I crossed the finish line for the last time as the sun was coming up. Exhausted, cold, and drenched in sweat again, I stood at the finish for longer than necessary, partly because I was so proud to have endured, but also because I wasn’t entirely sure how many more similar mornings I had left in me.

That realization showed up uninvited during the night. Not dramatically or in any big, emotional way, but quietly between lumbering strides on loop nine or ten, when everything started to hurt in a more real manner and I was completely out of distractions to fend off the discomfort.

I’d never run a winter overnight ultra before. Twelve hours in the dark, snow, and cold, on a near 5-km loop in the Laurentians with lots of vertical. The objective was to complete as many loops as possible within 12 hours. This wasn’t something I’d built toward, but rather something I signed up for in the weeks prior because it sounded just irresponsible enough to be interesting. That’s been a recurring theme for me.

At 7 p.m., standing at the start along with 20 other lunatics wearing headlamps and bags full of gear, I felt something I don’t usually associate with running anymore: apprehension. Not about the distance, or the cold, or even the dark, but the unknown. When you haven’t done something before there’s no script, no fallback. And when things start to unravel – and they always unravel – there’s no experience to lean on to get through it unscathed.

The first loop made that very clear. The climbs were relentless, the descents sketchy, and the trail uncertain enough to make you wonder if you were still on course or slowly getting lost in the woods.

Loop after loop, the night stretched out in front of us. A small yet determined group of nutjobs, all quietly dealing with pain, fatigue, and loneliness and their own version of the same problem: why were we here, and how long can we keep pretending this is a good idea?

After about four hours on course, the internal negotiations in my head started. How many loops could I get through? When could I stop without feeling like I’d quit? What was the plan for the next loop? It all felt manageable at first, even structured, but by 2 a.m. the negotiations changed and became less optimistic and more introspective. There’s going to be a last time for this. Not this race specifically, but this version of it, the one where I sign up on impulse, show up underprepared, and trust I’ll figure it out because I usually do. That window doesn’t stay open forever. I’m 58 now, and the reality is I’ve had my share of health issues recently. That thought carried a bit more weight in the middle of the night, out there alone.

And yet for whatever reason, it stuck. Not in a discouraging way, but as something to hold onto and to push with. By the time I started my 14^th loop, my mind had settled, and I’d become focused and calm and ready to tackle whatever. I hadn’t seen another person on course in over an hour, and it felt like I had the entire mountain to myself.

Somewhere on the 15^th and final loop, the suffering stopped feeling like suffering and became kinder, more bearable, almost peaceful. The forest started to wake up around me. The darkness lifted like someone had flipped a switch, and without really thinking about it, I found myself grinning.

After 11 hours and 28 minutes, I crossed the finish line for the last time. I completed about 70 kilometres and climbed about 2,300 metres. A long night, fully accounted for.

And maybe that’s the part I’ll take with me: not the distance, or the time, or even the effort. Just the reminder that these moments won’t last forever. That the version of me who says yes to something unreasonable and figures it out along the way is still here for now, and that I’m still able to achieve these feats despite my age.

And as long as that’s true, I might as well keep showing up.

Clothing I went through during my night in the mountains