If the Ski to Sea 8 mile running leg was a band, it’d be Marilyn Manson. The pavement can be the drums, the relentless downhill the guitars, and Marilyn’s screaming mimicked by every fiber of your body below the waist. This is not a dance around the maypole. I knew this going in, but not quite the extent, which led to self-imposed apprehension.

I like to have an idea of what to expect going into normal solo races, let alone team relay races where more than just my cat and I are counting on my not failing. Let alone where all but one of those counting on me are for the most part strangers, and probably better at their sport than I am at mine. And I’m not as fast as the guy they had last year. And their team is pretty competitive, hoping for a top 10 finish. And I’m feeling a little under the weather. Etc. This all bundled itself up into a nice package of fear in my head. I honestly cannot remember a race I’ve run where I was more nervous in the days leading up to it, not even way back in high school, when I was afraid of everything and almost threw up before a couple big xc races. I warned my team’s captain during the job interview a month back that I was not as fast as the guy they had the year before, but I also provided a prediction I wasn’t sure I’d be able to hit since past experiences have told me I’m not what you’d call “any good” at downhill running. I predicted between 41-42 minutes, which works out to a 5:08-5:15 pace. I knew this was all downhill, but just thinking of that pace for anything more than a mile terrified me, especially since I’m not in optimum 5k-10k shape at the moment.

After a pleasant 1-1.5 hours of non-REM sleep Saturday night, I woke up groggy, stuffy and coughy. This didn’t really concern me. My less-than-100% lungs were not going to slow me down in this particular race…it was all up to my legs, and they were both relatively fresh. I ate and drank per my normal routine and sat mostly silently on the drive up to the top of Mt. Baker, save for the occasional hack into my sleeve. I also tried to add to my poor sleep totals from the night before, unsuccessfully.

Upon getting to the top, where both the xc skier (1st leg) and downhill skier (2nd leg) would perform before handing off to me, I quickly found a bathroom and afterward found myself locked out of the car wearing only my short shorts and the tech shirt in which I would race. Perhaps due to nervous energy, I did not feel particularly cold. Or maybe it was simply the least of my worries. It *was* cold up there, but I found it refreshing, and the energy of the starting area was contagious. This race is a very popular tradition in the area, dating back to the early 1970s, and the starting line was buzzing as we approached 8am. What sounded like a cannon let the xc skiers off into the wilderness, the Swede no doubt among the front pack. I did a warmup jog with Greg Crowther (it’s my website and I’ll name drop if I want to) and when we arrived back to the handoff area to wait for our teams with all the other elite-looking runners, I bounced around nervously, trying not to spill bile on the snow.

I heard my team’s number called, letting me know our skier was about 30 seconds from arriving, and bounded out to the edge of the snow next to Crowther and another fellow. Their teams’ downhill skiers came in about 10-15 seconds before mine. “Big Mike” came flying in, slammed on the brakes and slid to a stop about 6 inches from my legs, handing me our timing device before falling over. I spent about 1.2 seconds worrying if I’d botched the handoff, causing him to fall, and immediately started down the hill.

This picture makes me look like I’m 4′10. And dead.

Though I had no way of knowing what pace I was hitting right away, I sensed my initial pace was “about right” as far as turnover went…meaning basically I wasn’t going to be able to go any faster without tumbling end over end, cartoon-style. This was a total shot in the dark though. I also didn’t know if there were mile markers on the course. I figured at the very least I could use the highway mile markers to get an idea of the pace I was hitting mile to mile. Soon enough I came across a handwritten sign stating “mile 2″ on the right side of the road. “That seemed to pass quickly!” I excitedly thought as I hadn’t looked at my watch yet. I glanced down. 8:03. Sigh. You would think a race as legit as Ski to Sea would have accurate mile markers but apparently that magical ability has escaped their grasp as well. It was around this time a young guy whizzed by me, looking incredibly fast and determined. I closed my eyes for seconds at a time (pictured) and just tried to feel light going down the mountain. I awaited the barrage of runners behind me, Marilyn starting to scream at me from my legs.

Soon enough I saw my first highway mile marker and took note of my total time. By the time I hit the next one, I was relieved to see only about 5:10 had passed. This type of running is so foreign to me, I honestly wouldn’t have been surprised by anything between 4:30 and 5:30. And I felt I could trust the highway to have accurate mile markers. Around mile 4 I noticed that a guy I had been fruitlessly chasing as he slowly grew smaller had just passed a gray-shirt guy. I honed my focus on that gray shirt and, when I could see him, tried to reel him in myself. I was definitely gaining on him…but slowly. I then spent the next 3 miles closing the gap and finally caught him around mile 7. In between these two events I continued to take note of the highway mile markers…on one mile I clocked a excitement-inducing 4:58…on another one I apparently clocked a 6:28. Sigh.

At mile 7.75 or so, the descent ended and I was now on flat road, running what felt like a 12 minute pace, weighing what felt about 450 lbs. I was insistent that the guy I had just passed would pass me back, but he didn’t, and I miraculously handed off to our cyclist without having lost our place in the race. I started with us in 7th, I handed off in 7th. My final time, by my watch, was about 41:26, give or take a few seconds. The relief of the weight now being off my shoulders was incredible. And not only that, I did more or less exactly what I said I’d do. You couldn’t say shit to me…at least for a couple minutes after I’d finished. I later found out I finished 24th overall.

Our team finished 9th overall. Top 10 was achieved. My fears were not. Even if they dumped me and somehow picked up the best runner in the country, they weren’t going to finish better than 9th. Eight place was over 12 minutes in front. Tenth place finished about 2:45 behind, 11th place about 3:45 behind. This team was going to finish 9th pretty much no matter what I did. If I had known that, I might have gotten a bit more than 70 minutes of sleep the night before. I might not have been stressed all week, and maybe wouldn’t have gotten sick. I might have been a better guest the night before, a bit less reclusive, less in my own head. I might not have wanted to throw up at the starting line. But I probably wouldn’t have felt as good and proud afterward.

*******

A potentially relevant question today is “was it worth it?” And not simply from a stress/relief standpoint. I’d heard from more than one person after the run that the recovery would seem as bad/long as, if not worse than, the typical marathon recovery time. It’s probably a little early to tell, but I *was* still somewhat limping around today at work, all thanks to the quads. I put in another 41:26 run Monday evening (only 5 miles though) to shake things out, took yesterday off and did about 65 minutes tonight. All easy aside from a couple (up)hill charges. Everything was manageable. I won’t be doing mile repeats anytime soon, but at least I think I’ll be able to tackle the Cougar Mtn 7 miler next Saturday.

There was also the risk of injury, but as of now I believe I have escaped unscathed. My shins, that which worried me the most heading in, have actually been mostly silent and pain-free. I barely believe it. I can feel a little tightness when I do some shin stretches, but that’s it really.

Yes, I think it was worth it. I’m sure I won’t be asked back on the team, and that’s fine. Even if I was asked, I’m not sure I would accept. I wouldn’t be as terrified next time, meaning I wouldn’t be as proud when I finished, yet the risk of injury would remain the same. When it comes to my legs, now that I’m out of my 20s, I like to quit while I’m ahead. That’s what 30 year olds do. They quit.

For now I think it’s safe to finally and officially sign up for the White River 50. Then break 8 hours. Then quit. In the meantime I’m more than happy to turn off the Marilyn Manson and put Boards of Canada back on.