So, like, this weekend my friend A.S. decided to casually run 67 kilometers in the Pretty River Valley in Ontario. Yes, you read that right—sixty-seven. That’s basically the distance between “I feel cute” and “I can’t feel my legs anymore.” And the real kicker? People sign up for this on purpose. I know—wild.
This is Valley Girl News, reporting from the finish line with sore legs just from watching.
Trail ultras are not your cute 5Ks where you run, grab a T-shirt, and post a sweaty selfie. Nope. They are, like, the endurance equivalent of agreeing to walk through IKEA on a Saturday—long, painful, and you’ll question your life choices more than once. But here’s the thing: people who run them are built different.
Physically, you have to be a machine. Hours of training. Fueling on sticky gels that taste like expired Jell-O. Climbing hills so steep you’re basically on all fours like some woodland creature. And let’s not even get into the blisters, toenails popping off like press-ons, and mud puddles that swallow your dignity whole. But all of that? It’s still not the hardest part.
Because ultra running is, like, 80% mental, 20% legs, and 100% “I refuse to quit even though I probably should.” Scientists like Dr. Samuele Marcora (who literally studies why we torture ourselves for fun) say that fatigue is more brain drama than body drama. Translation? Your brain screams “I’m dying!” way before your muscles actually are. Ultra runners just… tell their brain to sit down and stop being so dramatic. Some runners swear by pickle juice to fight cramps—because apparently nothing says ‘elite athlete’ like chugging the liquid from a jar of gherkins at kilometer 50.
But there’s also this crunchy-granola, spiritual side. Running 67 kilometers through the Pretty River Valley isn’t just exercise—it’s, like, forest therapy with a side of insanity. You’re surrounded by maple trees, cliffs, rivers, and animals staring at you like, “Sis, go home.” Somewhere between kilometer 40 and your fifth electrolyte chew, you hit this zen flow state where the pain melts into rhythm. It’s basically meditation, except instead of candles and soft music, it’s sweat, dirt, and your quads crying for help.
And don’t even get me started on the community. Ultra runners are, like, the most wholesome weirdos. Aid stations aren’t just about water—they’re buffets with chips, PB&J, and flat Coke that tastes like liquid gold after 7 hours on the trail. Runners swap salt tablets like they’re trading secrets and encourage each other even when they’re low-key dying inside. It’s less about winning and more about surviving together. Think summer camp, but with more toenail casualties.
So, why does A.S. do this? It’s a cocktail of stubbornness, endorphins, and the thrill of proving to yourself that you’re capable of more than Netflix marathons. It’s about pushing past the voice that says “I can’t” and replacing it with “Watch me.” Once you finish one of these things, your brain kinda breaks—in a good way. Suddenly, regular marathons sound like warm-ups, and you start wondering what else in life you’ve been underestimating yourself on. And know what?
And that’s the real tea: ultra running is less about the medal and more about the transformation. You don’t just finish the race—you finish, like, a new version of yourself.
Meanwhile, I’m here clapping with a latte in hand, because honestly? Watching someone else run 67 kilometers is exhausting enough.
XOXO,
Valley Girl News
Where blisters are from cute shoes, not trail runs
