Tips and Lessons From Running the Hood to Coast Relay Race With Nike

When my boss told me in June that Nike was organizing a team to run a 199-mile relay race and asked if I’d like to join it with him, what I said was, “Wow, exciting, yes!”

What I thought: “Oh my god this was not in the job description. What am I agreeing to? Why do people do things like this to themselves? I AM NOT A RUNNER.”

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I had been jogging, but in short bursts: a couple of miles a few times a week. And it wasn’t to get faster or stronger or to enjoy running, but to maintain my weight. My jogs were predictable, steady-state outings made tolerable by EDM playlists approximately twice as intense as the effort I was putting in.

But peer pressure can be a very effective fitness motivator. I found out I had agreed to run Hood to Coast, an overnight race in which more than a thousand teams of about 12 runners each run the 199 miles from the top of Oregon’s Mount Hood to the beach in Seaside, Oregon. As soon as I said yes, I was accountable to 11 teammates (hey, Beast Coast Crew). And in a relay race, not trying means slowing down an entire team of people, which seems rude when it’s going to take you all a projected 30 hours to finish.

The race sounded absurd. Six runners would ride in one van and six in another; the first six runners would handle the first 50 miles, the second six runners would handle the second 50, and then we’d repeat that and all meet at the finish line on the beach. During individual runners' legs, vans would race to the next checkpoints so new runners could take the place of runners finishing their legs. I would run three legs: six miles at 2 p.m. on the first day, then five at midnight, then four at 8 a.m. the next day. Essentially this all sounded like a complicated form of torture based on physical exertion, sleep deprivation, and pseudo-captivity in a sweat-soaked van. But also one with potential health benefits? And bragging rights? And team camaraderie? I could hope.

So I did the thing. Here’s what I took away from it, which adds up more than what it took from me, namely the nail on the second toe of my left foot.

1. The only thing being a "runner" means is that you run.

It's stupefyingly obvious, I know. But even though I ran before doing Hood to Coast, and regularly, I assumed I didn't run far, fast, or often enough to consider myself a "runner." Runners are serious! Runners wake up early and regulate their body fat percentages and weigh the merits of different forms of cross-training. Clearly I was not one of them. But I went to the first session of seven weeks of training with trainers Joe Holder and Jes Woods, and then I went to another. I ran the miles I was asked to run and found myself enjoying them, appreciating what my body was doing, noticing it move more easily week over week — without logging every mile or obsessively recording my split times. If that's how you run, run on. But a more casual approach works for me, and doesn't mean I can't claim the "runner" label.

2. A single session with a coach who knows WTF they're doing can improve how you feel in every run from then on.

Before starting the seven weeks of training leading up to the race, I met one-on-one with Joe so he could assess my stride and fitness level and make recommendations. For years, I've felt a muscle twinge behind my left knee when running and had more or less resigned myself to it. "Stop relying so much on your quads to propel you forward," Joe said. "Your abs and glutes should be doing more work." Now that I'm holding these areas tighter, every run since has been more comfortable and less twinge-y. Even if you're a casual runner like me, consider getting advice on your stride from a trainer.

3. Sneakers and sports bras matter.

I can happily run in the rattiest sweats and tee if my sneakers feel good and my boobs aren't flying off my chest. It's not that cute workout clothes aren't motivating, but arch support and breast support are my non-negotiables. I trained in the Nike Zoom Flys and Air Zoom Pegasus 34s and opted to wear the Pegasus 34s for the whole race. I had previously been running in sneakers with minimal arch support and the thicker soles took some getting used to, but I could run so much farther so much more comfortably in the Nikes than I'd been able to in my flat sneakers. (P.S. Compression socks are a new discovery for me and I love them dearly. They apparently limit swelling and feel like giant, continuous hugs for your calves.)

I'm told this is a warm-up runners do.

Nike / Fred Goris

4. I'm guarding my spoons.

I have chronic fatigue syndrome, which explains why both my mom and my therapist yelled at me when I told them I was running this race. My case is manageable, as the disorder goes. I can do most of what I want if I take the meds my specialist prescribed, sleep seven hours on weeknights and ten on Fridays and Saturdays, drink coffee like water, and eat a vegetable sometimes. But I have fewer spoons — a metaphor for energy in chronic-illness speak — than most. If I spend a spoon or three on an exhausting first date, that's fewer spoons to make it through a five-mile training run the next day. I could run 15 miles over what turned out to be a 28-hour-long race, but I used up a hell of a lot of spoons to do it. Post-race, I have more spoons for exhausting first dates. Excellent.

5. Runner's high is real.

I have felt few highs like the high of running through a pitch-black forest at midnight, hopped up on Red Bull and surrounded by people wearing light-up vests. My music was pounding through my skull, even with my headlamp I could barely see, my stomach was cramping, I was overheating in all my layers, and I loved it. (I realize now this is why runners are annoying — because they say shit like this.)

6. Competitions can help you separate what your body can do from how it looks.

In my solo runs before signing on to Hood to Coast, I focused on running's potential to help me manage my weight. But preparing for a competition, especially with a group of people, shifted my focus from what I looked like to what I could do. In other words I was so worried about whether I would have the stamina to make it through an overnight race that I was less concerned with weight loss or gain. Which was so refreshing.

7. If you want to fast-track closeness, pack as many people as you can into a van for a little too long and make them all get out and run.

When you spend the night in a van with people you don't know well, cheer for each of them as they run, and run faster when they cheer for you, you're going to reach the finish line feeling tighter. I had no idea how active a group chat would come out of sweating next to and onto the 11 other members of Beast Coast Crew for 28 hours. I guess once you've shared the hysterics of sleep deprivation and analyzed your mid-run bowel movements with a near-stranger, they're not really a stranger anymore.

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