The insanity of this endeavor didn’t hit home until 2am Saturday morning in a field near Natal, Oregon. I lay exhausted on the ground in a sleeping bag. A light misty rain fell. The area was abuzz with chatter and activity. Vans came and went. Headlights incessantly swept the ground. Any hope of sleep was in vain. Suddenly a flashlight beam blasted my eyes and a female voice barked orders. “Sleeping is not allowed here! Get up! ” The sleeping bag Gestapo had found me. I was forced to crawl back into a stuffy van with five smelly teammates. An hour later we were hurriedly driving to the next exchange, our head lights illuminating the reflective vests of an endless stream of headlamp-bobbing runners. We hoped in vain to be on time to take the baton from a teammate currently on the course.
My involvement in this madness began five days prior. Paul Mendonza asked at church if there were any runners interested in participating in his law-firm-sponsored “Hood to Coast” relay team. David Haupt was quick to rat me out. “Darrel Fuller is a runner.” A brief conversation ensued. A day later I was officially on the team.
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Years ago I was a respectable runner. I once smoked a 10k at a 6:30-pace. Now the memories are bigger than current capabilities. My fear is that I will embarrass myself on a Hood to Coast team which has real runners. I check out the roster online. There is hope. Of twelve team members, only seven list faster 10K times than my own. But when I meet teammates for dinner the night prior, my confidence wanes.
We meet at Pazzo Ristorante, a swank establishment in downtown Portland where the menu needs interpretation and prices are not listed. The “Patently Diabolical” relay team, sponsored by the law firm of Blakely Sokoloff Taylor and Zafman, eats in a private room. Most team members are lawyers. In this group the stereotypical lawyer stain is tempered by the fact that they are patent attorneys.
We mingle and dine. Most team members know each other, but a few of us are outsiders. About half came from out of state for this event. The only one older than me is Ed, a 70 year old with a wry sense of humor. Not knowing, I would have guessed his age to be a dozen years younger. Tom has lived all over the world. My jaw drops when he mentions he has 78 marathons to his credit. Kim is only 19 and like me, a last-minute fill-in. She has been imported from California where she runs on the Cal-State San Bernardino cross country team. Ian is another college student. In high school he was captain of his high school cross country team. I’m taken back when he reveals he has run little since and has only trained for two weeks. David and Greg are a pair of wiry-framed identical twins. Even at age 46 they are hard to tell apart. Their brother Bob is our team captain. Ashley and another David flew in from Denver. James is local and has been with the firm about five years. Paul is my link with the team. I take solace in knowing that he has never run a distance farther than 10k.
Twelve hours after dinner, against the backdrop of 11,289-ft Mount Hood, the event kicks off at Timberline ski lodge. With a thousand teams participating, start times are staggered. Myself and five teammates in Van 1 are present. Our race begins at 7:45am. It is a festive atmosphere as the master of ceremonies whips the crowd into a frenzy and leads a countdown to zero. We cheer our teammate James through the start gate with 30 others. The race is on. The finish line lies 197 miles west on the Oregon coast. Duration is estimated to be thirty hours, 30 minutes.
The rest of us pile in the van. As we drive 5.64 miles down the mountain to the first exchange, we pass our teammate on the left shoulder of the road. “Run faster,” Greg shouts facetiously as we pass. At the first transfer station we park and wait.
I’m scheduled to run the second leg. I slip out of my sandals and sweats, pin my bib on my shorts, and adjust my shoe laces. The course map indicates Leg 2 is rated “H” for hard. It is 5.64 miles long with a 1500-ft elevation drop. I have a nervous knot in my stomach. Thirty minutes later a race volunteer shouts “542” as our team mate approaches the transfer. I stand ready. When James passes the baton, which in reality is a plastic wrist strap, I am off like a shot.
Route 26 is a busy thoroughfare. While a scattered-stream of Hood-to-Coasters run on the right shoulder, everything from 18 wheelers to minivans roar past on our left. The scenery coming off the mountain is beautiful. Though the air is cool, the morning sun is too warm on my back. My old-man 9-minute pace is not enough to pass anyone. As I finish this leg and pass off to Paul, I am drained. I am greeted by team mates who hand me a cold bottle of Gatorade, pat me on the back, and ask how I feel. Once more we pile in the van and drive to the next transfer. This cycle of collecting one team mate and sending off another repeats over and over.
Hood to Coast proudly proclaims itself to be the “Mother of all relays.” With 1,000 teams and 12,000 runners, sheer numbers promote a party atmosphere. Transfer stations are like a perpetual festive gala with smiles, and friendly banter. Vans are decorated with team names and catchy phrases. Some we see over and over again at various stops – The “Pretty in Pink” team is all female. The “Amazing Disgrace” team may have a religious affiliation, or not. The King of Rock and Roll’s picture is prominently displayed by the “Elvis Has Left the Van” team. The King’s lyrics, which have been altered for race themes, are also scrawled on every available surface. The rear door of another van is left open while driving as 120-decibel music blasts to all within a quarter-mile range. At each exchange station, members of Patently Diabolical scope out members of the opposite sex in behalf of soon-to-be-single Greg.
After running a leg, a runner cools down, intakes fluids and begins to eat. With another leg only 9 hours away, a couple of thousand calories is a must. The van is stocked with three ice chests, muffins, cookies, and fruit. The challenge is to replenish one’s reserves. Greg pushes fluids on his teammates and unabashedly asks, “Is everyone peeing a lot? Darrel, when was the last time you peed?”
At the end of Leg 6, we have descended the rural mountain setting to a parking lot of a Fred Meyer store in Sandy. We meet the other half of Patently Diabolical in Van 2. It is one o’clock in the afternoon. It is hot. Those of us who ran earlier are glad we didn’t have to face the afternoon heat. Having passed the baton, our van has five hours free before having to go again. We are more fortunate than most. We drive to accommodations in Portland and enjoy the comfort of a shower, good food, and an afternoon nap.
It is 6:30pm when I take the baton for a 5.49-mile leg east of Portland. It is rated “M” for moderate. It seems anything but moderate. It is mostly flat, but the early evening heat zaps my strength. It is only dusk, but official rules require a reflective vest. Near the Sauvie Island turn off I seek relief by trying to remove my shirt. It ends up in a tangled mess with my vest, hanging in disarray around my shoulders. I look so ridiculous that any school yard bully would laugh me to scorn. I’m too miserable to care. Though I manage to maintain my projected pace, the transfer station seems to take hours to reach. When I do, the thought of one more leg, even if it is 9 hours away, is almost more than I can bear. When asked how I did, I reply simply, “I sucked.”
We continue from one exchange to another, collecting one teammate and sending off a replacement. Around 10pm we complete the cycle and pass the baton to Van 2. We have 5 hours free. While James fills the van with gas, Ed and I stroll into a supermarket for ice cream bars and chips. Chips induce me to grab a can of dip. Back in the van, my bean dip induces groans from teammates.
On this 5-hour layoff there will be none of the comforts that we enjoyed during the first. In the wee hours of the morning we sit in the van at Exchange 23 on Hwy 47. On the course map it is labeled “Natal Grange”. It is not clear what Natal Grange is, but it is clear that it is in the middle of nowhere. It is 30 miles from cell phone reception. The van’s no-headrest bench seats are not conducive to rest. I venture outside with my sleeping bag and stretch out on the ground. I am forced back into the van all too soon by an obstinate volunteer. We expect to take the baton from Van 2 at this exchange around 3am. Too late we realize that we should be at Exchange 24. We drive into the night hoping to be on time. We aren’t. The mistake costs us 12 minutes.
I’m to take the baton for the last time at Exchange 25. It is 3:40am. On any other night of the year, this obscure location on Highway 47 would be consumed by darkness. Tonight an army of volunteers and runners bring the activity level of Time Square. I stand on the shoulder of the road, opposite the designated exchange area. The familiar pre-race jitters hang in my gut. I wait for my team’s number to be called, indicating that my teammate is nearing. Suddenly I hear my name called in alarm. “DARREL?” Either our number was not called or in my tiredness I missed it. James is here. I hurriedly cross the van-clogged road, take the baton and jog into the night. My running shoes beat a steady rhythm on the asphalt.
I’m encouraged by two things. First, air temps are nice and cool. There is a fine misty drizzle in the air. Second, this is my last leg. I don’t have to save anything for later. My legs feel fine. The blue LED luminescence of my headlamp brings the endless ribbon of white line on the road to life. If I raise my head a little, the vest of a runner a hundred yards ahead glistens in the dark. The distance between he and I grows shorter. He is struggling. By Mile 2 he’s eating my dust. This 5.8-mile leg has rolling hills with little overall elevation change. By Mile 3 endorphins kick in. I feel good. When an occasional runner passes to my right, we exchange brief greetings of encouragement. With two miles to go, I’m almost sad that this experience is nearing the end. When I finally pass the baton to Paul, I pull to a halt and suck in deep breaths of cool morning air. I feel elated. I did it! I’m finished. A teammate hands me a cold water bottle.
The rest of the adventure is anticlimactic. After Van 1 finishes its legs and we wait for Van 2 to finish theirs, we enjoy a hearty breakfast in Astoria at Pig’n Pancakes. While we eat we watch the parking lot through the window. Other runners move rather gingerly as they exit their vans and enter the restaurant. A few hours later in Seaside the entire team is united. The finish-line gala is a veritable city on the beach with thousands of participants milling about. Cameras flash as we run in unison across the finish line behind our last leg runner Bob. The team did well. We clocked 197 miles in 28:43, more than an hour ahead of expectations. As we wait in line for medals and pictures, the two vans exchange stories. The most notable is Ashley’s gut-wrenching, barf-inducing midnight excursion up a steep gravel road on Leg 20.
Late Saturday afternoon we are back in Portland where I bid adieu to the team. They’ve been great mates. I offer sincere thanks to all for sharing with me the massive insanity known as “Hood to Coast”.
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James Howard
Paul Mendonsa
Ed Taylor
Greg Caldwell
Ian Farmer
David Halvorson
Ashley Essick
Tom Hassing
David Caldwell
Bob Caldwell
Kimberly Bernardy
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