Goodness knows what running adventures the new year has in store. For a couple of Vancouver ultrarunners, at least, 1994 either started on the wrong foot or was off to a false start.

Take Brian VanOene. Ironman triathlete, veteran of foreign ultras, father, husband and all-round nice guy. Why did he feel he would return home to find his race t-shirts all over the front yard, and his treasured collection of Ultrarunning smoldering in the fireplace? Then there is Murray Carpenter. Why would anyone want to strangle such a fine guy with his Western States 100 finishers' belt?

The ultimate blame for the boys' misfortunes can be traced to a Californian by the name of Joe Oakes. My wife, Sibylle, interviewed Joe earlier in the year regarding the origins of the legendary Fat Ass 50. Joe's idea was to kick the new year off with a low-key 50-k or 50-mile fun run in the company of like-minded souls. No race fee. No t-shirt. No wimps. The trial balloons Enzo Federico and I put out to the ultrarunning community in British Columbia were well received. Eleven people turned up at 9:00 a.m. on New Years day in downtown Stanley Park for Vancouver's first Fat Ass 50.

As the handful of ultrarunners joked around and tightened their laces, a lone reporter asked the typical questions: "Where are the fat people?" "You mean you're actually going to run 50 kilometers?" "What's the prize?" Shaking his head and drawing on a cigarette, the reporter drove away to cover less marginal, more newsworthy events such as a garage fire and the first new years baby.

It was a mild morning under gray skies. We exchanged yarns about ultraruns during 1993 and our goals for the new year as we ran the trails of Stanley Park then crossed the Lion's Gate Bridge. Someone asked about Murray. Didn't he say he was going to join us? No one in the group objected to a short detour, so we decided to check in on our buddy.

The lights were out, but it was after 10:00. Enzo knocked lightly. Murray must be in the kitchen. Louder knocking. His car was in the drive. Knock again. Murray must be in the basement. Boom, boom, boom. The door swung open and there stood Ronna in her housecoat, eyes half open and fists clenched. Runners scattered at a sub-six pace. Enzo looked pale when we regrouped around the corner. It appeared Murray would not be joining us today.

Back on the trails, the pace was quicker for all of the excitement. A light mist hung in the air as we headed up the Capilano River canyon. The roar of water rushing over Cleveland Dam signaled we were nearing coffee and bagels at Divna and Enzo's aid station.

The plan was to stick together, so the pace as we traversed Vancouver's north shore was that of the runner with the worst hangover. Our halfway aid station came in the form of a favorite coffee emporium near the ferry terminals. The cappuccinos and chocolate almond croissants (thanks, Ken) sat well as the nine remaining fat asses merged onto the Vancouver Marathon course.

Our next hour took us through an industrial area and around the contours of Vancouver harbor. Passing through Chinatown, we weaved through crowds of shoppers haggling for live catfish and exotic vegies. As if trying to determine his splits, Brian began to regularly check his watch. The monsoons came about four hours into the event --- about the same time as the first whimpers about the course's length. Few runners appreciated the beautiful beaches and mountain vistas as we continued along a shoreline bike path. Brian consulted his timepiece at shorter and shorter intervals.

As we shuffled toward Stanley Park and the finish line, our group of nine drenched, muddy runners became caught up in the festivities surrounding Canada's largest polar bear swim. A group of men in dresses and high heels sharing a bottle of vodka weaved across the path in front of us. A burly fellow in a bearskin loincloth and Viking helmet invited us to follow him in for a dip. In fifteen minutes, 3,000 otherwise normal citizens would take the plunge into the icy Pacific and thousands more were there to watch.

With less than five kilometers to go, all of us were tired, but Brian looked ill. As we re-entered Stanley Park, he shared with us how he had not anticipated the leisurely pace and frequent coffee breaks. It was already a good half-hour later than when he'd promised Jackie and the kids they'd be leaving for the trip to the in-laws. Contemplating Mr. Bobbit's fate, Brian took a diagonal through the park to his car. Nice knowing you, Bri!

There were no crowds to greet us at the finish line. The television crew had come and gone. A few of us dove into Burrard Inlet for our own polar bear swim. Most of us went to a nearby restaurant for the new years special. It looks like an annual event. Thanks for the idea, Joe!

Ean Jackson
Host of the Vancouver New Years Day Fat Ass 50

P.S. For the record, the Vancouver Fat Ass 50 course was never officially (or even unofficially) measured. Post race estimates put the actual course distance closer to 50-miles.

1994 Inaugural Vancouver Fat-Ass 50 Results