“I ran the world’s six biggest marathons”

Back in 2012, I started feeling pins and needles in my arms and having balance problems. My doctors were worried that it was a fatal form of multiple sclerosis. As I was confronting my mortality, a friend of mine told me she was going to run the Chicago Marathon, and I made up my mind to join her. I gave myself eight weeks to train. I was a mess on the day of: by the 14-­kilometre mark, I hit a wall and couldn’t imagine finishing. It was a mental battle, which I won by telling myself, “Just get to the next aid station.” After making my way past seven of them and across the finish line, I thought, Never again.

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Afterward, the doctors investigated and discovered that I didn’t have MS, to my relief. But they found a cyst in my spine, which meant I would have to learn to deal with nerve pain. Surgery wasn’t necessary unless the cyst got bigger—something I could help prevent by staying active. So, in addition to hockey, I tried running again.

It wasn’t until 2018 that I was ready to run another major marathon. I had my eye on New York, but it’s really hard to get into. So I forked over $1,200 to a tour operator that bundled race entry with a hotel stay. It was worth it. There’s a saying that you can’t run a marathon and not have it change your life. That’s true. It’s almost enough to make me forget that, for me, running feels like falling on ice and smashing my tailbone again and again—for 42 kilometres.

As I was preparing for New York, I found out about the Six Star Medal, awarded to runners who complete the world’s original major marathons: New York, Boston, Chicago, Tokyo, Berlin and London. It seemed out of reach—with my condition, I can’t run as fast or train as hard as most runners. But, looking at the Boston website, I discovered that my condition was an advantage: people with physical impairments can qualify with a six-hour time. After years of fighting through pain, I felt like my perseverance was finally being rewarded.

In November of 2019, I ran the Berlin Marathon. Then the pandemic hit. I spent lockdown running virtual marathons, which are better than not running but pretty depressing. When the real races returned, I went to as many as I could handle. In 2021, I finally ran Boston, then London two years later. I got into the Tokyo Marathon by pledging $9,000 to charity. Friends raised $2,000, and my father gave me $5,000. That was huge—my dad’s health was declining, and I wanted him to see me do it before he died. This past October, I ran Chicago again—and the Toronto Waterfront, my 42nd marathon. People held signs saying “You run faster than the TTC” and “Raccoons don’t run this city, you do!”

Running has saved me. It’s kept my cyst under control, and it’s been great for my mental health. I’m Anishinaabe, and I’m part of an Ontario-wide Indigenous running group—we follow one another on the fitness app Strava. People think running a marathon is something extra­ordinary—and it is—but you don’t have to be superhuman. In the past couple of years, I’ve even run 50-kilometre ultramarathons, and I’m toying with the idea of the Javelina Jundred 160-kilometre ultra in Arizona next year—if I can convince someone to do it with me.