500 Days: The Streak Continues

By Matt Tibbits on March 13, 2025

Today, I am celebrating 500 DAYS IN A ROW of running at least 5km per day. This started as a challenge to myself, WAYYY back in 2023, to see if I could cover at least 5 continuous kilometers per day, outside and over land, for 55 days. That was so much fun I decided to see if I could keep going for one year. On October 30th, 2024, the one-year mark came and went, and stopping wasn’t even a consideration. Today marks 500 consecutive days and over 4,180 km covered during this time.

When I started this challenge, I wondered how I might change—how my life might change—if I were to run every day for a year. I wrote about this in a previous story. The Streak continues to challenge me and bring about change and growth on all levels: physically, mentally, and spiritually. Adversity is the key to change, and discomfort is necessary for growth. Running every day or long distances will bring a fair share of adversity—and a shit ton of discomfort.

Speaking of adversity…

The Canadian Death Race

One of the most memorable and challenging experiences over these 500 days was the Canadian Death Race.

The CDR is a 118 km ultramarathon that takes place in Grande Cache, Alberta. The route passes over three mountain summits, includes over 5,100 m of climbing, and a major river crossing at Hell’s Gate Canyon, where the Smoky and Sulphur Rivers converge. Oh, and you only have 24 hours to do it.

In addition, each runner must retrieve a “Death Race coin” at the summit of Mt. Hamel, the highest peak on the course, and carry it all the way to Hell’s Gate in order to pay for passage to cross the river.

In Greek mythology, Charon is the ferryman of Hades who carries souls of the newly deceased across the river Styx, the river that divides the world of the living from the world of the dead. A coin is used to pay Charon for passage.

So each runner carries their “death coin” and gives it to the grim reaper upon arrival at the river for access to the boat. Runners who either do not retrieve their coin or lose it will not be permitted access to the boat, resulting in a DNF (Did Not Finish).

I first heard about this race way back in the day, circa 2012, when I had just started running half marathons. The idea of having to carry a “death coin” to cross the river sounded SO COOL. Very “metal!” The romantic nature of this race instantly captured my imagination, and that is when I first started to consider running ultramarathons, specifically with the goal of one day completing this race.

The DNS

This race has been on my mind and part of my life for a long time—almost 13 years. After running my first 100 km at the VT100 in 2014, I thought I was ready for the challenge. Early in 2015, I was signed up and raring to go. However, it was not to be. In June of 2015, I lost my youngest brother to suicide. So, I didn’t make it to the start line in August of that year. That was my first DNS (Did Not Start)—the classification you are given when you have signed up for a race but don’t show up to actually run it. You could say, “Oh my goodness, no WONDER you didn’t make it that year,” and sure, I guess you would be right. However, I have to be honest—there was no way I was going to be at that race that year, even if I hadn’t lost my brother.

See, somewhat blissfully unaware, I was, myself, on a similar dark and stormy path. After a brutal bike accident when I was 23, the resulting head injury left me struggling. Like Humpty Dumpty, they put the pieces back together, but something wasn’t right. I withdrew into myself, and booze became my crutch in order to interact with other humans. There were times I tried to get my shit together. I got back into running for that reason. For YEARS, I tiptoed back and forth between one path that was a healthy lifestyle and trying to heal from an overwhelming amount of trauma, and another path that was bent on self-destruction due to complete and utter despair. Slowly, insidiously, this dependence on substances crept further and further into my life. I was spending more and more time on that dark path, and as a result, I almost certainly wasn’t physically or mentally capable of completing the CDR in 2015. After the loss of my brother, I completely lost myself. I wasn’t tiptoeing back and forth between two paths anymore. I had no strength to fight it, and addiction and hopelessness completely took over.

Eventually, a day came when it was very clear—I had to make a choice. I could choose to live, or I could choose to go. Somehow, I made the choice to live, or to at least try, knowing that it would require tremendous change. It was going to be a battle that, quite frankly, I wasn’t sure I could win. I remember, in those first few miserable days and weeks, thinking I needed a goal. Something ridiculous to prove to myself that I had found my way—or, at the very least, that I was on the right path. And of fucking COURSE, what better goal than The Canadian Death Race? Could I? Was that even possible? I was damn sure going to try.

The DNF

Fast forward to the fall of 2023. I was sober for 3 years at that point. I had just completed the Capes 100 and had a remarkable experience pacing at the Divide 200. I was very much of the mindset, “Fuck yeah, let’s do this thing!” There was no doubt. I was stronger than I had ever been. I was ready. That is when the streak started, and it was all systems go for the Death Race in August of 2024.

As I boarded the airplane to Calgary just days before the race, I sat down and… “ACHOOOOO!” What? A sneeze right in my face. “Bless you!” I said. Fuck me. I was seated beside someone who was clearly quite sick with what I thought was a cold. Don’t think about it. Do NOT think about it. La-la-la-la-la. Once we landed, it was busy times getting gear together and traveling from Calgary to Grande Cache, and the thought of illness completely left my mind.

One aspect of my challenge was completing this race while also maintaining the streak. I wanted to do this on “Legendary Level.” Through all the long hours, days, and months of training, I had a lot of time to reflect. This race was about celebrating my own healing journey, but it was also about honoring and remembering my brother. I didn’t just want to do this for myself, but also for him. I can’t think about this race without thinking about the Year of the DNS, and I can’t think about that without remembering him.

As such, part of this adventure that felt very important to me was visiting the place where my brother Johnny spent his last days, working the land on a large farm near Sylvan Lake, AB. I’m not sure why, really. It was just something I felt compelled to do, and it was right on the way, in between Calgary and Grande Cache. It seemed very fitting to make this part of the trip. I had never been there, and I wanted to see it with my own eyes. Maybe a final goodbye, I suppose, as I do the work of putting the past behind and making peace with it.

As I neared the place, the main road was closed due to construction. I pulled over onto a dirt road bordering the property and got out of the car for a minute—as one does when they have had too much coffee. I took a moment to look around at the land, then up at the smoke-tinged, yet-still-weirdly-beautiful sky. I took it all in, all of this place, and it was just… ok. Peaceful. I guess I expected to feel strong emotions, and instead, it was just peace. I felt happy that his last days were spent on such beautiful land, underneath that big prairie sky, and in a place that he loved. In that moment of peace, everything was alright. It didn’t come like a thunderbolt… it was just deep inner peace and acceptance in a quick roadside stop.

The days passed in a flurry, and suddenly, it was The Night Before the Canadian Death Race! Damn, I was excited. It felt very surreal to finally be there, but also, something was off. My energy was very low, and I didn’t feel great, but I chalked it up to nerves, excitement, and travel. It would be fine, right?

As mentioned, crossing the river is symbolic in Death Race lore, and it would also be VERY symbolic for me. Completing this race represented a rebirth, if you will. Moving on from the past—from death and despair—into a new, fulfilled life, full of infinite possibility. This race meant so much to me, in so many ways.

I woke up with a start at 3 a.m. the day of the race—sweaty, clammy, and feeling like I had swallowed a handful of broken glass. My throat was so sore and swollen. My head felt heavy, and my body ached. I assumed at the time I had caught that dang airplane cold. This was going to suck, but whatever. It was just a cold. Right?

The race started, and about 25 km later, somewhere toward the summit of Flood Mountain, I could barely stay on my feet. I was so dizzy. I couldn’t breathe. So FUCKING hot. Where was all this heat coming from? I had been almost immune to heat during training, but I was literally dying out there. I would take about 10 steps, then be so hot and dizzy I had to sit down or fall down. After summiting Flood, I had to stop at the next checkpoint. This was insane. I know my body very well at this point, and it wasn’t me being a baby about a little discomfort. This was scary. I had to acknowledge that I was very sick. Even if I pushed it, my pace was so slow I wasn’t going to make the cutoffs. So why hurt myself for nothing? We had a lot of travel left, and the logical thing to do was put my ego in check, admit this wasn’t going to happen, and take care of my health.

I was so disappointed. GODDAMN, that stung when I had to tell the checkpoint volunteers that I was done. It stung even more that I had to be evac-ed off that fucking goddamn tiny little mountain. It isn’t even a big one, and on this day, it had beat me.

On the way down, I felt ashamed. Embarrassed. I had talked this up so much, and now, I would have to swallow my pride and tell folks I had DNF’ed. Did Not Finish. The absolute worst. I had NEVER had a DNF before. If I showed up at a race, I finished it.

Then I said, “Fuck that shit!” I’m not doing this for external approval or validation. I’m not doing this for anybody. I am doing this for myself. Really—and this part is hard to explain—it isn’t even about running anymore. It is about my daily practice, where one part of that involves running. It is about the training and the lessons learned. The grind. How running helps me explore my body and mind. How it connects me to myself and the Universe. How it helps me process strong emotions and become a better human. That is what this is about. I hadn’t lost any of that. I just hadn’t been able to complete a race that was meant to be a celebration of all that.

By the time I made it back to the motel, I was feeling so ill that I couldn’t really think about much. I crawled into bed without even changing out of my running gear. The sickness and the disappointment weighed heavy.

I woke up Sunday morning around 5 a.m.—an hour before the race would have ended. Probably around the time I would have been finishing. I was so sick and feverish, and soooo angry. The disappointment was palpable. I slid out of bed and onto my mat to do a few rounds of breathing. By the third round, it all came out. I just started sobbing. I sat with it and let it flow. There were tears and snot everywhere. I didn’t care. I kept breathing, just felt it all, and let it all go. After a time, I crawled back into bed, and everything was ok. I wasn’t embarrassed at the result. I thought about where I had been just four years previous, and I was fucking PROUD of myself! As I slid back into a semi-unconscious, feverish sleep, it was with the certainty that this was not defeat. I would be back in 2025.

Moving On

The following days continued to test my will. Eventually, I clued in that this wasn’t a normal cold, but Covid. No wonder I felt so terrible while trying to run the race. Over the next 10 days, I eked out a miserable 5 km per day, dragging my Covid-y ass through rainstorms, clouds of mosquitoes, more heat, and sundry delights that the Rocky Mountains have to offer, until finally making it back home to Halifax. By the 10th day, I was back to running normally, a fire burning hot inside of me, and counting the days until CDR 2025.

Over the fall, I continued to run every day. As days turned into weeks, which turned into months, I really noticed, on a macro level, how everything is in a state of constant change—the impermanence of life. Nothing remains the same, ever. The seasons change. The landscape. Plans. People. Relationships. We change. Our bodies change. Everything changes, and absolutely nothing is certain, except the fact that we have zero control over it. There is something about running every day and striving for presence that really opens your eyes to this impermanence. I don’t think we like that, us humans. We spend most of our time trying to be certain of everything because that feels safe.

So what is the point of all this? What do I know? I can only speak from my experience, and I know this practice is what is necessary for me. I know that we are never stagnant—we are always moving in one direction or the other. The choices we make, the habits and mindset we adopt, determine the direction.

Movement is essential, and surrender is a daily requirement. Not the wave-the-white-flag kind of surrender, but a deep acceptance that we have no control over anything. Everything changes, and very little comes about the way we think it will. Resistance only holds us back. It keeps us stuck. This surrender, or acceptance, brings an end to the constant internal turmoil of wanting something different. It allows us to just be. It allows for peace no matter the situation or circumstances, knowing that, in time and through movement, whatever we are facing or feeling will change. Because everything does.

And so, I continue to run each day as part of my practice, but also as training for CDR 2025. As the weeks pass, my determination and motivation continue to grow. The fire is burning stronger than ever. I have unfinished business in Grande Cache, and I cannot wait to once again be standing at the start line. Will this finally be the year that I cross that river and complete the Death Race? Stay tuned to find out.