This past August, I ran a race called Hood to Coast. For any of you who don't know, Hood to Coast is a 200 mile relay race from the top of Mount Hood (in Oregon) to the ocean. Teams of 12 people travel the course over a two day period. Those team members who aren't running at any given time are typically hanging out in big vans. Over the course of the weekend, adventure, drama and some really bad smells typically ensue. My Hood to Coast experience was no exception.
Shortly after returning to New York, I wrote this recap of the race but never actually posted it. So, I’m posting it now. But before I begin that excitement, I'd like to provide some brief background information.
Hood to Coast: A PrimerEach year, 1000 teams are allowed to run the entire 200 mile race (there's a shorter high school event and walking relay from Portland to the Coast and I don't know how many teams participate in those). Since the race takes place primarily on highways that stay open to traffic, all 1000 teams can't start at once. Instead, heats start every 15 minutes from 8am to 7:45pm on Friday and start times are distributed based on each team's predicted finish time. In order to calculate those times, each team submits a list of how fast each of their runners can run a 10K. The course then stays open until 9pm on Saturday. Teams finishing after 9 are disqualified.
My team consisted primarily of recreational runners -- people who run on a fairly regular basis but not always for great distances or at great speeds. Unfortunately, the 10K times that were submitted for us indicated that we are all fantastically fast. Why? Well, there's no good reason. The captain (or, cap'n, as I prefer) of Willamette Law's Running Club is apparently completely free of any ability to use logic or reason, so he just made up super-fast times (I, for instance, was listed as running a 10K about 10 minutes faster than I actually can). So, our start time was set at 6pm providing us with exactly 27 hours to finish the race. A feat that was, in theory, possible but in practice, simply not going to happen.
Here's the story . . .Friday, August 25, 5:30pm: My van (holding runners #7-12 for our team) departs Salem. The runners in our van, for future reference, are Ryan (Runner 7), Emily (8), Ashley (9), Lael (10), me (11) and Larry (12). We stop briefly at Larry's berry farm in Woodburn (berry farms, by the way, are much prettier than South Dakota farms). We left fairly early in the evening despite that fact that our first runner wouldn't be running until 10:30 at the earliest because we'd heard reports of bad traffic. However, since Larry's a local, he gets us to our starting point in Sandy by 7pm.
Friday, August 25, 7:00pm: We spot a runner making their way down the highway. The excitement in the van is now palpable. Alas, we have hours before any of us will be running. We stop for pizza at a place called Sparky's. The employees are very friendly and have helpful advice for our trek ("Make sure you have toilet paper").
Friday, August 25, 8:30pm: After loitering longer than we should have at Sparky's, the van heads to the Fred Meyer where we'll be meeting with our teams other van (home to runners #1-6). We arrive at a parking lot chock full of runners and overly-decorated vans. We explore a bit and quickly realize that we're a bit out of our league. Apparently, all of the other teams that were given late start times are comprised of serious runners -- men and women for whom the idea of a sub-7 minute mile is not just a pipe dream. Emily astutely points out that but for our team, there is no body fat anywhere in the parking lot. Despite feeling more than a little intimidated, the team's spirits are still high. We each resolve to run our fastest and we still foolishly think we can keep up a pace that will allow us to finish before the course closes.
Friday, August 25, 10:30pm: The other van arrives at Fred Meyer and confirms that our team is in trouble. With every leg, we're falling farther and farther behind. Around this time, we also realize that some of the upcoming legs of the race take place on a trail, rather than a road. Said trail winds through suburban Portland and runs along a river. Said runners are all female (myself included). Now, any semi-intelligent female runner will tell you that running down by the river after midnight is never a good idea. So we shuffle a bit and two of our more experienced runners agree to run extra legs so that no girl has to run alone on the trails. The team's mood is quickly shifting from excited to nervous.
Friday, August 25, 11:30pm: Emily starts her run. Once she finishes, she immediately runs Ashley's leg with Ashley. By the time they arrive at the start of Leg 10 (which Larry is now running instead of Lael), our team is in last place.
Saturday, August 26, 2:00am: Larry departs. His leg starts in Gresham and since we are now the last team, two Gresham police officers tell us they'll be following him. What they fail to share is that they'll only be following him to the Gresham city limit which is located 300 yards from Larry's starting point.
It's worth pointing out here that the entire Hood to Coast course is staffed by volunteers provided by each of the teams. Some of these volunteers are wonderful, giving people. Some of them were roped into volunteering by desparate runners. Some of them leave their posts when they think the last runner has gone through, rather than when they're given official approval to pack up.
Unfortunately, Larry's leg of the race is staffed by volunteers who disappear while he's still running. Accordingly, he misses a turn.
Saturday, August 26, 2:55am: We start to worry about Larry, who has yet to show up at the next exchange point.
Saturday, August 26, 3:00am: The volunteers figure out where Larry probably missed the turn. Someone spots him and agrees to drive him to the exchange point.
Saturday, August 26, 3:10am: Larry arrives and I begin my run. Lael runs with me so that I'm not alone on the river trail. Almost immediately, we see some random man hanging out on the trail with his bike. He's not a volunteer and it's 3:10 in the morning. We speed past him and continue to see random men out and about, down by the river. Lael later informs me that she also saw a homeless man sleeping in the weeds next to the trail but she didn't tell me because she was afraid it would probably freak me out. This is a good decision on her part primarily because both of us have to stop at least once to go to the bathroom in those weeds.
Saturday August 26, 3:50am: I finish my leg and Lael keeps running. I now learn that while we were running there was a heated discussion about whether or not our team would be disqualified (keep in mind that we're not only in last place, we're now far, far behind any other team). Ultimately, the race officials told us that we would not be disqualified but instead, if we start arriving after the official closing time for the exchange points, we'll be deemed "late" and will be allowed to start leapfrogging our runners (having two runners run their legs at once). Since I had finished my leg 10 minutes before that exchange point closed and since Lael is a crazy-fast runner, we suspect it'll be a while before we're officially "late." Unfortunately, this means making sure someone calls ahead to each exchange point to inform the volunteers that our team is still coming.
In addition, the company in charge of the port-a-potties (called "Honey Pots") at each exchange point (these are really the only bathrooms to which we have access) is on its own schedule. They start picking up the Honey Pots before we arrive at the exchange points. This means we are now, in a sense, chasing the port-a-potties down the road (or, "chasing Honey Pots," but that sounds dirty in a different way). Like most people, I hate port-a-potties. Chasing them down the road is, in a word, demoralizing.
Saturday, August 26, 4:30 – 8:30am: Lael finishes her leg, the other van of runners takes over on the course, and we make our way to a field where vans can park and runners can sleep. The most exciting thing about this field is that there are actually a handful of other runners there. Other runners! We haven’t seen those in hours.
Once the van is parked, all of us fall asleep, so to speak. Personally, I get about two and a half hours of half-sleep, half-halucinating. Ultimately, I leave the van and walk around foolishly hoping that the fresh morning air will revive my spirits. I quickly discover that all the other runners are long gone and we’re now parked alone in a big field. Oh, and the port-a-potties are being hauled away (except that the very nice Honey Pots man took pity on us and left one behind). Eventually, everyone wakes up, we eat “breakfast,” and start driving to find out how far the other van has made it.
Saturday, August 26 9:00am – 12:00pm: We learn that our team has permission to start leapfrogging runners and start dropping people off to run their legs concurrently. We’re now in a very hilly area of Oregon between Portland and the ocean. The roads are curvy and two-lane. The day warms up quickly and large sections of our route are not tree-lined.
Saturday, August 26, 12:00pm: I start running my second leg. It’s not too hilly, but it’s very hot by now. I'd drank some water before starting out, but don’t carry any with me. By this point, we’ve caught up with a couple other teams; I see maybe one or two other runners over the course of my four and a halfish miles.
I run slowly and this is maybe the most painful 45-odd minutes of my life. Since there aren’t many runners on the road, cars aren’t looking for us and I have to jump aside several times as cars (and some really big trucks) come barreling around curves. At one point, I do this and simultaneously trip over a big branch. I trip a bit and look down to see that the branch has cut open my knee and I’m bleeding. Remember that the sun is beating down and note that if I had my way, I would only run in chilly weather. As I trudge on, one thought and one thought alone repeats in my head: “Emily is a total f***ing whore for asking me to do this.”
Saturday, August 26, whenever the hell my leg ended: My team gives me a bottle of Gatorade and I drink it in two big gulps. I stop seeing spots, collapse in the back of the van, and eat a granola bar.
From here, we have to pick up one more runner and then we make our way to the next resting point. We are now officially “caught up.” There are lots of runners resting at this rest stop and it’s really nice to see other people. There’s even a concession stand – something that other rest stops had, but we’d never seen because they closed before our arrivals. The team eats, sits on blankets in the grass, and enjoys the shade. At one point, a monumentally toolish volunteer worker tries to get us to move from our spot. Larry valiantly decides not to go batshit crazy on her and we simply move the vehicles around in order to keep the spot.
Saturday, August 26, late afternoon: The runners from my van start the last six legs of the race. I’m a bit worried since I have my longest and most difficult leg still ahead of me. As it turns out, my 7.5 run that evening is one of the most pleasant of my life. The sun is starting to set and I’m close enough to the ocean that the air is cool. My last leg is on a trail rather than asphalt and all in all, it’s delightful. I coast into the exchange point, slap Larry’s hand, and am done.
Saturday, August 26, evening: Larry’s our last runner, so the entire team heads to the finish line to run the last few yards with him. We drive out of the hills and the Oregon coast is beautiful. It’s dusk as the team meets up and chugs across the finish line. We collect our medals and take a picture in front of the Lewis & Clark monument on the beach. Fireworks explode; relief and pride settle in all around.
Much of my van decides to head back to Salem rather than sleeping on the beach. On the way back to the van, Ashley, Lael and I get really, really lost. This puts a bit of a damper on the evening. We finally find Larry and Emily, pack ourselves back into the van and head home. Larry, valiant once again, drives the entire three hours back to Salem.
Saturday, August 26, almost midnight: We arrive in Salem, drop off Ashley and Lael and head to the grocery store for beer and the taco stand for tacos. Once, home, Emily, Larry and I silently inhale the tacos and beer and then pass out in our respective beds.
Mission? Accomplished.
