Navigating Between frustration and Acceptance

By Karine Corbeil

Pics by Guillermo Guiterrez and Darren Steinbach

Navigating between frustration, disappointment, and the enduring belief that we can do it.

We came into this race knowing we had a great team. We were ready. We usually perform well on this type of terrain, and we had high expectations. This was our shot to break into the top five at a World Championship.

But even before the race began, uncertainty set in. Pre-race information was scarce, and we were navigating into the unknow. When the racebook finally landed in our hands, one detail leapt off the page — this course had multiple dark zones. In that instant, the entire strategy shifted. This wasn’t just going to be a race across rugged terrain — it was going to be a race against the dark zones.

For those new to adventure racing, a dark zone is a forced stop — a section of the course you’re not allowed to travel during certain hours. While you’re grounded, the teams ahead can keep moving, and those behind begin stacking up right behind you.

It’s a strange kind of pressure — knowing that your performance could hinge not only on your fitness or navigation, but on where you happen to be when you would be forced to stop. From that moment, we knew: this race would test more than endurance. It would test timing, patience, and the ability to adapt when the race itself refuses to move.

The first dark zone wasn’t dictated by daylight but by a road closure. We were told that a landslide had occurred the week prior on highway 12, and that only teams arriving before 10:10 a.m. would be allowed to keep moving forward. All others would have to wait until 3:30 p.m. for the road to reopen — a 5-hour and 20-minute gap that would be difficult, if not impossible, to recover from later in the race. And all of this, barely 24 hours into the race.

The next two dark zones both involved paddling sections on Class 2+ and Class 3 rivers, and for safety reasons, they would be closed from 7 p.m. to 7 a.m. which make perfect sense.

The real challenge wasn’t just the dark zones themselves, but how they lined up. The timing between them was tricky — almost cruel. If you got caught by the first one, chances were you’d be trapped by the next, and then the next after that. Based on our time estimates, it was clear: miss that first cutoff, and you could trigger a domino effect that would haunt you for the rest of the race.

…

Thursday morning — the race was finally underway. We launched straight into a technical bike section, the kind of terrain that plays to our strengths. Rocky, rough, and fast — just how we like it. We started strong, holding pace with the front pack, feeling sharp and confident.

But as we neared the first trek transition, the race reminded us that even the best starts can turn on a dime. Dusty’s bike snapped a spoke, and the rear tire went flat. We pulled over and got to work, calm and efficient. Repairs like this are part of the sport — no reason to panic.

What we didn’t realize at first was that the broken spoke had punctured the rim tape from the inside. Five minutes after we fixed it, the tire went flat again. Another stop, another round of problem-solving. We found a solution in the end, but by the time we rolled out, we’d lost close to an hour. Loosing one hour in a multi-day race is usually not a disaster. We kept our spirits up, pushing hard, confident we could make up the time. After all, the race had only just begun — But the next morning, we arrived late to that first dark zone — just under an hour late — Suddenly, what had seemed like a minor setback became a turning point. We were forced to stop and had no choice but to watch the lead group pull further ahead.

We tried to make the best of it and rest.

What we feared became reality. Because we’d been held back, we reached the Thompson River with only two hours of daylight left. It was pouring rain, and the wind was howling — truly miserable conditions. We stood there, weighing our options: do we launch now, paddle briefly, and spend the next 12 hours bivvied by the river in our drysuits, cold and damp — or do we find somewhere sheltered, get real rest, and play the long game — well-recovered for the stages ahead — Either way, we were facing another penalty. Another delay. This time, it would cost us 12 hours.

So, we rented a motel room and ate at a local restaurant in Ashcroft. In the moment, the comfort felt good — warm food, a dry bed, a brief pause from the storm. But that comfort came with a heaviness we carried for the rest of the race. We were frustrated — not just by being stopped, but by the timing of it all. Frustrated that we couldn’t be out there, moving forward, doing what we came to do — Race.

And more than anything, we felt it was unfair — Unfair that the course was designed to penalized in the same teams over and over again — But I believe the idea of a fair course and a fair race is very elusive.

The next morning, we got into the river holding onto the belief that the rest would pay off — that we’d race so fast, maybe, just maybe, we could catch up. We were first in, and first out. But deep down, we knew at this point that our dream to reach the top 5 at the World Championship was taken away from us. There was no way for us to get to lead group unless the lead group fell apart, or if they also got a 17-hour penalty.

Still, we nurtured some type of hope, because without it, all the pain, all the relentless effort we demanded from our bodies, would feel meaningless. From that point on, the race became a battle between negativity and positivity. We knew that negative thoughts never help in adventure racing — they drain energy faster. But they were there, creeping in quietly, testing our mental resilience as much as the terrain tested our physical strength.

Each moment of frustration had to be met with a conscious choice: to let it sink us deeper, or to turn it into fuel. That’s the unseen challenge of expedition racing — not just surviving the elements, but mastering the storm inside your own head. So, we kept pushing as hard as we could, right up until the very last minute of the race. After 139 grueling hours, we crossed the finish line in 10th place — my best-ever result at a World Championship. Am I happy — I can’t answer yes.

More than 3 weeks have passed since we finished, and the feelings are still tangled.

Can we be both proud and disappointed at the same time — Maybe that’s the reality of chasing a dream this big.