An entertaining article written by Kelly McManus of the North Shore Outlook, February 20, 2008

I have no idea. I have absolutely no idea how badly it’s going to hurt. That’s why Thursday Feb. 14, I have the brilliant idea to try the Yeti Snowshoe race on Grouse Mountain, the third seasonal race in a four-part series. My cup runneth over with hubris, as I’m about to learn. Chatting on the phone with race organizer and co-owner Dave Howells, I choose the 10-kilometre course over the shorter 5 km option.

“I’m a runner,” I tell him. “And I snowshoe regularly.”

But do I snowshoe run? It’s a rapidly growing sport, terrifically hard. It attracts runners, cyclists, hikers, anyone looking to cross train and enjoy the gorgeous winter weather. It’s been compared to running in the sand… on the slopes of mountains.

The growing fringe sport is a little bit – just a little bit – crazy.

This is my first introduction to snowshoe racing. I’ll pick it up on the course, I decide.

Howell laughs.

“It’ll be an experience for you,” he says good-naturedly.

Saturday morning when I arrive at Grouse I’m starting to feel my oatmeal churning in my stomach. What exactly have I got myself into?

Straight off the gondola, runners mill around the starting gates and an MC blares a bit of hip hop, affectionately heckling the volunteers through the microphone.

At most races, you’re not likely to see runners pounding back fistfuls of chocolate-covered raisins or fatty Fiesta Mix; but this morning, volunteers have laid out a spread of high-calorie treats. Even the skinniest among today’s crew picks away at the sugary buffet.

The snow is fresh up here, about 15 new centimetres of heavy, wet stuff. It will be beautiful for the spectators, but hell for the leaders who break trail, a pack of crazy runners losing half the energy of each step to the snow.

About 200 racers line up in the little starting corral. The organizers give us a few parting words of advice: some sections of the course are fairly technical, so step carefully; in the single track portions, step aside for the racers who want to pass you; and have fun!

Yeah, I think. This is gonna be fun! I’m going to have so much fun!

About a kilometre into the race, I’m not really having fun. My lungs are already on fire and my legs want to explode.

In the moment, I’m thinking, good god, I have over seven kilometres left (the course is 8.75 km, not 10 km. And when we learn this, I don’t hear a single person complain).

Still, I aim my little yellow snowshoes forward on the trail and continue to trudge.

The Yeti organizers rent out running-specific snowshoes. They’re spring loaded, smaller than your average touring shoe and designed for a running stride. Mine are working pretty well, all things considered. I’m doing my best to imagine myself as a light little leaf, floating just inches above the surface of the ground.

I probably look more like a blundering rhino.

The trees along the trail are dusted in snow. A fine, close, almost-enchanted mist hangs in the air like a dream. And the first real hills rise up before me. Ahead, I can see small figures struggling up the incline. So I put my head down, exchange a few tired words with the fellow racers around me (I think we grunt something like, “Way to go,” or “Here we go,” or maybe even “I have to go”).

And we start going up.

We climb for an hour.

Like a caravan of little ants in high-performance attire, we ascend in tiny, excruciating increments, running the flatter sections when we can muster the energy. Those sections never last long, maybe a few hundred metres before the terrain becomes too steep for running.

A convivial gent in his 60s chats to me while we carry out this little pilgrimage of pain. He hikes regularly, and he overtakes me on the inclines, while I pass him on the straights and the downs.

I chat with a woman who has raced the Yetis for years. She learned about them in a North Shore fitness chat room and has met a ton of training partners at these events.

Another woman, like me, is experiencing her first Yeti with wide eyes and searing lungs.

I couldn’t tell you their names if you paid me. They were just “fit guy” and “blue shirt” and “nice lady” in my limited focus.

When I crest the peak of Dam Mountain, I’m seeing black spots. I start a glorious, staggering descent that lasts for almost 10 minutes. And then I go up again.

The marshal at the trail intersection tells us to keep our heads down.

“Don’t look up,” he says cheerfully, “or you’ll get discouraged. Way to go!”

I’m not sure if I’ve ever hurt this much. I can feel my heart pounding in my finger tips and my ear lobes.

The leaders pass by in the opposite direction. They look terrible, with greyish faces and white lips – but fast. I marvel at the spring in their strides and the almost robotic form they manage to maintain while I’m starting to knock my knees or the edges of my snowshoes every few minutes.

When I finally cross the finish line, it’s taken me one hour and thirty minutes to cover just under nine kilometres.

I laugh maniacally — I can’t believe I’ve finished.

I’m so tired I’m giddy.

A guy in a Yeti suit greets me as I cross the line. I fall into his chest.

“I did it, Yeti!” I blubber, “I can’t believe I’m done!”

He grunts and waves his arms in the air.

I head straight for the table full of chocolates and Fiesta Mix.

My lungs are burning. My legs are jello. But I’m grinning proudly.

I’m already planning my next Yeti race.

–The final Yeti snowshoe race of the season takes place on Cypress Mountain, Saturday March 8. For more information visit www.theyeti.ca.