Grouse Mountain forms the centerpiece of Vancouver's majestic natural skyline, looming 1000 meters over the blue waters of Burrard Inlet. A few short minutes from the city's downtown (well, except during rush hour), the mountain is a natural tourist trap. Winter skiing and summer tourist kitsch await at the top -- all accessible via the famous Grouse Mountain Skyride. The fifteen dollar, ten minute tram ride gives the best views in Vancouver.

Locals, however, know of a better way to the top. They call it The Grind.

I suppose I should clarify the term better. By better I don't mean more panoramic. I don't mean faster, or easier or even more fun. By better I mean cheaper, and that's it. Well, I suppose by better I could mean more painful, but I'm not really into that sort of thing.

As for the majority of Vancouverites? They're definitely into that sort of thing. The happy denizens of that fairest of cities flock to this two-kilometre trail, switchbacking up the mountain in droves. Faces sweating, knees popping, they scramble up the broken path in masses, driven in their pursuit of time.

Time rules The Grind. For a neophyte first timer, there is but one goal: to reach the top in less than one hour. The task for those out for their weekly or (gasp) daily workout? To simply go faster than last time.

My first shot at the Grind began early on a Sunday afternoon, with an attempt on the parking lot. Rows upon rows of cars glared at me in the harsh sun. Undaunted, I boldly leapt for the northwest corner and successfully stowed my sporty-yet-practical Mazda Protege without incident. From there it was off to the trailhead with she-of-many-Grinds, my sister.

Nestled between the soda and bottled water machines, a notice board warned of bear sightings near the top. Bear encounters are not rare, but, like the panhandlers on Granville Street, the bears are harmless if you keep your distance.

I performed the ritual starting of the stopwatch and my sister started running up the trail. Running? Yes, running. Any pretense of a hike fell away at that point. I didn't even have any hummus! This was no hike. Make no mistake: this was aerobics, Vancouver style.

The first three minutes were fine. The trail climbed steadily upward through an ugly thin forest and I cruised along with it, passing the lesser hikers with ease. The trail evolved from a slope to steps and somewhere around the fifth minute I started to think I may be slightly unprepared for the task at hand. I mean, who wears performance underwear and a Tilley hat while riding the world's largest stairmaster? At the quarter point we took a break while I persuaded my body that yes, indeed, up was a good direction.

While standing off to the side of the trail, we were given a hint of what lay ahead. A teenage girl, hiking with her parents, slipped while coming down the trail. She slid a bit, but didn't do any serious damage -- at least on the outside. But she sat with her head down and started crying. "I can't take it any more..." she whimpered while her parents tried to console her. What was impressed upon me was not her physical pain, but her complete mental defeat. The Grind had claimed another victim.

We turned our back on the carnage and resumed the ascent. The trek to the quarter point had taken 16 minutes, so my one-hour goal was in jeopardy. I slogged on faster, ignoring my already-deafening pulse.

The second quarter took us 18 minutes. Things were definitely not looking good. Already I could feel the shame building. Longer than one hour to complete The Grind? I would be laughed out of the Lower Mainland.

We passed (and were passed) by all kinds of people -- from super-athletic trail runners nimbly hopping up (and down) the trail, to average-joe hikers like myself to families with children. I passed one child being dragged up the trail in cheap rubber galoshes -- the kind with no traction that always made my socks come off inside the boot. I felt his pain.

We completed the third quarter in 14 minutes, and I felt a faint glimmer of hope. Either I was going faster or someone wasn't very good at measuring quarters. I suspected the latter, but either way things were looking up. And I do mean up. The trail did not relent, continuing its arrogant ascent, and we followed the herd. Little arguments started to break out among the couples on the trail as the climb did its spiritual damage. A man caught up to us, breathing so loudly I began to regret not knowing CPR. And then, far above me, I caught sight of the end.

I checked my watch. 58 minutes! I began to leap up the trail, elbowing my way past my sister and the huffing man. I was so close! I pressed on as fast as I could, climbing the steps in a fog of exhaustion -- until finally, mercifully, I reached the top.

Fifty-nine minutes, thirteen seconds.

There are only two things you hear on the Skyride on the way down. The first is the obligatory "whooaaoooo" from the tourists as the gondola begins its stomach-flipping plummet after the first tower. The second, repeated in every conversation among sweaty hikers, is the story of the legendary hiker who finished The Grind in less than thirty minutes -- then went back down and did it again.

But to me, that's just not what hiking is about. The Grind is a battle. It's a fight for dominance. Instead of becoming one with nature, I felt separated from it. As a place to exercise, The Grind beats the gym any day. But as a hike, it leaves a lot to be desired.