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Throughout time, repetition has been used as device to bring seekers of the way into closer proximity with the divine: mantras are repeated in Buddhist meditation as a way of transcending thought, connecting one to a deeper silence; mystical sects of Sufism practice a form of ritual whirling, wherein the being of the dervish imitates the rotations of celestial bodies; Benedictine monks recite incantations with such intensity that the very fabric of meaning collapses, releasing them into an abyssal unknowing.

For the Squamish runner, transcendence can be all-too easily realized in the abundance of mountainous terrain, and is thus in a certain respect profaned by its accessibility. But, among a minute faction of runnists, there exists a practice that parallels such pious repetition, the meditative and obsessive lapping of a residential circuit: The Dentville 1km Loop. Abstaining from endless perfect trails, these few give themselves over to carving out a trench in the asphalt, negotiating a series of corners and straights ad infinitum in pursuit of sublimity. Recently, a few notable devotees of the loop - Brae Walker and Mitch Seagull - have engaged in a contest to hold the most efforts in the Strava-certified “Local Legend” category.

Learning that these two had agreed upon an ‘Xmas Truce’ in their efforts, yours truly thought it a sensible task to try and divest them of their shared title, all under the cover of darkness. Over those liminal 9 days between the eves of Xmas and New Years, I ran the circuit 132 times, largely at night, often in the rain, and mostly alone: I saw the godhead, I held conference with the devil, I was compelled onwards by the song of angels whose intentions I could not discern nor dared decipher. In the end, I was successful in my quest to achieve this, the most amateur of all distinctions, and I now wear my laurels as if Apollo himself had handed them down from airy Olympus.

We might do well to remember that ‘amateur’ is derived from the Latin word for ‘love’, and thus refers to one whose action is driven forth by the fires of affection for their sport. My title, like all titles, is a temporary one, for soon, another will come to claim it. But as the mystics know, the truest way to the eternal is through the evanescent, and every repetition is but the event of difference.

The bit comes first. Thanks for the motivation.

(Ironically, and I believe fittingly, this final outing was the only activity to glitch on me, and I thrice missed the segment. Way of the road, bud.)

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