Outlander-ish Experience: The rolling ultramarathon aid station
The air at 4 a.m. was cool and crisp, a welcome contrast to the heat and humidity that had settled over Whistler, B.C. the day before. The village sat beneath the shadow of the surrounding mountains, their peaks beginning to glow as the first light of dawn crept over the horizon. The usual morning birds filled the air, joined by an unusual parade of vehicles as runners and their crews made their way toward the start line.
Among the stream of race-day traffic was us: my mom, my dad and I, driving toward the start line in our Mitsubishi Outlander PHEV. Ahead lay 100 kilometres of trails, climbs and mountain terrain, a challenge that would test both runner and crew from sunrise to long after sunset.
All was quiet within the cabin. The outside world felt distant, softened by the Outlander PHEV's well-insulated interior, but the silence had more to do with Dad than the vehicle. He was getting into ‘The Zone’ as he prepared to run a 100-km ultramarathon on the trails around Whistler.
Dad sat in the back with his heated seat turned up high, warming muscles that would soon carry him seemingly endless trails. Looking out the window, he sighed. He knew the comfort he was feeling now would soon give way to fatigue, discomfort and eventually pain.
After a few deep breaths, he locked in.
"I'm ready. Let's do this."
Dad sat in the back with his heated seat turned up high, warming muscles that would soon carry him seemingly endless trails. Looking out the window, he sighed. He knew the comfort he was feeling now would soon give way to fatigue, discomfort and eventually pain.
After a few deep breaths, he locked in.
"I'm ready. Let's do this."
The Sport of Ultrarunning
To some, the thought of running 100 kilometres in one shot might seem unfathomable. But to a certain breed of runner, it’s simply the next challenge. An ultramarathon is any running race longer than the traditional 42.2-kilometre marathon, with common distances including 50 kilometres, 100 kilometres and 100 miles, as well as races that stretch even farther. Unlike a road marathon, ultras typically take place on trails, winding through forests, mountains and remote backcountry, where runners may spend anywhere from several hours to an entire day or more on their feet.
There’s a different rhythm to ultrarunning, too. It’s less about speed and more about managing effort, strategically fuelling, navigating changing terrain and keeping your mind moving forward when your body starts asking you to stop.
Dotted along the course are aid stations, offering runners a chance to resupply with whatever they need to keep moving. They can top up water and electrolytes, grab something to eat, change layers or shoes, and refuel before heading back out onto the trail. After hours alone in the forest, these stops can also provide a welcome dose of encouragement and a chance to reconnect with their crew, volunteers and other runners before heading back out.
Running ultramarathons is something my Dad has come to embrace as a fun, yet extremely challenging hobby. He’s run them all over North America, and each one is different in its own masochistically difficult way. The distances, terrain and conditions may change, but the appeal remains the same: the challenge of seeing just how far he can push himself.
There’s a different rhythm to ultrarunning, too. It’s less about speed and more about managing effort, strategically fuelling, navigating changing terrain and keeping your mind moving forward when your body starts asking you to stop.
Dotted along the course are aid stations, offering runners a chance to resupply with whatever they need to keep moving. They can top up water and electrolytes, grab something to eat, change layers or shoes, and refuel before heading back out onto the trail. After hours alone in the forest, these stops can also provide a welcome dose of encouragement and a chance to reconnect with their crew, volunteers and other runners before heading back out.
Running ultramarathons is something my Dad has come to embrace as a fun, yet extremely challenging hobby. He’s run them all over North America, and each one is different in its own masochistically difficult way. The distances, terrain and conditions may change, but the appeal remains the same: the challenge of seeing just how far he can push himself.
The Start Line
We stepped out of our Outlander and followed the growing hum of voices toward the start line. There, nearly 800 runners stood shoulder to shoulder, sharing the same mix of nerves, excitement and, perhaps, a hint of apprehension. Puffy jackets were unzipped and tossed to waiting crew members as runners squeezed in their final moments of warmth before the countdown.
Before we knew it, the clock struck 5 a.m and the mass of runners surged forward into the darkness. Hundreds of headlamps bobbed into the distance, merging into a glowing stream of light that zig-zagged up the mountainside. Watching from below, the climb looked daunting. For Dad and the rest of the field, however, it was only the beginning.
The Sport of Ultrarunning
While Dad tackled the first of many climbs, Mom and I returned to the Mitsubishi Motors SUV to map out our own day. Crewing an ultramarathon is an exercise in logistics, problem-solving and a healthy amount of guesswork.
We pored over maps and studied the aid station locations, knowing there were more questions than answers: Which aid stations could we access? When would Dad arrive? What gear would he need, and when? Roughly how long would it take him to cover 100 kilometres?
Given the route's demanding elevation profile, there was no way to know for sure. So we made our best estimates, packed for every scenario and prepared to adapt. If Dad's job was to keep moving forward, ours was to make sure he had everything he needed to do so.
We pored over maps and studied the aid station locations, knowing there were more questions than answers: Which aid stations could we access? When would Dad arrive? What gear would he need, and when? Roughly how long would it take him to cover 100 kilometres?
Given the route's demanding elevation profile, there was no way to know for sure. So we made our best estimates, packed for every scenario and prepared to adapt. If Dad's job was to keep moving forward, ours was to make sure he had everything he needed to do so.
Supporting Our Runner
Before every race, Dad dials in his kit. Every piece of required gear is carefully accounted for, whether it's enough calories to get him between aid stations, a rain jacket, a headlamp or any of the other essentials needed to tackle a 100-kilometre mountain race.
As his crew, we had our own version of race preparation. If Dad might need it over the next 20 hours, it came with us. Extra snacks and real food for when calorie-dense gels stopped sounding appealing. Packs of his favourite electrolytes. Spare shoes and socks for mid-race changes. Layers for shifting mountain weather. Chafing cream. By the time we finished packing, our Mitsubishi Outlander PHEV had become less of a vehicle and more of a rolling aid station.
Thankfully, everything had a place. The Outlander PHEV's generous cargo area and thoughtful storage compartments made it easy to organize gear so we could find exactly what we needed at a moment's notice. With aid station stops often lasting only a few minutes, knowing where Dad's nutrition, extra layers or fresh socks were stored could make all the difference.
The PHEV offers the added benefit of a 1,500-watt inverter behind the front seats and in the cargo area. This means a small luxury like a hot cup of coffee prepared on an electric appliance is entirely possible–despite being parked on a dirt road many, many kilometres from the nearest Starbucks.
The PHEV offers the added benefit of a 1,500-watt inverter behind the front seats and in the cargo area. This means a small luxury like a hot cup of coffee prepared on an electric appliance is entirely possible–despite being parked on a dirt road many, many kilometres from the nearest Starbucks.
The Road Between
By mid-morning, Dad was somewhere out on the course and we were trying to stay one step ahead of him. We watched the clock, checked the map and calculated how long it might take him to reach the next aid station. One moment, we were cruising along the highway in Tarmac Mode, taking in sweeping views of the surrounding peaks. The next, we were turning onto a dirt road, switching into Gravel Mode as the pavement disappeared beneath us and the road climbed through towering cedar and fir trees.
Just as Dad was being smart about conserving his energy where he could, we were doing the same in the Outlander. As we drove down steep descents and around tight corners, we used the Innovative Pedal to control our speed without constantly moving between the accelerator and brake. The system also helped regenerate energy back into the battery as we slowed, giving us a little more range to work with as we spent the day driving through Whistler.
When we finally reached an aid station, we'd scan the runners coming through, searching for Dad's familiar stride. The moment we spotted him, we'd spring into action––moving quickly, pulling out food, refilling bottles, checking his gear and asking the same familiar questions:
“How are you feeling?”
“What do you need?”
“What’s your game plan?”
Sometimes it was as simple as re-packing his running vest with gels and making sure he was eating enough solid food. Other times, we'd swap out shoes or layers before sending him back onto the trail.
And in the blink of an eye, he would disappear back into the trees, chasing down the next kilometre.
As Dad began to settle back into a rhythm, Mom and I would climb back into the Outlander and start figuring out where we would meet him next. The routine was quick and constant, with barely enough time to catch our breath before we were back on the road.
Just as Dad was being smart about conserving his energy where he could, we were doing the same in the Outlander. As we drove down steep descents and around tight corners, we used the Innovative Pedal to control our speed without constantly moving between the accelerator and brake. The system also helped regenerate energy back into the battery as we slowed, giving us a little more range to work with as we spent the day driving through Whistler.
When we finally reached an aid station, we'd scan the runners coming through, searching for Dad's familiar stride. The moment we spotted him, we'd spring into action––moving quickly, pulling out food, refilling bottles, checking his gear and asking the same familiar questions:
“How are you feeling?”
“What do you need?”
“What’s your game plan?”
Sometimes it was as simple as re-packing his running vest with gels and making sure he was eating enough solid food. Other times, we'd swap out shoes or layers before sending him back onto the trail.
And in the blink of an eye, he would disappear back into the trees, chasing down the next kilometre.
As Dad began to settle back into a rhythm, Mom and I would climb back into the Outlander and start figuring out where we would meet him next. The routine was quick and constant, with barely enough time to catch our breath before we were back on the road.
“See You at the Finish”
The sun was beginning its slow descent as a soft rain settled over the forest surrounding the final crew-accessible aid station. From a distance, we spotted Dad emerging from the trees and jogging across the busy highway toward the roadside aid station. His pace was noticeably slower than it had been that morning, the easy energy he'd carried off the start line replaced by the steady fatigue of more than 14 hours on the trail.
As he approached the aid station, he spotted a single camp chair tucked beneath the tent, positioned out of the rain. He zeroed in on it as though his name were written across the seat. Placing both hands on the arms, he slowly lowered himself into it.
“Roller, please,” he said, begging for the muscle-easing gratification of a hard foam massaging tool used by athletes.
I pulled the foam roller from his gear bag and handed it to him. He worked it slowly over his quads, wincing as his sore muscles met the pressure. Mom and I knelt beside him, untying his shoes and peeling off his socks. A fresh pair might not fix tired legs, but it was one small thing we could do to make the next stretch a little more comfortable.
At this point in the race, it was becoming less about what his body could do and more about what his mind could push through. What he needed now was something much simpler: familiar faces, a few minutes with the people he loved and the comfort of knowing we'd be waiting for him at the finish line.
After about 15 minutes, Dad slowly made his way back toward the trail. We watched him walk away, knowing that the next time we would see him, he would have 100 kilometres behind him.
Just before he disappeared into the fading light, he turned around.
“See you at the finish line!”
Then, he was gone.
As he approached the aid station, he spotted a single camp chair tucked beneath the tent, positioned out of the rain. He zeroed in on it as though his name were written across the seat. Placing both hands on the arms, he slowly lowered himself into it.
“Roller, please,” he said, begging for the muscle-easing gratification of a hard foam massaging tool used by athletes.
I pulled the foam roller from his gear bag and handed it to him. He worked it slowly over his quads, wincing as his sore muscles met the pressure. Mom and I knelt beside him, untying his shoes and peeling off his socks. A fresh pair might not fix tired legs, but it was one small thing we could do to make the next stretch a little more comfortable.
At this point in the race, it was becoming less about what his body could do and more about what his mind could push through. What he needed now was something much simpler: familiar faces, a few minutes with the people he loved and the comfort of knowing we'd be waiting for him at the finish line.
After about 15 minutes, Dad slowly made his way back toward the trail. We watched him walk away, knowing that the next time we would see him, he would have 100 kilometres behind him.
Just before he disappeared into the fading light, he turned around.
“See you at the finish line!”
Then, he was gone.
The Finish Line
At 1 a.m., the alarm on my phone shattered the silence. I groggily fumbled through the darkness, patting between tangled sheets and pillows until I finally found it.
Unlike the runners, the crew gets to steal a few hours of sleep between the chaotic moments of trailside support. While Dad was pushing through the final stretch of trail, I was climbing out of bed, pulling on layers and trying to shake off the fog of sleep.
It was time to meet Dad at the finish line.
The village was still asleep. The air was cold, the streets empty and the mountains loomed as dark silhouettes against the night sky.
Unlike the runners, the crew gets to steal a few hours of sleep between the chaotic moments of trailside support. While Dad was pushing through the final stretch of trail, I was climbing out of bed, pulling on layers and trying to shake off the fog of sleep.
It was time to meet Dad at the finish line.
The village was still asleep. The air was cold, the streets empty and the mountains loomed as dark silhouettes against the night sky.
The drive to the finish line was short, but the vibes couldn't have been more different from the silence we'd left behind. Our energetic music pumping through the Outlander from the Dynamic Sound Yamaha audio system was soon replaced by finish line music celebrating the incredible accomplishments of the day.
Volunteers chatted between sips of coffee. Friends and family huddled together behind the barriers, wrapped in blankets and jackets as they waited for their runners to emerge from the darkness.
Everyone's attention was fixed on the same place: the forest.
From the finish chute, we could see headlamps weaving through the trees high on the mountainside. They would appear for a few seconds, disappear behind branches, then flicker back into view farther down the trail. Every time a light emerged, someone would stand a little taller, squinting into the darkness and hoping it belonged to the person they were waiting for.
The anticipation was palpable.
Minutes felt longer than hours.
Then, just after 2 a.m., more than 20 hours after he had started, Dad appeared beneath the first set of lights.
A cheer erupted from the crowd.
He emerged from the darkness with his fist raised high above his head. A huge smile spread across his face as he jogged through the finish chute. Despite the 100 kilometres he had spent climbing and descending some of Whistler's toughest trails, he looked remarkably strong.
Twenty hours and thirty-eight minutes after crossing the start line, he finished.
With his medal hanging around his neck, Dad spotted Mom waiting in the crowd. They embraced, and for the first time all night, the effort seemed to leave his body. His shoulders dropped. His expression softened.
The race was over.
With the finish line adrenaline now fading, Dad pulled on warm clothes and slowly made his way back to the Outlander. Moving gingerly, he climbed into the second-row seat, turned the heated seat to its highest setting, and closed his eyes.
Outside, the finish-line celebrations carried on. Inside, there was only silence.
As we drove back through the sleeping village, medal hanging around his neck, Dad drifted toward sleep. The Outlander PHEV hummed quietly, and for the first time in over 20 hours, we all had nowhere else to be.
Everyone's attention was fixed on the same place: the forest.
From the finish chute, we could see headlamps weaving through the trees high on the mountainside. They would appear for a few seconds, disappear behind branches, then flicker back into view farther down the trail. Every time a light emerged, someone would stand a little taller, squinting into the darkness and hoping it belonged to the person they were waiting for.
The anticipation was palpable.
Minutes felt longer than hours.
Then, just after 2 a.m., more than 20 hours after he had started, Dad appeared beneath the first set of lights.
A cheer erupted from the crowd.
He emerged from the darkness with his fist raised high above his head. A huge smile spread across his face as he jogged through the finish chute. Despite the 100 kilometres he had spent climbing and descending some of Whistler's toughest trails, he looked remarkably strong.
Twenty hours and thirty-eight minutes after crossing the start line, he finished.
With his medal hanging around his neck, Dad spotted Mom waiting in the crowd. They embraced, and for the first time all night, the effort seemed to leave his body. His shoulders dropped. His expression softened.
The race was over.
With the finish line adrenaline now fading, Dad pulled on warm clothes and slowly made his way back to the Outlander. Moving gingerly, he climbed into the second-row seat, turned the heated seat to its highest setting, and closed his eyes.
Outside, the finish-line celebrations carried on. Inside, there was only silence.
As we drove back through the sleeping village, medal hanging around his neck, Dad drifted toward sleep. The Outlander PHEV hummed quietly, and for the first time in over 20 hours, we all had nowhere else to be.
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