "hard for you" challenge. There's a camaraderie that comes with those shared experiences that is incredibly special.



Races make excellent goalposts. They can provide training incentive, help us push farther than we otherwise would have, and provide progress markers. However, they do not define us as runners or what we are capable of, and they are but one piece of the puzzle. In the same way that "getting obsessed with training data (hello Strava users, I'm looking at you) to the point where you can't enjoy your run unless you are logging it for the world to see" isn't healthy, I think it's important to find balance with racing and running. In a sport notorious for overtraining and burnout, balance = longevity. Races are exciting and rewarding, sure, but ultimately why do we run? We run to see how far we can go, and for the love of it. 

FYI: I'll be lining up at my first ultramarathon start line since 2016 this August at Cascade Crest 100. Wish me much luck and no broken toes!

Step to the Beat — Lessons in Learning How to Pick up my Feet.

So I've never been much of a road runner. I only became a runner at all because I fell in love with the lush trails of the pacific northwest and figured that trail running was an efficient way to explore them. Even when I've had a coach and followed structured training plans, I've still gone out of my way to avoid running on roads or gravel paths — mostly because I get bored very quickly if I'm not constantly worrying about face planting on technical trails.  


Cue Vi.

She's a personal training system that measures everything from your heart rate, steps per minute, and activity. The headphones are linked to an app that tracks GPS and logs your workouts. However, when Sportchek originally approached me to try out Vi, I have to confess that I was a bit skeptical. Having run almost twenty ultramarathons in the past five years, it's pretty easy to feel as if I've got my training routine down pat, and the thought of using a personal "coach" that talked to me during runs didn't seem that necessary.

That said, I'd already decided to run every day in January as a way to kick my butt back into training gear, so it seemed like a good opportunity to put Vi through her paces. And after training with her voice in my head for the last month, I feel like I can safely say that there are still things about my running that need improvement (shocker). 


So without further ado, here's what I really like about Vi:

She gets personal.

When you first set up the accompanying app, you enter your height, weight, and training goals. Vi tracks your heart rate throughout workouts, and the more you use the app the more she gets to know you and what your baseline is (and she'll give you sh*t if you slack off, too!).

Set those goals.

When you open the app at the beginning of your run, you can select the workout that suits your goals. Decide if you are running, cycling, or using a treadmill, then choose between workout options that focus on time, distance, speed, or nothing at all. Vi will customize her mid-run feedback based on your goals. 

Steps per Minute.

This is by far my favourite feature. As you run, Vi measures your cadence and tells you what your steps per minute is, as well as what your "most efficient" steps per minute pace is. This is not to be confused with how fast you are going - it's simply how quick your cadence is. Improving your turnover means greater efficiency while running, and it's something that I have never been very good at achieving (and also, I've never found an easy way to measure my steps per minute mid-run on my own). Many trail races have long stretches of forest service roads, and there are obvious benefits to improving your running efficiency in order to take advantage of more runnable sections of terrain during races. 

So how does it work? After several Km's, Vi will give you an update on your progress (heart rate, distance, steps per minute). If you are like me, she'll then suggest that you should pick up your feet a little more, and offer to play an up-tempo beat that you can run in time with. If you say "yes" when prompted, you're set! She'll give you several minutes of at-tempo beats, and then let you know if you've successfully increased your steps per minute. From there, she will periodically check in to let you know if you are still on track.

After consciously working on my pace and trying to maintain a consistent number of steps per minute, I found myself starting to naturally correcting my cadence on my own. I also found that I was consistently getting closer to my "optimal efficiency" (176 steps per minute). 


What I didn't like:

GPS limitations.

Vi is definitely intended for more urban running than trail networks, as the GPS struggles to find itself once you get into dense or forested areas.

Vi talks a lot. 

To be fair, there are multiple settings you can have for how much Vi interacts with you mid-run, and I mostly had mine set to a moderate level of engagement. While I did find it hard to get used to having her interact with me while I ran, at the same time she often offers useful feedback so I wouldn't suggest turning her off completely. 


The Vi headphones are sweat-proof bluetooth headphones with amazing Harman / Kardon audio, and it integrates perfectly with Spotify / your fav music. 


Vi is for much more than just "learning how to run", which is what I had initially assumed she'd be best at. I'm actually quite impressed at how specific you can be with your training goals. My goal for the month was to get faster, and so Vi's feedback and suggestions were aimed at making me more efficient. I also appreciate that you can plan specific sprint or HIIT workouts — and considering how much trouble I have convincing myself to do interval training on my own, it's nice to have the motivation literally in your head during those harder workouts. 

*Disclaimer: this post is made possible through a sponsored collaboration with SportChek. All opinions expressed are entirely my own. 

Hilary MathesonComment

What makes a perfect trail? Is it finding a nice, easy loop of exactly five miles that starts right outside your front door? Or is it having a secret route that no one else knows about - a place where you can go to escape the world?

 That "ahh" moment. 

That "ahh" moment. 

For me, defining a "perfect trail" is a tall order. There are many trails that are perfect in that moment. Sometimes I'll go out for a run without a clear idea of where I'm going, other than where I'm starting. There's nothing more peaceful in that moment than letting my feet guide me through the forest, chasing rabbit trails and exploring new-to-me terrain. And there are other days where I take great satisfaction in planning the perfect route ahead of time - one that combines whatever mixture of hills or runnable single track might fit the day's training agenda. 

The truth that I keep coming back to is that trail running equals freedom. The ability to lace up your runners and strike out on an adventure of varying length on your own two feet is a privilege, and one that I never want to take for granted. 

 Kapow! Badass runner Heather Bretschneider shows off her infectious love of all things trail. 

Kapow! Badass runner Heather Bretschneider shows off her infectious love of all things trail. 

When I first discovered the trails, it was through hiking. As I got more confident, I slowly progressed to hiking the uphills and running the downhills and flats – basically going with gravity as much as possible. While I might “try” to run more than hike uphill nowadays, any trail runner can tell you that there’s still a fair amount of “power hiking” involved in any technical trail running, so some things haven’t changed all that much.

One thing I did realize early on in my trail running journey was that I sucked at downhill running. In races, I would bust my ass passing runners on the climbs, only to get caught and smoked by them as soon as we hit the downhills because I was tentative and unwilling to trust my feet. This frustrated me to no end, so I spent a good year consciously working on my downhill running techniques.


This brings us to Ned’s Atomic Dustbin. Anyone who runs on the North Shore has probably tackled this black diamond downhill mountain bike trail. It’s technical, more roots and rocks than dirt, and it scared me shitless the first time I tried running down it. Therefore, I decided I was going to keep running it until I was no longer intimidated by it. And so I did, tackling that trail dozens of times over the course of a year in all sorts of weather and conditions. Slowly but surely I got faster at it, feeling out each turn and knowing where the treacherous drop-offs were. Most importantly, I started trusting my feet.

I may not have one perfect trail, but if I had to pick one trail that has changed my running in a very tangible way, this would be it. 

 Photo credit: Adam Ciuk (and yes, I love neon. How did you guess?)

Photo credit: Adam Ciuk (and yes, I love neon. How did you guess?)

Pro tip: I’m a very visual person. When I’m bombing downhill, I like to picture myself as a human pinball, ricocheting off each rock and root without staying on them long enough for them to slow me down. Another visual I’ve heard which I think is also an effective metaphor: picture a rock skipping on a lake. The lighter and quicker you are, the less likely you are to sink.

 Photo credit: Adam Ciuk

Photo credit: Adam Ciuk

Whether you are visual or would rather just turn your brain off altogether and rely on reflexes to keep you upright, the point is that good downhill technique takes time, patience and work. Find a trail that challenges you, run it until you feel comfortable on it, and then repeat the pattern with a new trail. Pretty soon it won’t matter what trail it is - you’ll be flying.

 Photo credit: Adam Ciuk

Photo credit: Adam Ciuk

Thanks to Bauerfeind Sports for challenging me to think about my "perfect trail"!

Hilary Matheson
A crash course in fell running

Hindsight is everything. Photo credit: Stephen Wilson

For my fell running debut, I wanted to make an entrance.

Instead, I settled for a crash landing.

My introduction began innocuously enough, with a surprise invitation from Inov-8 to join them in the Lake District for a whirlwind weekend of running through fells. Being Canadian and used to large-scale mountains, I barely knew what a fell was (is it a mountain? A hill? What exactly do the Brits define as a mountain anyway?), but I was ready to throw myself into this new venture. 

There were seven of us, from all over the world. We were the lucky winners of Inov-8's "Get a Grip" competition, which brought together runners from a variety of backgrounds with the goal of introducing us to the sport that was so ingrained in the Northern UK culture (and almost nowhere else). Our mission for the weekend: get a crash course in fell running technique and race the Skiddaw Classic, which featured a ten mile run up and down Skiddaw, one of the highest fells in the Lake District.

We arrived in Keswick on the Friday (pronounced Kessick with no "w", don't ask me why), a motley crew of bleary-eyed and jet-lagged travellers. Even through our fatigue, though, we could see that there was a certain kind of magic to this moody land. The town lay nestled among what seemed like an endless horizon of rolling fells of varying heights and steepness, partly shrouded in cloud, which only added to the mystery. Just how high were those peaks anyways? I suspected we would find out shortly.

Runners L-R: Adel Matanovic, Alex Garcia. Photo credit: Hilary Matheson

The day after our arrival saw us all up early and ready to tackle some fells. Our itinerary for the day included a "masterclass" (the polite way of saying crash course) in fell running techniques with accomplished runners Ben Mounsey and Mary Wilkinson. After getting kitted out at Inov-8's HQ (which is literally perched in the heart of the fell running district), we took to the fells with more enthusiasm than finesse. 

I quickly learned the first of several fell running lessons:  Don't even think about walking.  

We started off with what would become familiar quickly: ascending. As we climbed the faint game trails that seemed to go right up the steepest part of the ridges (the Brits call that taking the most efficient route), I yearned for the lung-saving switchbacks I was accustomed to. And as I watched Mary and Ben run uphill past me without seeming out of breath at all, I realized that fell runners don't slow to a power hike until the grade is nearly vertical. 

Once I established that my lungs were woefully unprepared to cope with this unfamiliar approach to hills, we switched focus to tackle downhill techniques. I soon learned my next fell running lesson: there is no such thing as a braking system. The best way to tackle the downhill is to throw yourself down the hill in the most expedient manner possible (read: fastest, with the least amount of care for one's noggin possible). And somehow, miraculously, they mostly stay upright. The image that came to mind as I watched Ben navigate the pockmarked terrain with ease was that of a rock skipping over a lake. If you get it going fast enough, it takes longer for it to sink. But at least in my case, sink it does, eventually.

Photo credit: James Carnegie

The Race

Speaking of sinking, on Sunday we tackled Skiddaw. At 3,054 feet, it's the sixth highest fell in England. While that may not be that big by my Canadian standards, it still qualifies as a properly steep mountain, especially when one is dragging oneself up only to hurtle oneself down again at (as Ben would say) "a bit of a pace". That's what's also known as an understatement.

There's a great sense of community at these fell races, which is probably what has made this niche sport so enduring. Families dropped off baked goods and cucumber sandwiches at the start line, creating an informal pot luck for hungry and muddy runners to enjoy post-race. Lean, weather-hardened men and women wear singlets and split shorts, despite the mandatory gear requirements that include carrying a waterproof jacket and pants. I shivered next to them in long sleeves and tights.

With a low key "Go!" we were off at a startlingly fast pace, and I knew within two minutes that my ultra-running conditioned body (ie. capable of slow gears only) wasn't going to be any good on this course. The route followed a well established and steep game trail up the ridge crest to the summit. Five miles straight uphill from the middle of town, and then five miles back the way you came. Even I can do the math on that one and realize that ten miles at the pace we were running was going to feel about as painful as 100 miles at my normal ultra shuffle pace. 

As the grade quickly got steeper, I was passed by a steady stream of local runners who were probably 25 years older than me - all somehow still running uphill long after I had switched to hiking with my hands on my quads. Mental note to self: must improve my uphill game. 

Split shorts and side stitches. Photo credit: James Carnegie

The top third of the mountain had been playing coy all morning, hidden in a menacing looking cloud. Sure enough, once we hit the cloud line the temperature plummeted, and I realized why we had been asked to carry such beefy emergency gear during a summer race. It was both cold and disorienting, and the wind was strong enough that I struggled to stand upright. In that moment, I realized how quickly a jaunt in the fells could go sideways if given a little bit of side eye from Mother Nature. 

I reached the top of Skiddaw with little fanfare and if it hadn't been for the shivering volunteers and a lonely cairn to mark the summit, I wouldn't have even know where I was - I could barely see my hand in front of my face through the fog and cloud. All I knew was that I wanted to get off of the top of the damn mountain as quickly as possible, and it seemed like a good time to test out the fell running brakeless descent technique.

Downhill trail running in Vancouver usually involves playing cautious ping pong off of roots and rocks, so it was a treat to be able to open up my legs, trust my Inov-8 shoes to do their thing, and just let go. I whooped and hollered as I flew down the hill, exchanging cheers and high-fives with my fellow teammates as I went. The world merged into an exhilarating whirl of grass, gravel and sky, until I was suddenly jolted out of this euphoric state of flow by a rude realization: my legs were moving faster than my reflexes could control. Lacking the Road Runner's control at high speeds, I ended up like Wile E. Coyote; though fortunately I landed in a ditch, not at the bottom of a cliff.

Luckily, I actually bounced right out of my fall and back onto my feet with very little consequence aside from a bruised ego. I remember yelling at a concerned farmer who had watched my impressive fall in shock, "at least no one caught that on camera!!" as I flew by, unaware that I'd been busted by local race photographer Stephen Wilson, who just happened to be stationed at the precise corner where I decided to wipe out. 

Thankfully the rest of the race unfolded without additional displays of my klutziness. Before I knew it I was collapsing on the grass at the finish line, then happily partaking in an eclectic pot luck and comparing war wounds with my fellow teammates and racers.  Every other finisher seemed to be bleeding from at least one part of their body, and I realized that the ability to ignore pain is fundamental to one's success as a fell runner.

Full disclosure: I'm still not quite sure whether fells are hills or mountains. All I know is that they are steep going up, and scary coming down. We were each given a copy of Richard Askwith's fell running masterpiece "Feet in the Clouds" upon our arrival in Keswick, and I've been delving into stories of local legends and epic feats in recent weeks. Challenges such as the infamous Bob Graham Round, in which a runner covers 42 Lake District Peaks in 24 hours, have now made it onto my personal adventure bucket list, and I have no doubt that I'll be back in the fells soon, ready to tackle new adventures (and hopefully to stay upright for a little longer). Until then, I'll keep aspiring to what Askwith deems a key component of successful fell running: "a disregard for pain and danger that verges on lunacy."

Team Inov-8 "Get a Grip", having no fun at all. Photo credit: James Carnegie



Hilary Matheson