The Break-Up

You know that point of a relationship when you know in your gut it’s not working anymore? It used to be so easy and fun and you just want to get back to good. That point where you know it’s not going to get better, but you still fight it, still try to make it work. You need to pull the plug, but knowing that is what’s best and doing it are two different things? That was how I spent much of 2011. Then in September of 2011, I finally pulled the plug, and broke-up with running.

I used to love to run. It was easy and fun and took very little effort. And somewhere along the road, that all changed. Running became work. I resented the miles I was putting in. And just like anything, person or sport, nobody likes to resent something or someone they once loved. So I took a break. I wasn’t sure how long the break would last, but I needed a serious break. I’ve been running pretty consistently since college. I wasn’t running ultras or even marathons, but I logged miles every single week. With such a dramatic change in my life, I thought I’d feel a little lost. Instead all I felt was relief.

I spent about five months doing anything but running. I didn’t even have a pair of running shoes. Instead I went for walks, lifted weights and did a little of nothing. For once in my life I wasn’t worried about logging miles or working out every single day. My body and my psyche started to heal and running was no longer an enemy.

And just like when you end a relationship with a person, eventually you’re ready to try again. My legs started to get twitchy, like they were ready for more than just a walk. I finally felt ready to give running a try again. I started just running a little bit, a couple miles. And it didn’t suck. And then I found myself putting on my running shoes on a Saturday afternoon for the first time in a long time. I updated my running ipod and set off into the sunshine. Sunshine in February, how could I resist? Perhaps most important was what I didn’t take. I left my Garmin at home. All I wanted to do was enjoy a run. It didn’t matter how far I went or how fast (or slow) my pace was. It didn’t matter that I walked up a hill that I usually run up. All that mattered was that I was running. And it was fun again.

Once again I felt relief. Relief that maybe my relationship with running wasn’t over after all. Maybe, like Ross and Rachel, all we needed was a break. In effort to preserve the enjoyment of running, I have a new goal. Not to run a marathon or a sub-7 mile. No, this goal is a little more simple and enjoyable. To leave the Garmin at home a little more often and just run for the sheer joy of it.

The Wingwoman

After years of searching, I have finally found what I’ve always been looking for . . . the perfect wingman. Or in this case, wingwoman.

One of my goals this year is to get out of my comfort zone and try new things. Which is how I found myself at a networking event on a Tuesday night. Knowing that I need to meet some new people and also knowing that I’m not great at small talk and starting conversations with strangers, I made friends come with me. Friends who are good at small talk and talking to strangers. Friends like Jen.
Upon our arrival, Jen managed to strike up a conversation with a cute guy before we even put our coats down. Brilliant. Best of all, Jen is married and noticeably pregnant (by noticeably, I do not mean large, I mean very cutely pregnant looking with a sweet little volleyball in front) in addition to being great at talking to people.

To my great delight, the same cute guy found us later in the evening, with additional cute guy friends in tow. Besides being unavailable to cute single boys, Jen is also a great wingwoman because she doesn’t try to steal the stage. She helps carry on the conversation, but isn’t overwhelming, and makes sure I can be involved in the conversation too so that it’s not assumed I’m a mute. And when one cute boy says he’s from Montana, the response is, “Oh my gosh, Heidi is from Montana too!”

So now that I’ve found her, or not so much her but this untapped skill of wingwoman, we have a lot of networking to do before this baby comes.

Not So Observant

I like to think of myself as a fairly observant person. I often am able to figure out who the killers are before the big reveal in books and movies. If I hear weird noises, I check the clock in case I have to talk to the cops later (maybe I should read/watch less of the aforementioned books and movies). On walks, I study a person I pass and then see how much I can remember later. Again, practice for a future situation where I have to give a description of a perp to the police. Okay, I seriously need to cut back on the murder mysteries, thrillers and crime dramas.

All this to say that when it comes to an attractive member of the opposite sex, I am totally oblivious. I can tell you what the weird ones look like, but the good looking ones? Not so much.

I have two recent examples of this. A couple weeks ago, a friend and I were at an Icebreaker sample sale. For those of you unfamiliar with the Icebreaker brand, they make amazing wool gear that is soft enough to wear next to your skin. And full retail is crazy expensive so the only way I can touch their gear is at the sample sale. My friend had warned me that events like this were a great place to check out guys. And we already had something in common in liking high-quality outdoor performance gear. I learned that night that sale shopping and checking out guys at the same time is not a good mixer for me. After we were sitting down to tots and a beer, post-sale, my friend asked me if I noticed anyone extra cute. Anyone who? All I saw were amazing clothes 80% off and other women trying to get to the cute stuff before me.

A couple weeks later I was telling the same friend about this cute guy I’ve seen running the waterfront at lunch when I’m taking my walk. Here’s how the conversation went:
Abby: What did he look like?
Heidi: He was cute. He had a nice beard. And he’s obviously a runner which is cool.
A: Aside from having a beard, what did he look like?
H: Cute.
A: Okay, lets try this, how tall was he?
H: Hmmmmm. Taller than me?
A: Most people are taller than you.
H: Then yes, he was definitely taller than me.
A: What about his eyes?
H: (Pause) He definitely had eyes.

This went on for a while. Clearly a goal for 2012 needs to be to transition from worrying about potentially having to accurately report a crime and focusing on cute boys I see. After all, I’ve never even seen a crime, aside from the drug deals in Old Town and occasional jaywalking. I can’t imagine it’s too much of a hardship to focus my attention on good looking guys. As far as goals for the new year go, I think that is the best one yet I’ve come up with.

She's Got L'eggs

“She’s got legs, and she knows how to use them,” sang the L’eggs advertisements back in the day. I didn’t realize how far back in the day until I read an article saying that L’eggs was running its first advertisements in 15 years. Apparently they believe that Kate Middleton and 80 year old women around the globe are enough to bring the torture devices back.

I own exactly one pair of panty hose, which I bought for my first job eight years ago. They’re still in the cardboard container. I keep them because I like to imagine the look on some alien archeologist’s face when he comes to learn about the life that used to inhabit Earth and finds a pair of pantyhose. Because how funny is it to think of an alien picking those up, thinking WTF, and then trying to figure out WTF those were used for, much less why they were created?

Today I wore a pair of tights, thinking they couldn’t possibly be as bad as panty hose were. After all, everyone else looks so cute in them. Tights are only mildly less annoying than panty hose. They are just warmer and still a huge inconvenience. And aside from the extra effort they take every time a bathroom break is taken, they just plain don’t fit right. I have never found a pair of panty hose or tights that fit right. I’m convinced that not a single pair of them actually fit a woman in the world. They come in exactly three sizes for a million different body sizes. We can come up with hundreds of styles and sizes for jeans, but we can’t create panty hose that fit a person? How utterly ridiculous is that? As I write this, I’m constantly adjusting the tights that in order to fit over my legs, also have to be long enough to reach my neck. I wish I were joking.

I’ve read multiple articles about how Kate Middleton wears panty hose and if anyone is going to bring them back its her. Kate is beautiful, but I’m willing to bet that she wouldn’t wear them either if she didn’t have to. Panty hose are a propriety thing. And an old fashioned thing. All of which the British monarchy represents. You think she’s choosing to wear panty hose? Please, she wears them because if she didn’t, instead of writing articles about how she’s bringing them back the media would be focusing on how un-proper, un-ladylike and un-royal she is.

You know who openly admits to disliking panty hose? Michelle Obama. I’m siding with her. Plus her arms are amazing. Until they can make me panty hose that actually fit, I’m out. Someone please invent the tights or panty hose where I can buy them by leg width and length, so I don’t have to wear them up to my neck, as well as ones that aren’t so tight at the waste that they squeeze fat out of a Victoria Secret model. I recommend that whoever created the yoga pant work on the tights issue. Until then, L’eggs, good luck bringing panty hose back into style.

Gobble Gobble

I love tradition, especially around the holidays. For me, the holidays aren’t about the feast or the presents, but about being with family. Unfortunately this year, what has become my Thanksgiving tradition is not happening. Normally I head to my Auntie Gayle and Uncle Jeff’s house and stay with them for the long weekend, as it is a long trip to Montana for dinner. This year, they have opted to visit their youngest son in Denver, leaving their two older children, their spouses and I adrift on Turkey Day.

So my Turkey tradition since I started college is not happening this year. I was pondering what to do when my dad offered to fly me home. It’s so rare that I get to go home to Montana during any part of the year other than Christmas, I took him up on it. One of my ousted cousins and her husband are also coming over to MT to eat turkey.

Going home for Thanksgiving got me thinking about my holiday memories. Don’t be horrified by this next statement, but the food isn’t my favorite part. I know, the horror. But let’s think about this, even though I’m a slightly less picky eater now than I was a kid, I still don’t like my food to touch. Feast days designed around seeing how much food you can fit onto a single plate are tough on a girl who still doesn’t like her mashed potatoes touching the stuffing.

I don’t remember how old I was for the worst Thanksgiving ever. We lived in the little blue house in town, although since my parents painted it soon after buying it, I’m not sure why I still think of it as the little blue house. I’m guessing I was still in elementary school, somewhere between 3rd and 6th grades. That was the year my mom not only made every horrible vegetable you can think of, but also made me try all of them. Instead of my plate being covered in my favorite mashed potatoes and gravy, it had the dreaded brussel sprouts and squash on it. Luckily, after gagging repeatedly while still at the table, I was sent to the bathroom while everyone else finished dinner. Fine by me as long as I didn’t have to eat the damn sprouts and squash.

To this day, the idea of squash still makes my stomach turn. For the first time in 20 years, a brussel sprout passed my lips this past spring. But only because my aunt drowned them in butter. They weren’t terrible. I’d consider eating them again if they were baked.

Now since I rarely go home for Thanksgiving, I can submit my food requests. Ironically, things that I didn’t like as a kid are on the list now. I’m talking pierogi’s, not squash and brussel sprouts. And now the Thanksgiving I spent in the bathroom is a funny memory for all. Jokes on you squash.

Responsible is the New Sexy

One of my dearest and closest friends often describes me as stable. It’s true, I am. But that isn’t the first adjective I want used to describe me to the opposite sex. Stable isn’t sexy and alluring. Almost any other adjective would be better. Cute, witty, smart, short, great taste in shoes, outdoorsy, citified, and sarcastic or as one friend likes to say about me, I have some bite. Stable? How boring is that. And I am, stable and what could be perceived as boring, but that isn’t exactly fly paper for the opposite sex.

Ironically, I was talking to a friend about guys and she mentioned having a single guy friend. She went on to describe him as cute, responsible, has a good job, lives downtown, etc. My response? “You had me at responsible.” At what age do we forgo the sexier adjectives and start becoming attracted to the boring adjectives like responsible and stable?

We used to want to date the high school quarterback because he was a jock and that position is perceived as sexy. Now we want to date the guy who brings home a consistent paycheck, pays his student loans on time and doesn’t have credit card debt. Smoking used to be the major deal-breaker. As you get older and build your own life, fiscal irresponsibility ends up at the top of that list as well. Even my friends who are married say one of the things they love most about their spouse is that they are responsible.

If what we perceive as desirable in the opposite sex changes this much from ages 15 to 30, I can’t imagine what I’ll be looking for when I’m 80. Teeth, perhaps?

HTC 2011 - The Aftermath

I truly love Hood to Coast. I’m giddy for days leading up to the race, like a kid before Christmas. Okay, like me before Christmas. It is an amazing event, uniting runners from all fifty states and around the world. (Warning, this is incredibly long because I merged two into one, because I’m pretty sure everyone is pretty over listening to me ramble about HTC.)

First off, major kudos must to go to the 3,500+ volunteers it takes to get this event off the ground. Without them, we could not run. Double kudos to the volunteers who get stuck in Mist at 3 am. You folks are truly amazing. Thank you for attempting to organize chaos, for yelling our team numbers out so we can get our next runner in the chute, for picking up garbage, for pointing the way so we don’t get lost in the turns and for cheering us on when we’d all rather be sleeping. I hope you got plenty of thank-you’s on the course. My team thanked every yellow-volunteer shirt we saw – even after the race.

The thing I love most about this event is the runners. You’ll never meet a nicer group of 15,000 runners. It’s rare to get passed by someone who doesn’t say, “great job, keep it up!” Often times, you have entire conversations with people passing you. One girl passing me told me I had a great pace going and then we had an entire conversation about our different GPS units we were using and how accurate they were, etc. Other teams pull over on the side of the road to cheer on their own team mates . . . and any other runner that happens to go by. Due to the severe heat this year, every van offered water to any runner, regardless of what team they were on.

Leg 4, my first leg, was going to be the worst of the three. It had no shade, was long, and was alongside a major road, Hwy 26. That being said, it was also my best run. I pulled in sub-nine minute miles which was great and passed Lou, one of the two guys who have run HTC all 30 years. I was running between noon and one and it was the hottest weekend of the year. Six miles downhill and the last mile was uphill. At the top of that hill, with about half a mile to go, I walked for about 20 yards. I figured I was either going to have to walk or puke, and puking was going to take way more time and not get me any closer to the exchange. I’ve never been so happy to see an exchange. Well, until the last leg anyway.
Leg 4 Stats: Miles – 7.17; Time - 1:02:44, Avg. Pace – 8:45 min/mile, Elev. Gain – 79 ft, Elev. Loss – 647 ft.

Leg 16, my second leg, was interesting because I had a running buddy. One of the guys in our van is training for a 100 mile race and needed to log some extra miles. So for the night run, instead of just running his leg 15, he ran 14, 15 and 16. What would have been an incredibly boring run for four miles on highway 30 turned out to be not too bad. Because we were running my pace and not his, Stephen could keep a running dialogue going. Every once in a while I’d ask him a question that would let him ramble on for a while to keep the conversation going. And then when a volunteer would cheer us on, he’d tell them that the two of us were running all the way to Seaside, just us. Ha! It was an amusing and entertaining four miles.
Leg 16 Stats: Miles – 4.09; Time - 38:11, Avg. Pace – 9:15 min/mile, Elev. Gain – 67 ft, Elev. Loss – 75 ft.

The third leg always sucks. I don’t care how great of shape you’re in, it hurts. The third leg is where you have to be stronger in mind than in body because your legs want to stop. Your body is telling you that it’s already ran twice, you haven’t slept and you haven’t really had a decent meal. It’s done. And this is where I tell myself that I’m a whole lot closer to the van and being done if I just run the damn thing. This year was a surprise for me though. My legs weren’t nearly as shot as they usually were at this point. Normally it’s like running with tree trunks for legs, but my legs felt pretty good. I don’t know if it’s because my first two legs has less rolling hills than in years past or if was the weight training and stronger legs overall, but whatever the reason, this leg didn’t suck as much as usual. Don’t get me wrong, it was hard as hell, but mostly I just felt tired, not completely thrashed. And there is no feeling better than handing off that slimy, sweaty disgusting slap bracelet of a baton for the last time. The knowledge that you’re done and you never have to run again is like aloe on a sunburn. You still hurt, but you’re feeling oh so much better.
Leg 28 Stats: Miles – 4.08; Time – 37:41, Avg. Pace – 9:12 min/mile, Elev. Gain – 267 ft, Elev. Loss – 90 ft.

I love HTC, the volunteers, the runners, almost everything about it. This year, in time for the 30th anniversary, 250 teams were added to the race. Keeping in mind that I love HTC, adding 500 vans to the course created a cluster of epic proportions. I know there are teams out there that had no issues or saw no difference in traffic from previous years. Consider yourself lucky, and please understand how incredibly frustrating this experience was for the thousands of us who were adversely affected by the traffic issues. When an elite team loses the race because their vans are stuck in traffic, something needs to be fixed. (I know they were penalized because they broke a rule, and yes we should all know the rules, but the issue stemmed from the fact that they couldn’t get their next runners to where they needed to be.)

I was in Van 1 and traffic for us started backing up around exchange 18, at the fairgrounds. This would be the first, but not the last time, our runner beat the van there. After finally getting to our runner and making the van exchange, it was 1am and all we want to do is get to Mist and roll our sleeping bags out on the hard, uneven ground. A trip that normally takes 50 minutes took almost two hours. The last hour of which was in bumper to bumper traffic trying to get into the field at Mist.

After successfully making the exchange at Mist, we started running again around 5am. The first three exchanges went fine. We were barely moving, but at least we were going faster than the runner. By the time I was finishing up my last leg this was no longer the case. My van passed me about 10 minutes into my estimated 40 minute run. By the time I was nearing the end, current runners would knock on their vans as they ran by, the next runner would hop out of the van and run with them the rest of the way and continue on. The finishing runner then had to walk back to the van. For my leg, this was probably only a quarter mile. That was as short as the trek got.

While not having to pull into the exchanges and park can reduce time, it also means there is never a Honey Bucket break. Prior to the sixth runner taking off, with vans barely moving, runners started bailing out of the vans and heading to the woods. The official rules say that you’re only to use Honey Buckets. Whoever wrote those rules clearly has never run this race, because by the last set of legs you’re lucky to be able to stop for a Honey Bucket.

The last van exchange is always the worst. Cell phones don’t work. Walkie talkies work about half a mile away. The problem is that the runner is about 2 miles ahead of the van at this point so you just have to pray that the other van is there and ready to go. This is where you see people bailing out of their vans miles early to run up to the exchange. Our last runner had to walk about a mile and a half back to the van.

Once we got to the beach, things got really interesting. Our last runner was headed into Seaside and Van 2 was stuck in traffic that wasn’t moving. In the end, Van 2 never made it to the beach, which was disappointing as they had 5 new HTC runners. After talking to others, we weren’t the only ones this happened to. Many, many Van 2’s either never made it to the beach or managed to get there 90-120 minutes after their runner. There were a lot of teams running across the finish line with 7 instead of 12. In the previous three years I’ve done this, Van 2 is usually there within 15 minutes of the runner and the finish line is experienced as a team.

Despite the traffic cluster f#$% of epic proportions, team #567 – Dancing Elk, did fantastic. We hit every exchange and most importantly, every van exchange, including the ones where both cell phones and walkie talkies don’t work! Ours were not the runners left standing on the side of the road in Mist in the middle of the night having to wait for 45-90 minutes for their next runner to show up. After the race I was thinking that I’d be okay taking a break next year. Someone just emailed me and asked if they put a van of 6 together could I do the other? Two days after the race I’ve already forgotten the traffic, pain and exhaustion and am looking forward to 2012.

The Blue Team

I started playing ball at age five. I believe it was the summer after kindergarten. I was on one of the town’s two co-ed T-ball teams. I was on the blue team and we were awesome. No official score is kept, but even a five year old is aware of which team crossed home plate more often.

Come third grade, or age nine, ball was no longer co-ed. Girls moved on to softball and boys moved to baseball. This was slow-pitch softball and I wasn’t in love. Luckily I injured myself on like the second day of practice and was in a leg brace for the rest of the season. I kept playing for the next few years, mostly to hang out with my friends, not because I particularly enjoyed it.

And then something interesting happened. We moved to modified fast pitch. No windup like in fast pitch, but the pitch was flat and we could steal. Suddenly softball was more interesting. Even better, we started winning. My most interesting play ever occurred during this time period. I was playing second base, in-field pop fly to the pitcher, who tips it off their glove, I reach out with my right (non-glove) hand and snag it. Out.

Over the years I’ve played almost every position on the field, with the exception of first base. I’ve been hit by a ball more times than I can count, have a permanent dent in my left shin bone from using it to stop wild throws from the catcher down to second, have taken a throw down to third in the eye (I was safe) and have had a ball thrown at me so hard I had the laces imprinted on me for weeks (safe, again). This was one of the first sports I played where I learned how important the coach was. I loved the coach I had all through elementary and junior high school. Once I started playing high school ball, I was less enthused with the sport. Eventually I traded softball for golf and started assistant coaching the third and fourth grade girls’ softball team.

The great thing about softball is that it’s something you can play for the rest of your life. Even the small town I grew up in has adult softball leagues. I started a team for my office years ago and then passed the coaching torch on to a fellow co-worker. After a couple year hiatus, and primarily due to their desperation for a) bodies who are girls so they can play co-ed and b) girls who can throw a ball, I rejoined my company team this year.

While I understand the game and know how to throw a ball, at the start of each season, I need to get over my fear of the ball. I’m not kidding when I say I have a dent in my shin from being hit by a softball so many times in the same place. It’s no wonder it takes some getting used to each season. So last night a few of us got together to practice. The good news is I can still throw a ball. I can also still not only hit one, but place it as well. And best of all, I can still take a hit to my body and still make the play.

It’s interesting to me that those skills you start learning at five are still intuitive at thirty, after years of not playing. It’s a good skill to have, to be able to throw, field and hit a ball. I’m not good enough to make Team USA by any means, but certainly good enough to impress the guys. And at this stage of life, that’s almost as much fun as winning.

While I don’t normally post pictures, this one seemed appropriate. The Blue Team, circa 1987 I think. I’m the one dressed like a banana in all yellow. Don’t ask why, I was six.

Just Run

In my mind, when I run, I look like Kara Goucher or Shalane Flanagan. I’m enough of a realist to know that this is far from the case, I’m red and sweaty and not nearly as graceful, but I’m all about whatever helps me log the miles. If picturing my running as fluid and fast as those women’s, rather than what is probably closer to a uneven, foot dragging, short stride works, I say why the heck not.

To be honest, after being a runner for about 10 years, I hardly thing about my gait or what I look like anymore. In my minds eye, I’m as fluid and serene looking as Kara or Shalane, but I really don’t care what I look like to others. I just run. Admittedly I’m distracted on occasion by the good looking or good smelling guy passing me or a cute shirt or shoes on another girl, but I’m not really giving anyone else or their running style any thought.

I don’t remember what it was like to start running, but I can spot a new runner. It’s not because they’re slow or overweight or have bright shiny white new shoes, it has more to do with their body language screaming self-consciousness. When I see newbie runners, I silently cheer for them in my head. I think to myself that I hope they get passed feeling awkward and start to enjoy it. If they’re overweight and clearly struggling, I think to myself good for them for moving and getting out there. I, nor does any other experienced runner I know, judge or mock other runners. Okay, once a friend and I commented on the most awkward gait I’ve ever seen, but we weren’t mocking so much as trying to figure out how it could possibly be comfortable to run like that.

I understand why running can be intimidating for new runners. You’re told all you need is a pair of good running shoes. But then you start running and see that everyone not only has good shoes, but high performance clothing (no cotton for runners!), GPS watches, water belts and on and on. You start reading articles about running and get confused about how you’re actually supposed to eat, when to drink water, when to sleep. And then there are the people complaining about not making a Boston qualifying time or breaking a 5 minute mile. I remember reading about Kara being so excited post baby to get back down to a 5:30 mile. I hated her just a little since on a great day I can run an 8:30 – 8:45 minute mile. Fellow runners are nice, but it is an intimidating sport to start.

A year or so ago my dad starting running. He wouldn’t say he’s running, more of a run/walk mix, and either way I’m incredibly proud of him for giving it a shot. Now that he’s been doing it for a year, with some arm twisting, I can talk him into letting me join him. And just like I’ve tried to convince him, I’d like to convince other newbie runners – other runners don’t care what you look like. We don’t think you look funny running. We certainly don’t question why you’re running. We’re proud of you for getting out there and giving it a shot.

Run, walk, hell you can skip for all I care. No one expects you to be able to run 10 miles right off the bat. No one expects you to run sub-six minute miles. No one even expects you to run sub 12 minutes miles. No one expects you to look pretty while running. The important part is that you’re out there. And even if you feel self-conscious, remember that no other runner is making fun of you or laughing at you in their head. And we runners certainly don’t care about what non-runners think of us. Just run and enjoy the pain, frustration and most importantly, joy, that comes with being a runner.

Hood to Coast 2011

Hood to Coast is just over two weeks away. 200 miles of running from Mt. Hood to Seaside, Oregon. 625 vans. 15,000 runners. 3,000 volunteers. It’s a pretty amazing feet (pun intended) for all involved, since it takes the average team around 30 hours to complete. This will be my fourth year, and every year brings some new wisdom and experience.

The first year was organized chaos. We had no idea what we were doing, only that we knew we wanted to run this relay. We knew we needed vans and running clothes. Come to find out you also need headlamps and reflective vests and tape and safety pins and on and on and on. Needless to say, I now have a detailed list of everything needed. Not knowing how much to train, I over trained, and after the race didn’t run for months afterwards, had to get a cortisone shot in my hip and had to go through physical therapy. Lesson learned. This race was an experience for sure. In the words of my friend and year one team mate Joe, “this would be really fun if you didn’t have to do all this running shit.”

The second year was organized. I was running the same legs as the year before so I knew exactly what to expect. Van and race wise, everything went smoothly. The problem with having done this race previously though, was now I knew exactly what to expect. As in I knew exactly how painful that third leg was to run. Year two I managed to talk my brother into joining my team. Being as my brother is generally pretty awesome, it was fun to get to do something unusual like this with him. Year two was also the discovery of the most amazing spreadsheet ever. The one someone had designed to estimate where each runner would be when, specifically for HTC. This makes life much easier since our attempt at creating this the previous year was far less than perfect.

By the third year, I could get us organized in my sleep. But this year brought some additional challenges and points of interest. I had decided, and communicated to the entire team, that I did not want to be in charge of reserving vans this year. Come June, we still had no vans. And Portland is out of vans for this weekend by the previous December. So my favorite brother got us a full sized van out of Seattle. The other van managed to find a van from 1985 at the last minute so everything worked out. This was also the year that I was the sole girl in a van full of guys. I can hold my own with guys, but it still made things interesting. I also ended up running my most difficult set of lets this year. Not only did I have a seven plus miler in the night, I ended with a six miler. After no sleep and 12 miles already ran, the last thing you want to do is run another six miles. I opted for getting over quickly and took minutes off my projected time. Nothing is quite as sweet as the feeling of being done.

Year four, I’ve gone back to being the one who reserves vans. I’ve gotten smarter though and rent them from the place down the street from work, not from the airport rental agencies. I’ve also talked my uncle into driving for us again this year. And perhaps my most amazing trick I pulled this year was finding a van mom. My dear friend Ada doesn’t run, but is a huge fan of everyone in my van (I have a really great van this year). She wanted to be part of the team and I suggested that we could use treats for the van. So not only is she hooking us up with baked goods for our 200 mile journey, she’s also making us dinner after the first set of legs. The biggest bummer is that my brother is deployed in Kuwait and can’t run with us this year. Although he’ll probably wake up at 3am on race weekend, picture us running over the Cascades into the night and think, “suckers.”

Unfortunately year four also brought on some laziness. My running hasn’t been quite where I’d like it to be. (i.e. over training is not an issue this year) It hasn’t come as easy as it usually does. I’m less motivated than ever. Partly because I know I can do this. It might hurt, but I’ll get through it no problem. So with two weeks to go, I really need to get my butt in gear. As the race gets closer, I’m getting more excited and less full of dread. I’m in a van for thirty plus hours with some of my favorite friends and it can’t really get any better than that.

The running might not be there, but the vans, lights, vests, packing lists and everything else we need is. And since the whole point is to have fun on this ridiculously long and crazy journey, I say bring it on. All the way from Hood to Coast.