Left, right, left, right, left, right…
It’s about 12:30pm on a very mild Sunday. You just ran pass another big, blue sign that marked the 29th kilometre of the run. As you make a left turn onto the dreaded Burrard Bridge, you grab one of the bottles attached to you at the hip and take a quick gulp of the grape-flavoured electrolytes. You’re grateful that your friend helped you buy a hydration belt with his work discount. It’s also a good thing you only had one glass of wine and champagne at the open bar event that took place two nights ago. That was still more than what you should’ve drank, though. If only alcohol wasn’t exceptionally dehydrating…
Despite the fact you’ve ran over the bridge so many times to the point where you can run with your eyes closed, you feel like you’re dying a little on the inside. Your throat feels as dry as the peanut butter whole wheat toast you had for breakfast, even though you just had a drink a minute ago. It’s been almost 4 hours since you left Queen Elizabeth Park. The sweat on your face, hands, arms, and legs feels gritty like sand. You can’t even fathom how bad you smell anymore. On the bright side, at least you’re not prone to developing blisters on your feet while running.
The sun relentlessly beats down on you as you inch your way across the bridge. This is the part you always despise. Even though your brain is telling you that you can keep running, you legs start to feel tired. You know you can’t stop moving, otherwise the fatigue will really start to kick in. You can’t help but wonder if this damned bridge is anything like Heartbreak Hill.
Surveying your proximity, you see fellow runners also crawling like slugs. Your friends are nowhere to be seen; they’re faster runners than you are. Realistically, you’re running in a crowd of 4,999 lunatics, so it’s not like you should expect to run into them. Slowing down in an effort to conserve energy, you look beyond the dismal concrete pillars that hold up the bridge. You’re reminded of how beautiful and lush the city is. For a moment, the picturesque view of the city takes your mind off the fatigue in your legs and calves, and of course, the stupid bridge.
Nearly a million years later, you finally made your way across and off the bridge. Somehow, you managed not to fall on your face or run into any concrete pillars. As you make a left turn towards English Bay, you see another big, blue sign a few hundred metres away: 30 kilometres. 12.2 left to go.
As your mom reminds you on a daily basis, you’re a freaking maniac. She’s right about that one.