The unexpected Epic-ness of the Hood to Coast Relay 2015

Just when you think you can’t learn any more…

Do we start this story with me head down, fighting hard into a 70 mph head wind in the driving rain?

Screaming curses like a mad man into the void?

Or do we start with how I got to that place?

…

When I signed up for the race I figured it would be a piece of cake.  A 200 mile relay with a 12 person team.  Yawn.  I’ve done far more epic shit than that.  This was going to be one of those ‘fun run’ experiences so I could check the Hood to Coast off my bucket list and get on with my training.

I’ve done the relay thing many times before.  12 people?  3 legs each? That’s only like 15 miles over the course of 24 hours.  I can do that in my sleep.

I even scheduled a vacation around it – something I’d never do with an ‘A’ race.

I planned a nice trip with my wife.  There were a bunch of states out there I’ve never seen.  I organized it so we would fly into South Dakota on Monday, rent a yellow Mustang convertible and drive west across the divide into Portland.  A ‘vacation race’.

As we got closer to the event things started to change.

The Friday before we were set to leave I was out doing my easy run and something popped in my left calf.  I had to stop running and hobble home.  No problem.  Just a calf strain.  I had a week to heal.  I’d just stay off it, right?

Then the team emails began filtering in.

Turns out we couldn’t find 12 people, we only have 8.  Now we’ve started referring to it as an ‘ultra’ team.  And, oh yeah, by the way, you’re in van one so you get to run 5 legs instead of 3.  Ok, no problem, it’s still only a marathon-ish distance over the course of 24 hours.  No worries.  I’ll be fine.
I didn’t run all week leading into the race.  I was trying to feel the calf as I was walking around to see if it still hurt.  I was starting to stress out because I can feel something in there, but I won’t know until I start racing.  There’s nothing I can do except stay off it and hope for the best.

The good thing about an ultra-team is the logistics are much simpler.  There’s less waiting around and more running.  The team dynamics are much better because no one has time or energy to get bitchy with anyone else in the van.  You’re either sleeping or running.  It’s much cleaner and easier to manage.
The other good thing for me was that our team was mostly studs. I wouldn’t have to carry anyone or worry about people bailing after the 2^nd leg.  These were veterans.  It makes everything easier when you can count on your team.

Ironically I’d never met any of these people in the flesh before but I knew their bona fides and knew they could chop wood and carry water.

Our van 1 team was Susan, the local ultra-runner, me, Rick a newer, but accomplished runner and triathlete from Indiana and Samantha, a Kona ironman athlete and ex-college runner.  Lori, Rick’s wife was our den-mother and driver.  Sam was leg 1, Susan was leg 2, I was 3, and Rick was 4.

In the other van we had Coach Jeff from PRSfit an ironman athlete (and cancer patient that we were running for), Patty, another triathlete and marathoner, Ellen, another triathlete and marathoner, SheriAnne, another Kona stud and Ellen’s husband as the driver.

Say what you want about triathletes being prima donnas (because it’s true), but they are studs in an endurance event.

So, yeah, we were basically stacked.

Even so, it’s always a bit dicey to be tossed into a van with 4 people you’ve never met.

The Van 1 crew decided to sleep at Susan’s cabin on Mt. Hood the night before.  Susan’s a local who has run the HTC a bunch of times and knows the ropes.   She was like our HTC Sacagawea telling us which exchanges were dicey and how to navigate the course.

I got up early and went outside in the pre-dawn glow to sit and get my mind right for the race.  I was 3^rd in the rotation.  That meant I’d run the 3^rd leg of an 8 person rotation through 36 legs.  So, 3, 11, 19, 27, 35.   As a team this gave us a good 3-4 hour gap between sets that we could get some sleep in.

…

We had an 8:45 start time.  They roll people out in 15 minute waves trying to manage the paces so the exchanges don’t get too bunged up.  In general they start the slower teams first.

We got into the Timberline Lodge starting line up on Mt. Hood with more than an hour to spare.  It was overcast and in the 50’s.  Great running weather. We were meeting Sam there. It’s always a bit troubling when you have to trust someone to show up the morning of the race, but she made it.

She brought her adorable Chihuahua/terrier mix Mimi with her that I got to cuddle with all night long.

Then we had some fun.

Sam got out her bacon strip costume and wore it for the first leg, a fast downhill 4 miler.   The funny thing is that she was so fast she beat everyone in her wave except for one person and a few of the wave in front of her dressed as a strip of bacon!  Sam was definitely the talent in the van.

Susan went next with another fast downhill leg.

My first leg was a fast, downhill 5k.  I took the hand off around 10:00 AM from Susan and eased into race pace.  I was feeling pretty good, passing people and holding a decent pace.  I got passed by some youngster in a red dress but he soon ran out of gas and I caught him.

The calf felt ok so I started to stretch the pace.

Then it popped.

I got a sharp pain and knew I’d pulled it. I started limping and trying to run with just my right leg.  It hurt and every time I tried to race I’d end up hopping on one leg.  I slowed way down and leaned on the right quad. I got repassed by the kid in the red dress.

Then I had a moment of panic.  I had all these thoughts running through my head.  “I’m done.  How can I finish? I can’t run on this. Someone else is going to have to take my legs.  I can’t do it.  Maybe I can tape it up super tight and immobilize it and keep going?  What am I going to do? Shit, Shit Shit!”

I finished the leg in pretty good time and still managed to take 10 places. At the HTC teams typically make a big deal out of how many ‘kills’ your van gets.  Kills are the number of people you pass during your leg versus the number who pass you.

After the handoff to Rick I shoved a baggie of ice down my calf sleeve and commenced to brood.

I went through all the stages; denial, anger, grief, acceptance and ended back up with denial, which is where most endurance athletes live.

I spent the next few hours looking for some tape.  I figured I might tape it up and give it a go.  My second leg was an easy downhill 4 miler so I could probably fake that with a bum leg.

I was super cranky.

When Rick finished we were done with our first van rotation.  We drove throug to the Boring, OR exchange, laid out our blankets and napped.

I had stopped at a Walmart on the way in and bought a queen sized blanket and two beach towels for a total of $17 with the intent of abandoning them on the course somewhere.

Relay tip: There is nothing more useful in a 24 hour relay than big blankets and towels.  You’re constantly wet and cold and sweaty and tired and having something you don’t care about to cover with makes it easier.

For the next couple of exchanges as my 2^nd leg approached I wandered around in a foul mood asking people if they had tape.  I finally managed to scrounge up some KT tape.  Rick, being a physical therapist, applied a strip to my calf.  We put the calf sleeve over it and prayed for the best.

I don’t think anyone else in the van appreciated what was going on in my head.  I came to compete and now, one leg in, I didn’t even know if I could run.

That’s not who I am.  I’m not that guy.   I’m not the guy who bails on an ultra-team after the first leg.

I had 23+ miles left and no idea of how I was going to do it.   4 more legs.   Dammit!  I wanted to bring my A game especially with new people and now I was hurt.

Then something clicked.  At some point I made the decision to run, and no matter what to finish.  Even if I had to walk.  Even if I wouldn’t be able to run again for a couple weeks.  I’d finish. Once I got through that in my head all that was left was to do the work.  And that gave me something to do.

I had invoked rule #6 – which is “Don’t be a pussy.”

By now it was close to 5:00 in the afternoon.  The sun had come out and it was hot and humid.   Susan came through the exchange a bit wobbly having been hammered by heat and having her own battle. A guy on bike came through the exchange and crashed into the runners behind me as I took the handoff.

Encouragingly for me this leg was an easy 4.5 downhill on a rail trail.  I really didn’t know what would happen. My leg- calf could force me to walk.

The easy leg allowed me to ease into it when I started and find a rhythm.  I ran tentatively trying to find a balance and pace I could work with.

Initially there was some pain but once the calf numbed out found I could run on it.  As long as I didn’t race, or toe-off and I kept my form super clean.  I didn’t mind holding a slower pace, especially in the heat.

The funny thing was I was still passing people.  I was consistently still harvesting 7-10 people every leg.

The rail trail was weird with lots of homeless camps under the bushes. There were a bunch of road crossings where the runners would bunch up waiting for the lights to change or the traffic to break.

A younger woman passed me but she wasn’t going that much faster and I kept catching her at the crossings. I could see she was tiring towards the end of the leg, so I pulled up on her should and said “You need to pick it up. You’re about to be passed by a 53 year old guy with a bad heart and a torn calf.”

She laughed and took off.  We were already starting to pass a lot of people who were just walking.

When we finished this leg were in Close to Patty’s house in Portland so we swung by and took hot showers before the next leg.  That’s the best feeling in the world, or at least the second best.

I was feeling much more confident.  I still didn’t know if the calf would hold out and stay numb.   I was staring at 3 more legs.  I wasn’t racing but I could still run.

The next leg would be the big test.  If I could get through that one it was metaphorically downhill from there.  It was a rolling uphill and I had to see how the calf would manage that.

I had made my decision and that put me in a better mood.  If it was 9 min miles or 10 or 11, I would get it done.  This, and the shower, took some pressure off.

Our next layover was Scappoose High School where we laid out on the lawn and slept some more. Some guy walked by a told us they were going to turn on the sprinklers but we ignored him and kept napping.

As we eased into our 3^rd cycle the sun had set and it had clouded up.  Jeff came through to hand off to Sam and he was struggling with some cancer episodes but he was getting it done.  I felt a bit petty worrying about a calf strain.

The joke in the relay world is that the middle leg is the hardest.  It’s dark, your tired.  The initial enthusiasm has subsided and you don’t want to run anymore.  You just want to sleep.

My first night leg started just before Midnight.   This would be the real test.  A hard, rolling uphill 6 miles with a mile uphill into the finish.  If my calf was going to fail it would be here.  I thought if I could get past this one I could finish.

It had started to be rainy off and on.   We were napping in the car and cuddling with Mimi the dog.  I had my blanket and towels!

I hadn’t brought a lot to eat.  My theory on these things is you really have to watch what you eat during the middle sections or you can get in trouble.  Less is typically better. People eat because they’re tired and bored and make bad decisions.

I had some popcorn, bananas, leftover pizza from the night before, GenUcan on the runs and lots of water.  I still had some GI expediency to deal with.

It was quiet dark with the cloud cover.  It was spitting rain.  I walked Susan to her start to wait for Sam.  While we were standing around people were gossiping that they were expecting 70mph winds at the finish.  I couldn’t believe that.  It was overcast and raining off and on but nothing stormy.

Everyone now was wearing their head lamps, vests and flashers.  You’d see them emerge from the dark like disembodied space ships coming down the road.  Strings of lights bobbing down the road like weird Christmas decorations.

Sam was still crushing it as she came through the finish.  She was averaging 50 kills a leg.

As you get into the night legs the transitions start to get disorganized.  You’ll see runners push through the finish line only to be stranded with no one to hand off to.

I took the handoff from Susan and eased into my first night leg.

It was super dark and I had headlamp problems.  I couldn’t find my ‘good’ headlamp when I was packing so I packed an old one and it had issues.  The light was dim and the elastic was gone from the strap.  I was having trouble seeing the road and it kept slipping off my head.

The camber of the road in this section was pretty bad.  The road was lumpy with no shoulder and a drop off.  If you stepped off the side you’d turn an ankle.

I was tired and my leg was numb. It didn’t hurt, it was just numb. My pace was slow enough that it wasn’t really stressing the calf.   I started to remember a lesson I have learned many times – our bodies can do anything our minds tell them to.

In the first couple miles I was very low energy.  I had thoughts running through my mind of “How the hell am I going to run another 5 miles?” The finish line seemed a long ways away at this energy level.

I had put my rain coat on but it stopped raining so I was overdressed and a bit hot.

It was really dark.  The only time you could really see was when the cars passed you from behind.  We ran on the left shoulder of the road and could not see anything when the cars came at us.  There were enough runners that I could usually see someone in the distance as I gained on them.  It was a bit like the lights on a landing strip guiding you in.

I forgot to start my Garmin until I was at least ¼ mile in.  I used that as a psychological tool – whatever my Garmin said I knew I’d be a little further along.  It was like a positive affirmation every time the mile alert buzzed.  I knew every time it buzzed I was actually further along than it said – and that made me happy.

It was hard running.  I narrowed my scope.   I took it one mile at a time.

It was hard running so I remembered my discipline.  I focused on my breathing like in meditation.  I focused on my form and running with my core.  I lifted my knees up the hills with my core.

I did some power-walking on the steep uphills.  I started counting steps to stay focused.  I’d count to 100 and start over again.

I was still passing people. There were walkers and these were only 2^nd leg runners. They were slouched over and walking like the shuffling dead.

I knew that when I hit that last hill it was only a mile to the exchange.  I was surprised at how strong I felt.  I ran it in for a decent time and handed off to Rick.  I was starting to get confident.  I could fake two more legs.

Each time I’d finish a leg I’d throw my wet, stinky stuff into a trash bag.  The women in the van were complaining about my aroma and groaned every time I opened the bag.

Relay tip: bring trash bags for your wet, stinky stuff.

It was raining consistently now so we couldn’t sleep outside.  I slept sitting up in the back seat between Sam and Susan with my legs stretched out into the console on the front seat.  With all my years of airline travel I can sleep anywhere.  But Samantha was the champion.  Every time she got it the car she’d be fast asleep with Mimi curled up in her lap until it was time to run again.

Mimi, the dog started to like me and would crawl up on my lap to sleep too.  While Sam and I were getting lots of sleep poor Susan wasn’t able to sleep in the car at all and was getting tired.

Meanwhile, Lori, Rick’s wife who had been awake and driving for 20+ hours at this point was still perky and singing.

As we rolled into our 4^th legs the storm was on us.  The rain was coming in waves with some wind.

I had two more hard legs.

We were up an at ‘em around 3:00 AM to start our next van one cycle, our second night leg.  We were in the middle of nowhere, with no cell service. The transition traffic was an absolute cluster.  It was dark and rainy.  There were hundreds of vans and all the drivers and volunteers were sleep deprived and exhausted.

I got my other headlamp for the 4^th leg.  This one had a good strap and a strong light, but it was more of a camping headlamp than a running headlamp. It kept sliding into my eyes giving me vertigo.  I held the weak one in my hand as a flashlight and that worked well.

I had an easy rolling 10k.  The roads for this one were much better.  I was getting some swagger.  We were more than half way.  I was confident that I would finish and I was tired but running strong.  Certainly stronger than the zombies I was passing.

I refocused on form and running from the core.  People crashed physically all around me.  My kills were going up. The majority of them were either walking or running with form that was painful to watch.   They were suffering mental and physical exhaustion – and they were only in their 3^rd leg!

I had a strong kick and handed to Rick.  Maddog!

We were becoming a team.  We were talking smack.  “So you feel good about those 3 legs?  We’re on our 4^th and have one more to go. Everyone in our van is running more than 28 miles.  Sam is doing 30k+.” We were building that relay race esprit de corps that only shared effort and suffering can foster.

You could tell the 12 person teams were starting to hate each other.  Too much time on their hands and not enough running.

…

We didn’t hate each other.  We just racked out and slept in the van like dead people.

We woke up a couple hours later to the daylight.   The wind was up now with rain coming in waves.  It started blowing hard in Jeff’s last leg.  I was waiting with Sam for Jeff to come in with a towel over my head in the pouring rain. Van two was done.  Just 4 legs left.  Sam, Susan, me and Rick to take us home.  We sent Sam off for her last 8 miler in the wind and rain.

I’m exhausted but confident because even though my calf is still injured it has stayed numb and I’m getting stronger with each leg.  The rookies and 12 member teams are fading and walking, but we’re all ultra-athletes and ironmen and we’re getting stronger.  I never thought I’d be able to run leg 2 so I’m pretty psyched about having only one more 10k to run.

The sun’s up and I’m only a couple hours away from beer and a burger and a finisher’s medal.  Life is good.

Back in the car the wind is hammering.  The trees are bent sideways and the road is full of debris.  I’m thinking “Really?  I push through an injury, I run all night in a rain storm and this is my reward?  7 miles of uphill into the teeth of typhoon strength winds?”

What the hell?

And I got a little mad, like you do.  Because when there’s only one lap or one leg left that’s when it’s ok to fall back on emotion to carry you in.

Screw it. I made it this far.  It’s only air.  It’s only water.  Take it one mile, one step at a time.  It can’t stop me.

Then I’m in the van getting ready for that last leg.  I’m looking at the holy hell that the weather has turned into and I’m out of clothes, all I have left that’s dry is a singlet.  I’m forced to dig into the stinky bag for the long sleeve shirt and rain jacket I wore in leg 3.

I have Lori and crew drop me at the transition because Susan only has a 5K and I’m not sure I’d survive the walk over from parking.

I hide from the wind and rain behind the single porta john huddling with strangers to keep warm.

“Your third leg?  That’s nice.  Screw you.  I’m 21 miles in and going on my 5^th.”

I’m getting full body shivers in the wet clothes as the wind tries to take my jacket off.  I’m using a pair of tech socks for gloves.

Cowering in the lee of a porta john in the wind and driving rain I see Susan coming in and it’s on.

The leg starts with some rolling road.  This then leads into a dirt road, like a rail trail.  There are branches and stuff blowing everywhere.  I get a sharp pain in my hand as I get nailed by a high-velocity pine cone in the tempest. I’ve got my head down and I’m grinding.

I’m on the dirt road now struggling directly into 50-70 mph wind gusts with driving rain like a thousand nails into my body.

I remember my training, my years of running I know how to run in the wind.  I get my head down and get small.  I pull my hands in tight, my shoulders in, trying not to give the wind anything to grab.   It’s grabbing at my hat and tugging my hood.

But I’m grinding it out like a machine.  God knows how slow I’m going, I’m like one of those old movies where the wind blows people backwards down the street.  But I’m still passing people.  Because they have given up.  They aren’t even trying.  They’re slumped over and defeated trudging down this road.

I feed on it.  I’m fighting hard and letting the adrenaline surge.  They don’t know how to run in the wind and the cold and the rain and the exhaustion and the injuries.  I do.  I know how to run and I do.

Grinding it out.  There’s no one to draft because no one is running.  I pass people and tell them to tuck in behind me, but they don’t, because they don’t know how.  I glance back and they’re 12 feet behind and then they are gone.

In the last mile the rain eases and the sun comes out.  I’m in full-on hammer mode cursing out loud at the sky.  “Fuck you! Is that the best you can do?  Bring it.  Come on let’s go!”  I drive my legs screaming at the void into the transition and hand it to Rick with 60 kills in the final leg.  Feeling good.  Feeling strong.  Feeling indestructible.  Feeling like I’d been tested and measured up.

I am high on the achievement.  I’m telling anyone who will listen.  My body and my mind and this sport can still teach me a lesson or two about how strong we can be if we only choose to be strong.

…

In the van we find our way to the beach.  The finish area on the beach has been mauled and destroyed by the storm.  Grand tents and scaffolding lays in tattered ruins.  They’ve hastily changed the finish to the sidewalk.  The wind is sandblasting us as we run, as a team, through the finish.  8 of the strongest athletes I’ve ever had the privilege to go into battle with.

As it turns out this wasn’t a fun run.  This wasn’t the promenading lark I thought it would be.  This was an epic battle against nature and ourselves, and we won.

…

Yvonne, my wonderful wife, drove the yellow mustang over to the beach to fetch me.  We drove back to the Marriot riverfront with its feather pillows and hot water.  I took a shower.  We went out to the HopWorks Urban Brewery for the best bacon cheeseburger I’ve ever had.

When we got back I made the mistake of laying on the bed to watch TV and I don’t remember anything else.

The next morning my legs were pretty stiff and the left calf was swollen.  There was some blood and bruising under the skin.  I guess I’ll be taking a couple weeks off!

PRSFit Team 1095.  Hood to Coast Relay. 36 legs.  198 miles. 27 Hours.  An average pace of 8:24.  343 out of 1050.   Three old men 6 hot girls and hell of an effort.

…

MarathonBQ – How to Qualify for the Boston Marathon in 14 Weeks – http://www.marathonbq.com/qualify-for-the-boston-marathon-in-14-weeks/