When more than 25,000 runners flooded the streets for the 2025 BMO Vancouver Marathon, setting a new event record, the city buzzed with celebration. But the finish line didn’t mark the end of the race’s impact.
Hours later, the Stanley Park Seawall, a 9.5-kilometre loop beloved by locals and designated as protected natural space, was strewn with energy gel packets, wrappers, and plastic bottles, some floating in the water, others stuck in the rocks.
The mess remained untouched into the following day, prompting one Vancouver resident to act.
Kristians Kārkliņš, a Latvian expat who moved to the city in late 2024, went out for his usual walk and returned with more than 500 gel packets. “Most of them still sticky with residue,” he noted in a now-viral Instagram video that has over 100,000 views. “Why wasn’t there a same-day cleanup?”
He wasn’t the only one asking. Some runners voiced shock at the aftermath, assuming race organizers had a dedicated cleanup crew. Others admitted they’d never considered where their trash ended up. “I figured it was the race or sponsor’s job,” one anonymous participant told Canadian Running.
Kārkliņš, however, posed a sharper question: “Is littering part of the sport now?”
Race Culture Meets Environmental Reality
In a statement, race organizer RunVan emphasized that it provided over 200 bins throughout the course, particularly concentrated in the final 10 kilometers.
They also noted that no gels were handed out within Stanley Park itself and highlighted their commitment to a “high waste diversion rate.” Following the viral post, crews were dispatched to assist with further cleanup.
Yet the mess left behind—and the public response to it—raises deeper questions about the environmental norms within the running community.
While Stanley Park is protected under B.C.’s Environmental Management Act, which prohibits littering and can levy fines up to $2,000, enforcement during mass participation events can be murky. And this isn’t just a Vancouver problem.
Marathons worldwide are notorious for generating substantial waste. According to Runner’s World, the average race can produce up to five pounds of waste per runner. That adds up to an estimated 125,000 pounds of trash from Vancouver’s marathon alone.
Some events have begun rethinking this footprint.
The London Marathon piloted seaweed-based water pods in 2019 to reduce plastic usage, while the Boston Marathon has experimented with composting and plastic bottle bans.
Meanwhile, grassroots movements like plogging, a Swedish-born trend that combines jogging with picking up litter, have spread globally, encouraging runners to treat stewardship of the environment as part of the sport itself.
Sustainability consultant Jamie Fonda, who advises endurance events, argues that what’s needed isn’t just more bins or faster sweepers—it’s a cultural shift. “Leave-no-trace policies should be as emphasized as race rules or pacing strategies,” she told Trail Runner Magazine. “We need to make respect for the environment as much a part of racing as training plans.”
Accountability Beyond the Finish Line
For Kārkliņš, the cleanup wasn’t about going viral—it was about confronting a growing blind spot in race culture. “This is one of the most beautiful places in the world,” he said. “It deserves better.”
His actions may serve as a wake-up call to both organizers and participants. Marathons are feats of human endurance and celebration—but they also leave a literal trail behind. As the sport grows in size and popularity, so too must its sense of responsibility.
Because if running is about striving to be better, then protecting the spaces we run through should be part of the finish.
