Hood To Coast Recap: Teamwork and Traffic Jams

Almost exactly one month ago, I ran the Hood to Coast relay as the twelfth member of the North Queens Runners (NQR) team. Whenever I tell anyone about this, the number one question I get is, "Was it fun?"

Honestly, I'm not sure.

Carly & Garen, Leg 6

For those of you who don't know what Hood to Coast is, let me summarize: on the second-to-last weekend of August, 1,000 teams of 12 runners each (split into two vans of six) start at the top of Mount Hood in northern Oregon and run 199 miles across the state to Seaside, i.e., the Pacific coast of Oregon. Each of the twelve runners runs ~15-18 miles, split across three legs of the relay, which are run in rotation, equalling 36 legs in total. If your team is walking (or running very slowly), your first runner starts at the crack of dawn on Friday, with each subsequent sendoff containing progressively faster teams. If your team wins, you will finish in about 17 hours. If not, the cutoff time to complete the relay is 36 hours. There are very few rules: you can eat and drink whatever you want, drive (almost) whatever you want, and wear whatever you want (unless you are running at night, in which case you are required to wear an LED light vest and a headlamp).

Running a relay like this was an entirely new experience for me, and I think when we have new experiences, rare experiences, or experiences we've invested a lot of time and money into, we expect (and others expect us) to "have fun." No matter how we feel during the event itself, we tend to revise our story afterward in order to make it seem like it was a total blast. After all, our audience probably didn't have this experience, so the least we can do is give them the best highlights, right?

Well, this is going to be the best and worst highlights.

First I want to say that I am very glad to have had this experience. I really enjoy new challenges, and  I've certainly never run what amounted to approximately three 10k races in 24 hours, nor have I spent 24 hours with the same seven people in one van. I also love contributing to a team, and this team was especially great; everyone on NQR was enthusiastic and supportive, while also intent on giving their best effort toward our goal of winning the mixed division (i.e., teams with at least six women). Finally, I love competing, and I was surrounded by competitors, and we were working together toward a shared goal. That was really fun.

Literally stretching my legs

However, there were a lot of parts that were not so fun. There were things I expected to be unpleasant, like wearing perpetually sweaty, smelly clothes; eating room-temperature sandwiches that have been squashed into unrecognizable shapes; "sleeping" for a grand total of one hour in a cramped van seat; and squatting in not one, not two, but three different leafy roadside "bathrooms." But then there were other elements I did not expect. For instance, I discovered I really do not enjoy running in the dark. Where I live (right outside Manhattan), it's never truly dark; there are always so many street lights and car lights and lit-up storefront displays that visibility is never a problem. However, on the uneven, poorly lit sidewalks of suburban Portland, curbs drop off without warning and you never know when a tree root will emerge. And that was only my first leg; during my second (at about 3am), I spent five miles running through a pitch-black valley of fog. (Dinky headlamp + zero streetlights + fog = unabated terror of falling in an invisible potholes.) Fear is very stressful, and apparently when I'm running, I'm scared of the dark.

The other unexpectedly stressful element had nothing to do with running at all.

When I was initially envisioning this race, I pictured running through hill and over dale. I saw trees and grass and dirt and even a few inevitable highways. What I did not picture was how 1,000 teams--meaning 2,000 vans--would get from point A to point B (and then to point C, and then point D . . . ). As it turns out, while the athletes are running through the wilderness, their vans are winding through narrow, rickety back roads that were absolutely not designed to accommodate 2,000 vehicles at once.

Driving--or, rather sitting--in standstill traffic was unquestionably the most stressful part of the whole relay. Here we were, trying to test our physical limits, to see if we could prove ourselves to be faster and grittier than our competitors, and we being hamstrung by . . . what amounted to rush-hour traffic. We left one of our runners stranded at a checkpoint, out in the cold, for over twenty minutes. And on top of that, there was no cell service, so we had no way of telling our other van (i.e., our six other teammates) that we were way, way behind schedule.

Team NQR! Clearly a photogenic bunch.

The upshot is that we lost the mixed division title by one minute. That's five seconds per runner. Less than two seconds a leg. Yet, I felt robbed of what would otherwise have been disappointment, because it didn't feel like a real loss. There was no way to know if we actually ran slower than the team that beat us, because they left in the very last sendoff, fifteen minutes behind us. Maybe, as a result of their later departure, they had less traffic, and "drove" their way to victory. (Or, alternatively, maybe we would have lost by a wider margin if they'd been in our sendoff.) Without going "head to head" with them, there was no way of knowing if we could have closed that sixty-second gap. As a result, most of what I felt, upon reaching the beach, was fatigue, and most of what I remembered was glaring helplessly at endless red brake lights.

Of course, that's not the end of the story. At the awards ceremony, there was some insane drama involving the winning women's team, but we weren't there for it, because we had rented a beach house! For the rest of the weekend, the twelve of us sat in the hot tub, ate ridiculous quantities of food, drank equally ridiculous quantities of alcohol, and slept. A lot.

Now that was fun.

If I Could Just

If I could just wake up without pain

...walk without limping

...take the stairs this time

I swear I'd be grateful.


If I could just run

...for more than five minutes

...without paralyzing fear

I'd be appreciative beyond belief.


If I could just catch my breath

...keep up with the others

...go faster than this

I wouldn't complain, I promise.


If I could just finish the workout

...add more miles

...run the way I used to

I'd feel more confident, I know it.


If I could just hit that time

...and then go a little faster

...and then a little bit faster

Then I'd be satisfied.


Wouldn't I?

The Obstacle is the Way, and Other Impossible Mindsets

Every year, usually at least twice a year, my fiance R___ goes on a self-improvement binge. Now, I'm not complaining, because these endeavors usually benefit me in some way. Maybe he wants to get fit (hey sexy guy!). Maybe he wants to learn a new skill (cooking, anyone?). Maybe he wants to be a better partner (helloooo date nights . . . and swiffering!). However, his most recent episode has involved a "get tough and get Buddhist" attitude that, for reasons I will explain, makes me want to scream and punch things on a daily basis.

Decidedly NOT running.

What irritates me isn't the attitude itself, because honestly I admire it and wish I could adopt it myself. What irritates me is that he somewhat arbitrarily "decided" to adopt this mentality and, seemingly overnight, is now cruising along with the serenity and can-do mindset of a monk. I, on the other hand get to watch him fast, meditate, and walk around without a coat while simultaneously seething and/or trying not to cry at my own shortcomings. Not that this is a competition; I understand perfectly well that we can all be better versions of ourselves at the same time, and that this is not a zero-sum game. But he seems to be making all of these personal strides while I sit on the couch eating Chex Mix, feeling like a sub-optimal version of myself.

So here's why I'm such a mess: on December 31st, my right knee started hurting when I went up and down stairs. Thinking it was just some arbitrary tightness left over from my snowy run that weekend, I foam rolled and went running the next day . . . and came back hobbled. Ever since then, my sneakers have been gathering dust, and the only running I've been doing is running up a credit bill for physical therapy visits.

Anyone who knows me knows how much I love running, and the longer I go without it, the clearer it becomes that I have woven this sport into the fabric of my life. Without it, I no longer have a weekly schedule (because my runs dictated that); I no longer have a daily social life (because seeing my friends on runs pretty much was my social life); and I no longer have any desire to look at social media (because if I see one more person post their weekly mileage or daily workout paces, I actually have a psychotic episode).

Now, I must acknowledge that R___ is perfectly sympathetic about all of this. Just because he's zen about life doesn't mean he expects me to be. The problem is that I expect myself to chill out and take this in stride. Practically every runner I know has been injured in some way, at some point. And despite how important it is to me, running is not my whole life. I have a partner who love me whether I run or not. I have a business that is independent of the sport. I have friends who barely remember I run, and friends who are willing to hang out even if we can't run together. So why can't I just accept that this "is what it is" and try to make the best of it? Or, even better, "How can I take [shitty thing that has happened] and turn it into the best thing that has ever happened to me?" (Thanks for sharing that nugget of wisdom, R___.)

After weeks of stewing, I have come to the conclusion that there's no way I'm going to feel like this is "the best thing," or even a remotely good thing, until I'm safely on the other side. So for now, I'm trying to come at the issue from an academic angle. In no particular order, here are the potential silver linings:

I've lost the compulsion to run, but retained the desire. For the two weeks after my last marathon, when I was supposed to be "resting," all I could think about was the fitness I was losing--fitness I would need to build upon if I wanted to run any faster in my next race. All I could think was, Why am I not running? I should be running! Well here I am now, stripped of my fitness, with no sign of getting it back anytime soon. After two weeks of panic and a few weeks of sadness, I'm stuck with a big cold dose of reality: those time barriers I was so anxious to break? They're gone, gone gone. I won't be seeing them, if at all, for quite some time. Yet I still want to run. It sounds cliche, but I dream about running at least once a week. I miss the feeling of power and control over my body. I miss the freedom of stepping outside and just going. So the love of running is still there, and despite the trials of the moment, that simple fact is comforting.

I'm swimming more than I have in almost a decade. Inherently, this is not a good or bad thing; it is just a fact. What's lucky is that I enjoy swimming. Also, it reminds me of the self who persevered for years, despite being the worst on the team, and still found satisfaction in working hard and seeing incremental progress. I like that self. Plus, these days, I mostly swim alone, so I have no one to compare myself against. I follow virtually no swimmers on social media, so it's sort of this pure thing, with no pressure or expectations. I know I'll never be a top-level swimmer, no matter how many hours I put into the pool . . . but that's okay. That's not why I do it.

My upper body is getting stronger. With no real lower-body exercise options (except a few PT-approved movements), I've taken to doing push-ups and planks on a much more regular basis. That's not to say I neglected these things before, but I most certainly did not do them every day. As a result, I'm up to 3x15 push-ups and 3 pull-ups, which I fully acknowledge is no great feat, but it's more than I've done before, so I'll allow myself a smidgen of pride. And who knows--maybe it'll help my running down the line. Crazier things have happened.

Grateful

I'm trying really hard to be grateful.

Grateful I've stayed healthy for so long.

Grateful that my injury (if it had to happen) happened now, in the cold slippery winter, and not during a big summer training block.

Grateful I have a coach who is also a physical therapist (as well as one of the calmest humans beings on earth).

Grateful to have health insurance.

Grateful I can still swim.

Grateful to have so many friends who still care about me, even when I can't run.

Grateful I don't equate self-worth with running fast.

. . . but let's not fool ourselves. I still want to run fast.

Just have to heal, first. And then, I guess, we'll see.

Which Matters More: Talent or Hard Work?

So I have this friend, T___. He's a former professional triathlete who completes Ironmans in the time it takes me to explain what that race is. He also works as a firefighter—a physically demanding job that has an extremely erratic schedule requiring long hours and sleepless nights. Needless to say, I have a lot of respect for this guy. Therefore, when he asked for my input as he developed a podcast, and then when he asked me to be an early guest on the show, I was very flattered, but also a little nervous. As a writer, I've interviewed other people before, but I've never been the one in the hot seat!


Luckily, a few days before we were scheduled to record, T___ gave me a list of questions. There weren't many, so I decided to practice my answers with my fiance, R___.  Then, during the interview, T___ asked me nearly all of the questions on his list, but he did omit one . . . and of course it was the one for which I had prepared what I considered my best answer. The question has stuck with me ever since, so, I want to lay out my thoughts on the matter.

Which matters more, talent or hard work?

In a nutshell, I think the importance of talent compared to hard work depends upon where someone is in their pursuit of an activity. In the very beginning, I think talent matters more. After all, if you show no aptitude for an activity, why would you want to pursue it? The way I see it, once you realize that you're "actually pretty good" at something, that's when you start wanting to put in the hard work to get better.

Once you're past entry-level, however, that's when hard work increases in importance. Let me give you an example from my own life: I used to play the flute. I started in second grade, and by the time I joined the concert band in middle school, I was simply better than everyone else. By then I had stopped taking lessons, and although I rarely practiced the music, I was good enough at sight-reading to earn myself first chair and stay there all the way through junior high school. However, once I entered high school, I came up against a girl who was working a heck of a lot harder than I was. She took lessons, she practiced, and lo and behold: she was better than me.

Now, in this particular case, I could have risen to the challenge. I could have hired a teacher and taken my flute home every day and worked on my vibrato and double-tonguing and all of my other technical and artistic shortcomings. But I didn't. So she moved into first chair, I took second, and that was that. Hard work wins.

Now it should be pointed out: neither of us went on to be professional flautists. (I believe she's an English teacher somewhere, and I'm a freelance writer and editor; I would bet neither of us have picked up a flute in years.) But had we attempted that career path, I truly believe that talent would have elbowed its way back into premier "importance." Because look at how many professional musicians are out there. They're all working hard: practicing, fine-tuning their instruments, improving their skill and artistry. But the ones getting first chair in symphony orchestras? They're the ones who work their asses off and are still better than everyone else. Professional runners who win World Majors? Of course they're working hard, but so are all of their competitors; they win because they're talented. (And because they have a bit of luck, and a great support system, and all of those other factors that play into great single-day performances.)

So, to wrap up my opinion on this matter in a nice little bow, I think talent matters most at the very bottom and very top of the performance spectrum. But that huuuuuge space in between? That's where hard work comes into play. And that's where most of us live out our life passions. I love running. I love it for lots of reasons, but I found that love because I saw fairly rapid gains early on and wanted to see how fast I could get. Now I'm firmly planted in the "hard work" stage, and that's where I'll stay. I'm never going to be at the level of Shalane Flanagan, or Molly Huddle, or any other superstar who performs in the top 1% of the sport. But I can put in hard, smart work. And then, with a bit of luck and a lot of support, I will push my own limits just a little bit farther than ever seemed possible.

*If you want to hear Tim's and my actual discussion, you can listen here!
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