Hood to Coast Relay (August 26 & 27, 2005)

Each year, as the Hood to Coast Relay approaches in August, I think to myself, “okay, I’ll get through this weekend, but it will be the last”. August is a tough month – I end up running the Pike’s Peak Ascent one weekend, and follow that up with the Hood to Coast Relay barely seven days later. Between the travel and the lack of sleep and all of the racing, I lose sight of what brings me to Oregon for the race. So each year, I grudgingly pack my bags and head to the airport with only the smallest amount of enthusiasm for my trip.

But the magic starts when I get to the waiting area for my flight to Portland. The boarding area is always full of people who look happy. Wearing running shoes and t-shirts and sweatshirts with race logos and team logos, it’s clear that these happy people are all fellow runners setting out on the same journey. I don’t normally talk to seatmates when I fly, but Hood to Coast is always an exception. People seated next to me chat me up, asking me if I’m going for the race, and enquiring about my team. By the time I hit the ground in Portland, I’m completely jazzed for the weekend.

For the second consecutive year, my friend and teammate Karen picks me up in Portland. Karen and I first met through an on-line marathon training group, and last year she took the incredible risk of accepting my invitation to join the Salem based team, Femme Fatale, that I joined in 2003. Karen lives near Seattle, and it works out to be logistically perfect for both of us for her to pick me up at PDX. We drive the 45 minutes to Salem and get reacquainted and catch up on news and gossip and thoughts about the Relay.

When we reach my brother Dave’s house, he is just ready to serve a pasta dinner. Dave has invited a few of his friends to join us; one of those friends is our teammate Chane. Last year Chane had to sit out Hood to Coast because of a serious injury, and it nearly killed her to miss the relay. Chane is my original sponsor on Femme Fatale, inviting me to join the team in 2003 although she and I had never met. Chane is the keeper of the peace and the voice of reason in our little family of women. Tonight, at dinner, she’s the voice of moderation, which keeps us all from staying up way too late and drinking way too much wine.

Pre-race. It’s relay morning, and we go through the pre-race routine. Karen makes her famous mini-M&M bar cookies at Dave’s while my niece Emily cooks up a batch of French toast for us. It seems really early this year when Dave drives us over to Chane’s house to meet our other team members and to pack up the van that will be home for the next 36 or so hours. The next hour is a grand reunion with team members I haven’t seen, in some cases, since last year’s Hood to Coast. But we have a race to run, and before long we’re heading out of Salem.

It’s a glorious day on top of Mount Hood: warm and sunny and cloudless. We are here in plenty of time, and my teammates have lots of time to enjoy the sunshine. Kris and Monique clamber on top of the Suburban for some people-watching and sun-catching, and Chane stretches out in the front passenger seat. Karen is jazzed about a van with a Napoleon Dynamite theme, and tries to explain the references to me. It’s all lost on me. Karen finally says, “I think you have to see it to get it”, and we leave it at that. (I put Napoleon Dynamite on the must-see list, and later, when Mick and I rent the movie, I start to “get it”.)

Walking into the ski lodge to use the flush toilets (a modern convenience that we aren’t assured of seeing again until we reach our hotel on the beach in Seaside tomorrow night), Karen and I notice a woman braiding hair. Karen sees the beauty of this idea, and we approach the woman. Very generously, this stranger agrees to braid our hair for the races, and we take turns having the plaits woven along our scalps. We talk to the woman – who is here supporting another team – about the relay and what makes us come back year after year. Soon, Karen and I are both sporting great braids; Karen gives the generous woman some money – I’m completely cashless in my pre-run stripped-down state – and we are on our way.

As usual, I leave my group to warm up on the trails that snake around up above the Timberline Lodge. It’s warm and sunny, a novelty at this elevation. I’ve learned how far I can run on these trails, and I make my rounds. As always, there are a few people out “hiking” around above Timberline – folks who look like they are really just taking a little stroll outside the lodge, rather than earnest hikers – and they all give me that odd look that non-runners bestow on racers. It’s clear that they don’t “get” this running and racing thing. But that’s okay, I’m feeling good and after many years of being the odd runner on the road, I’ve learned to just smile and wave and mostly confound the outsiders.

First Leg. Back at the start line, I’m in place in time to watch the group in front of me go off, and now it’s time to get excited. Hood to Coast starts runners in waves of about twenty; the first wave starts sometime in the morning, and then waves go off every 15 minutes thereafter until the entire field is on the road. Teams are seeded based on times submitted for each runner (from recent 10k races), and the teams that will take the longest to cover the nearly 200 miles start first, while the fastest teams start sometime Friday evening. The goal is that most of the team converge at the finish on the beach at Seaside within a few hours of each other Saturday afternoon and evening. Femme Fatale typically draws a start time sometime around 3:30 or so Friday afternoon, and this year is no different. Today our start is at 3:15.

Before I ran Hood to Coast the first time (and after I made the commitment to join this team), I met some fellow runners from Oregon. “Just don’t let anyone give you the first leg” was their sage advice to me. Upon inquiry, they explained that the first leg is so severely steep downhill for almost the entire 6 miles that it trashes a runner’s legs. But rather than putting me off, this intrigued me. A downhill course? Wouldn’t that be fun and fast? And given that I live in Colorado and can train on similarly steep downhill courses, I figured that this just might be fun, and not the torture that was described. When my coach, Benji Durden, told me that he had run Hood to Coast earlier in his racing career, and had run a sub-4 minute mile on that same first leg, I was set on defying the well-meaning Oregon runners’ advice. So that first year, I volunteered for leg 1.

And, in truth, I loved it. What a rush! To start out on a steep downhill pitch, all nice smooth asphalt, was not like working at all, it was like a party. I ran the fastest mile of my life in that first Hood to Coast leg 1 – in 6:09 – and averaged 6:38 for the entire 6 miles. Those were, by far, the fastest miles of my life. Trash my legs? Nah. To be sure, the downhill pounding was not without cost, but I had done my share of downhill training, so the damage was minimal.

When I returned to Hood to Coast in 2004, I volunteered again for the first leg, with a goal of seeing how fast I could run that first leg. Could I run a mile in 5:something? The answer, sadly, was no – my first mile in that race was a 6:04, and my average for the 6 miles improved to 6:30. It was, once again, a stupendously fun run, but I just didn’t quite get the job done.

Which explains, at least in part, why I am here again for this third year, once again volunteering for the leg that nobody else wants. This year I’m going to break the 6 minute barrier. I’m primed. I’m warmed up. And I’m intensely determined.

One of the fringe benefits of running the first leg is that you know when your first run will occur. For everyone else on the team, the start of each and every leg is determined by the speed of the runners in front of you. Leg 1 is the only leg with a pre-set start time. That’s why I get this great warmup time, with few worries about when the gun will go off. Another fringe benefit is that there is a nice little ceremonial sendoff for each wave, and I get to be the team’s representative for the festivities each year. So today, under the nearly cloudless blue skies and unnaturally warm temperatures at Timberline Lodge on Mount Hood, I gather with a group of nervous runners, and listen as our teams cheer and talk smack on the sidelines, and toe the starting line as the announcer encourages the crowd to join in his countdown to our start. Ten, nine, eight……and then finally the clock hits zero and I sprint like crazy to start my third Hood to Coast.

I’ve lined up closer to the front of the crowd this year; normally I hang back a bit in races, because I hate that feeling of being passed from behind. But in the last couple of years I’ve finished fairly well in my heat of this race, and so I don’t anticipate lots and lots of people passing me. Plus….the most important thing….if I want to improve my time from last year, there is no benefit in hanging back at the start. Closer to the start line just means less distance between me and the first exchange point at Government Camp.

As I’ve done in the last two H2Cs, I’m wearing my Timex GPS system, and letting it record automatic splits for this race. Later along the course, there will be mile markings on the road for the relay. But in this first leg, there are no markings. To be sure, there are mile markers along the side of the road, but it’s not clear to me if the markers are at all aligned with the race start. So I take the guesswork out of the equation by leaving all of the measuring to the satellites that feed my watch.

Out of the gate at the start, I count four guys and one woman who take off in front of me. Rabbits, I think of them all. The fourth guy out of the field in front of me is part of a team from Texas. We chatted up some of the other members of this team at the start line, and they are full of life and spirit. As we run like bats out of hell on this first downhill mile, the team vans all start to pass us. It’s a great mile: the excitement and adrenaline of the start, the vans going by with people honking and yelling out windows, the jockeying for position. I’m running as fast as I possibly can, that sub-6 minute mile in mind every step of the way.

Soon, I notice that we pass a mile marker and check my watch, and sure enough, we are measuring over one mile into this run. Did I hit the sub-6 or not? Something deep inside says that I did not, and so I think maybe I can hit it in the coming miles. I’m chasing Texas, but he’s a pretty strong runner; all I can do is keep him in sight. Then, from behind, another woman passes me. This is devastating. She’s clearly much younger, but I can’t bear the thought of being roadkill to someone this early in the race. I keep chugging along with all my power, and in a short time, I overtake this woman again. I expect her to surge on me again, but it never happens.

I keep chasing Texas, and somewhere in the middle of my leg, it looks like I’m going to catch him. But the Texans are shadowing him down the mountain (the Femme Fatale crew drove by cheering and honking, and then wisely went on down to Government Camp to get our second runner ready), and they warn him that I’m approaching. He clearly gets energy from his crew, and he picks up the pace.

One thought occurs to me as I run, aside from my obsession with the 6-minute mile, and that is “it is hot”. It’s incredibly warm for this elevation. There’s a hot headwind that blasts us in the face as we turn some of the corners running down this road. The Texans are handing water to their runner, and I’m envious. Water would be superb just now. But I’m running, and am almost ready to pass the Texan, and allow myself some thoughts along the theme of “so there, you got your water, but I got the lead”, and inch up to pass the flag-shorts-wearing guy.

But he’s too wiley for that, and he puts on a good surge. I have given it my best try, and have come up short. That’s as close as I come to the Texan, and when I fail to pass him, I feel my pace drop off.

In this stretch I finally do pass a runner who has slowed, and while it’s not as rewarding as catching the Texan, it feels good. I remember to look out over the vista as we round corners and take in some of the views. It would be a shame to come to this spectacular part of the world and not appreciate the scenery. Mostly, though, I run as hard as I can.

The hardest thing about this leg is that when the road up to Mount Hood merges with the state highway, the road flattens out a bit before heading downhill again. That short spit of flat highway feels very cruel on legs that are drugged by all the steep downhill. We run through a rugged parking lot, marked off with cones, for a short distance before crossing the highway and then heading back downhill into Government Camp. I know this stretch of road by now, and ease up a bit, before seeing the exchange point ahead and pouring on the last of my energy. And now, there’s the exchange point, and there is Chane, and I’m handing off the relay wrist band and hitting my watch.

I’m jazzed to have this leg of my race complete. But of all the things racing through my mind at this point, the first I say to my teammates is, “It’s hot”.

And this is true. It’s incredibly warm for a Hood to Coast race. We are already getting into the rhythm of Hood to Coast, and my brief cooldown is the short walk back to the van where I grab a bottle of Gatorade before clambering into the back seat of the Suburban, all glistening with sweat. The team is, as always, supportive to a fault (“you were smoking!” and other lies that we tell each other).

As we drive down the road, I finally cycle through my watch to see the splits recorded there. First mile 6:04. Damn. Just five seconds too many. Later I will review my records from 2004 and realize that this is an identical time. The next two miles: 6:11 and 6:08. This is good, better than last year, and nicely close to that 6 minute mark. The last three miles fall off just a bit, but the average for this first leg is a pace of 6:30. Later, when I check against last year’s records, it seems odd that I ran this leg in exactly the same time – 38:09 – that it took me in 2004, and that my first mile for each year was identical. I am, to be honest, disappointed to not have broken through the 6 mile barrier. But I am also fully aware that I gave it my all. There is not much consolation better than that.

In the meantime, my team is running on down the road. I love this part of Hood to Coast, when I can become a spectator, cheerleader, and general exchange point supporter. As we cycle through the runners that follow me in this first van: first Chane, then Monique, then Gigi, then Karen, and finally Kris – we form a family. Funny how the simple needs of a runner getting ready to race – or just finishing a tough leg – can unite supporters in the simple tasks of taking care of each other. Does someone have water for the finishing runner? Is someone ready to take the sweats from the runner getting ready to start her leg? Who has the clipboard with the elapsed time? Is somebody set to hit the stopwatch so that we track the elapsed time after each runner starts? And where is that PB&J sandwich of mine???

The hardest thing about this leg of the 2005 version of Hood to Coast is, very simply, the heat. It’s just plain hot. Because my leg was at elevation, the heat was not a big factor. But down here at the lower elevations, the heat is brutal. We stop along the way to offer water bottles to our teammates, but everyone is getting dehydrated. As each runner finishes her leg, the complaint is, “damn! It’s hot!” Everyone is happy when the sun falls deep in the sky and the temperature drops a bit and we’re all done with our first legs.

Second Leg. This is a great leg. How can you not love running along the Willamette River past downtown Portland at midnight on a Friday night?

We have slept a very short amount of time under a noisy overpass near OMSI (the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry). This is where we camped out last year between legs 1 and 2, but things are different this year. The nice soft grass is gone, and has been replaced by some nasty dried out stubble instead. Last year, it seemed that we were surrounded by other relay teams. That was a pain – from the noise standpoint – but a comfort when considering security. This year, at the same “camping” spot, it seems that we are at a far remove from the crowds. This makes me a bit nervous, but the truth is that nobody sleeps soundly at 9 p.m. at night, so the risk is fairly remote that any harm will come to us.

And none does, except, of course, for the lack of sleep. We get the wake-up call from our second van, and we all come to life in an instant. Sleeping bags are rolled and stowed, teammates head to the port-a-potties, and I fumble around in the semi-darkness for my racing gear. I’ve had the sense to get it all organized before going to sleep, but it’s still nerve-wracking to prepare for a run in the middle of the night like this, just waking from a fitful doze.

So it is that I’m waiting at the start of my second leg – the thirteenth leg of this race – along with my teammates a short time later. I run a few laps around the parking lot, mostly to warm up but also to burn off some of this nervousness. Waiting for your runner to come in is extremely nerve-wracking. Since we’re in darkness now, all runners are required to carry a light with them – a hand held flashlight or a headlamp, no matter – and the way we recognize racers approaching the exchange point is through the lights that turn the corner down a block or so away. With each new light, everyone at the exchange comes to attention to see and hear if it’s their runner. A spotter out a short distance from the exchange zone shouts out team numbers, and everyone listens closely for their own number.

Tonight, it seems to take forever before I hear my team number. Karen is my rock and biggest support (she takes my sweatshirt and escorts me on my many trips to the port-a-potty and boosts me up with great little words of wisdom, none of which I can remember after the fact, but at the time are the difference between going crazy and looking forward to this next leg); the entire rest of the team is here waiting with me, too, including the other runners from van 2, who have arrived with great fanfare while I’ve been standing here waiting for Selena to arrive. This year, the handoff from van 2 to van 1 is a treat for me. In my first two Hood to Coast forays, Selena was part of the van 1 crew, so I feel I know her well. This year, Selena (and Becky, our team captain) are in the second van, and I miss their comradeship in the first van. But I’m extremely happy that I know who to look for as I gaze down the street.

Finally, there she is, rounding the corner. Before I hear our team number, I recognize that gait that could only be Selena. Before Selena reaches the exchange point, another runner comes in and hands off right in front of me, and then launches into a heated tirade – aimed at the race officials – about the lack of course marking and getting lost during this leg. Later I will learn that this person is rightfully upset – Selena also was lost on this leg – but for now, I’m just happy to see Selena and to shout at her as she arrives. And then I have the purple wrist bracelet, and I’m running.

For the first time, this is a good leg for me. In my first Hood to Coast, the course was poorly marked on its exit from the exchange, and I, along with several other runners, got lost. It’s pretty scary to be running in the downtown streets of a major city at midnight with no idea of where you are or where you are supposed to be. That year, I followed some runners in front of me who were, as it turned out, just as lost as I was, until my team’s van pulled up on the road next to us and directed us all to the right route. Last year, on my second attempt on this route, I was so afraid of getting lost again that I could scarcely relax and enjoy the run. But tonight is different. Tonight, I know the route, and I’m ready for this leg, and when I get the handoff, I’m gone.

The route takes me over a bridge that crosses the very peaceful Willamette River down below, and then it curls around and follows a promenade along the river, heading north. As I leave the bridge, I look down at my watch and realize that the GPS unit has turned itself off while I waited for Selena, and I curse. Drat! I turn the unit back on, but it takes a few minutes to locate the satellites again, and I’m aggrieved that I won’t have a complete record of my splits in this leg. But not to worry much, I’ve got to return my attention to the route ahead.

For although this leg is well lighted for a night run, it’s still dark and shadowy. As I make my way off the bridge and onto the promenade, I pass a number of runners who are looking very tentative. I think that they are all running slow because they don’t know the route, and it’s still poorly marked this year. But who cares why I pass them? I blast by and now I’m running along the river and enjoying the beautiful night.

This leg is perfect. It’s perfectly cool, and I remember the turns and tricks from last year, and it seems to all go too quickly. The route continues north along the promenade fronting the Willamette until the promenade runs out, and then we spill onto a road that parallels the river. This road leads through an industrial zone that is a bit eerie in the night and absence of life. But every now and then my headlamp picks up a runner in front of me, and I pick up my pace each time this happens, and so pass a number of other runners. Each passed runner jazzes me further, until I feel like I’m absolutely flying. And then I’m handing off the wrist bracelet to Chane, and my second leg is done. Even with the GPS malfunction at the start of this leg, I’ve averaged 7:57 per mile for this leg, which is the best of my three years on this leg. I’m happy.

And now, the witching hours. These next hours are my favorite of the race, and the real reason I keep coming back. There is something magical about being up and about in the dead of the night, when most of the civilized world is safely at home in bed, sleeping. I’m not sure what it is: the cool night air, the crispness of the stars, the fellowship with the other teams who are also trying to keep warm and alert. But there is little in this life that I love more than walking my teammates to their respective exchange points and offering to carry sweats or water or whatever for them, and then cheering each runner on her way. There is little of more comfort than the return to a nice warm, cozy van after a new runner has started down the road, no matter the tight squeeze into the back seat or the ripe smells that are starting to greet each door opening. Maybe this is the essence of the teamwork that makes Hood to Coast so special.

The night passes quickly, and too soon we’re arriving at the next major exchange to hand off the race to our van 2. It’s fun to see the folks from the other van – who have spent the last few hours sleeping – and to chatter about how our legs all went. And then Kris is running in and handing off to Cindy, and we’re headed to the next major exchange outside of Mist to grab a few more hours of sleep before we all cycle through our legs again.

Third Leg. It seems that the traffic gets worse each year, and we crawl our way into the major exchange outside of Mist just as the sky starts to grow light with Saturday’s dawn. We’re all extremely exhausted at this point, and when we finally get into the parking lot (a field that has been mowed for this purpose), we are out of the van and curled up inside sleeping bags in a flash.

I’ve set my watch alarm, since there is no cell phone service in this part of the coast range. I get some sleep, but not as much as I would have liked – too many people standing near us talking in loud voices, not seeming to take notice or care about all the huddled forms in the grass near them. This is one of my biggest annoyances about Hood to Coast, but there is little to be done about it, so I work on finding a peaceful place to sleep. And now the sun is bright and my alarm tells me that time for sleep is over, and I don’t care how loud anybody is.

Once again, I’ve set out all my “stuff” to be ready for my leg, and I go about systematically working through the pile of stuff. Shoes and socks on. Bib number pinned to singlet. Teeth brushed (with water bottle, spitting on space that was formerly used for sleeping). Hat on. Sunglasses on. GPS unit strapped to arm, watch reset.

The tough part about this morning run is getting coffee. There is a stand at this exchange point that is run by a civic group with lots of well-intentioned teenagers working the counter. They are selling java, but clearly underestimated the demand. Making huge pots of coffee in a hayfield is not a fast process, so we stand and wait. I’m getting very concerned that I won’t reach the front of the line before it’s time to go wait for Selena, but Chane waits in line with me and helps try to keep my nerves calm, and my luck is good and I get a big cup of coffee. Nothing better to help wake up from too little sleep than good hot joe in a Styrofoam cup. I drink it down quickly, then consume a gel. One last trip through the port-a-potty lines, and I’m ready to go.

The exchange is on the opposite side of the road from the parking lot, so when it’s time, I leave my remaining teammates and saunter across the road. I’m anxious to get running again now that I’m all prepped. Of course, my legs are starting to tell the effects of already racing twice in the last 18 hours. I use this waiting time to try to warm up, running tiny little laps around the driveway of the farm just behind the exchange. It actually works pretty well: I can keep my eyes on the road (to watch for Selena) and the running helps calm my pre-race jangly nerves. After about ten minutes of baby laps, I look down the roadway and can pick out Selena’s distinctive gait. She hands me the wrist-baton as I break into a run, and I’m off, racing my third leg of this race.

It’s just about perfect for racing, once again. I love this stretch of road. We’re deep into the remoteness of the coastal range, but this bit of road – my leg is just short of 4 miles – is mostly flat, with just some very mildly rolling hills. It’s perfectly cool again, as the morning fog is just now starting to burn off.

I run all out from the start, and I feel great. It seems incredible that I could feel this good after already racing the two earlier legs, but I’m having one of those blessed racing experiences. Why question it? Just accept the good days and enjoy them for what they are.

I’m counting people that I pass as I charge down the road, fully expecting a few faster runners to take me from behind. But after each “roadkill”, I spot another target up ahead and it’s like the rabbit to the greyhounds: each new target gives me a new boost of energy. I’m flying. I’m running like crazy. And I’m loving every moment of this leg.

In the end, I approach the exchange and have twelve roadkill to my credit, and not a single person has passed me. I know I’m having a great leg, but even so, there is one more person in front of me I want to catch before this leg is done. I sprint all out, thinking that I might just make myself puke if this lasts much longer, but the exchange looms – it’s a small uphill to the exchange – and now I’m done. I have not caught the woman, but came pretty darn close. I’ve finished this leg in an average of 7:26 per mile. This is, it turns out, 20 seconds per mile faster than my fastest 5k time. The amazing thing, to me, is that it comes in a nearly 4 mile run after racing twice already in the previous 18 hours and enduring with very little sleep and dodgy nutrition. Some days are just blessed racing days.

And now, it all becomes the joy of supporting my wonderful teammates. This is fun time, relax time, eat-drink-and-be-merry time. I’m so jazzed from my last leg that I feel I am radiating energy. As each runner finishes, the party atmosphere at the exchanges and in our van increases. Something mysterious about Hood to Coast – is it the lack of sleep or over-production of adrenaline or the fact that people look their best when glistening with sweat? – brings out a playfulness that most of us thought was lost after we grew up and “settled down” with spouses or long time significant others. Vans filled with women seem to always park next to vans full of guys, and there is great flirting and playing. Maybe the fun is because these meetings are so impromptu and fleeting and ruled by chance alone. But by the end of Hood to Coast, we all feel just a little bit younger, and a little bit better about the world.

We end the relay on the beach in Seaside, when Selena comes running down the concrete boardwalk, and then the entire team joins her for the final stretch on the beach. My van 1 teammates and I have all had a chance to shower and change into street clothes. Brother Dave and my niece Emily have, once again, made the drive over to Seaside to see the race finish, and I throw my camera and wallet at Dave as I run the final bit with my teammates. Running in the sand is hard – impossibly cruel to race-pummeled calves – but also a delight. We are awarded our finisher’s medals, and wind our way through the maze for post-race team photos. And then we’re saying our goodbyes, and “will I see you next year” and packing up the car, the magic of the long moment slipping away. Karen and I pile into Dave’s car for the long drive back to Salem.