Every January, I run a race to fend off the winter blues and atone for my errant December behaviour. For the past three years, this ritual took me to Red Rock Canyon in Nevada. This year, however, I decided to spend my money elsewhere and mused about entering the Bermuda Triangle Challenge. It seemed reasonable, and disappearing mysteriously at sea to never be found felt like a proportional response to winter.

The Bermuda Triangle Challenge consisted of a one-mile sprint on Friday night, a 10-km race on Saturday morning, and a full 42.2-km marathon on Sunday morning. Three races. Over three days. In Bermuda. What could possibly go wrong?

With only mild encouragement and absolutely no regard for consequences, I enrolled and convinced Lu to come along for what I described – confidently and incorrectly – would be nice distraction from winter and a “relaxing long weekend.”

For context, I hadn’t run a road marathon since May 2025. More importantly, I was not in marathon shape, nor was I was even in the same postal code as marathon shape. But this fits with my well-documented approach to life and running: commit first, assess later, and hope momentum carries me through like it always has. I realize that this is not a plan but a pattern.

We arrived on Thursday and immediately immersed ourselves in local culture, which consisted of drinking rum at all hours of the day and night. I drank every single day while I was on the island, including race days, which is not part of my traditional race strategy.

The mile on Friday went fine. I am not built for speed, but I ran a solid 7:18 and finished 267th out of nearly 700 runners. It was far faster than I had any business running, but the environment was hostile with lots of chest-puffing and testosterone, and I got baited by youth and briefly forgot that I had two more races and two ancient legs attached to my body.

The 10-km race the next morning is where reality re-entered the conversation. No one – and I mean no one – thought it worth mentioning that Bermuda is violently hilly. The course was up, down, sideways, and full of emotional recalibrations. I finished in 52 minutes in 248th place out of 822 runners and felt like I had donated a non-refundable portion of my soul to the course. Lu ran her own 5-km race at the same time, and when we were done we went back to drinking like the professionals we are.

When marathon morning arrived, I woke up a broken, elderly man. I got into a cab at 5:45 a.m. and spent the entire ride to the start line staring at the terrain and noticing for the umpteenth time that hills were everywhere. A short 200-metre warm-up once I reached the start confirmed my suspicions: I was absolutely fucked. My hamstrings and quads were stiff, angry, and no longer interested in any form of collaboration. This was going to hurt like a bitch.

The first 10 km were a mirage. Eventually my legs loosened up, which was generous of them, before tightening up again. Along the south shore of the island, the course took a turn for the hilly worse. I was running with a local who casually informed me that the next hour or so would be “problematic,” which is Bermudian for you will suffer in new and creative ways. I immediately downgraded my goals from “finish fast” to “finish, fat ass.”

Running along the hilly south shore, while my camera still recognized me

After the halfway point, the locals completely took over the course. They were incredible: cheering, laughing, offering encouragement and unsolicited life advice. I was even propositioned by an 80-year old. I wanted to stop and take selfies with all of them, I really did. I met so many amazing people along the way and I had full plans to document the whole experience, but I was sweating so profusely I entered an aquatic state. My hands were soaked. My phone was soaked. Face ID looked at me once and completely disowned me.

So I rambled along, a salty, humbled, old badger powered by stubbornness and the quiet realization that I had once again turned a perfectly good vacation opportunity for the two of us into a multi-day endurance experiment for no real reason.

Then came the rum. Three Gosling rum stations over the course during the final 10 km. I’m fairly certain you could hear me braking hard and skidding to a halt when I saw the first one and realized that the target audience was me. I discarded the electrolyte drink I was carrying and downed a Dark and Stormy. Somehow the world didn’t seem so bad any more. This happened two more times on my way to the finish.

I completed the marathon in 4 hours and 25 minutes in 73rd place out of 125 runners, which was the slowest marathon I have ever run in my life. And somehow, this run was one of the favourites ever. After the race, I did what all high-performance athletes do – I went back to drinking rum with Lu and eating like a tourist.

The medals were also a real highlight. Each runner completing the Bermuda Triangle Challenge received a different medal containing a local scene for each race, plus a fourth for completing the overall challenge. Designed by Domico Watson, a local artist and runner, the four medals magnetically connect to form a much larger triangle and a cohesive 3D scene of Bermuda. Very fucking cool, and a worthy reward for the challenge completed.

I think we may be going to Bermuda again next January.

 

Four individual race medals from the Bermuda Triangle Challenge

…and joined

Dark and Stormys by the pool – challenge completed