Running Between Raindrops
Calistoga-Santa Cruz Relay
199 miles, 12 runners, 36 legs
April 8-9, 2006

It has been the rainiest spring on record here in the San Francisco Bay Area. In March, it rained about 26 out of 31 days, depending on where in the Bay Area you happened to be, and April was shaping up along the same lines, with six days of precipitation out of the first seven. Rain was forecast for the whole weekend of the Relay, too, although the biggest dumpage was scheduled to be done by the time we started running on Sunday morning. It was with some trepidation, therefore, that I regarded the prospect of 32 hours in a minivan, interspersed with three bouts of running, and little chance to get truly dry if I got truly soaked.

The Relay (www.therelay.com) was moved this year from October to April, to avoid conflicting with another, larger running event that swaggered into San Francisco a couple of Octobers ago acting like a schoolyard bully, at least in the eyes of Relay organizers and participants. Maybe it's just a Nike thing. Anyhow, we had just done this crazy rolling party/serial workout/sleep deprivation experiment in October of '05, and it seemed weird to be doing it again so soon. It was weird to drive up through the Napa Valley and see everything looking so lush and green from the rains. (If you don't know the California climate, the deal is that there is basically No Rain At All from May through October, so by June, all the hills are golden brown and by September, everything is crispy-dry.)

As our two-van caravan rolled towards our first destination of the afternoon (the Flora Springs winery tasting room), the dark clouds let loose with their opening salvo. By the time we had bellied up to the counter, the rain was torrential and our mood combined grim resignation and gallows humor. A few tastes of wine helped lift the spirits, though we mostly felt that only the Trilogy was special, and that was overpriced. Gordon, our team captain, makes wine tasting a priority at every Relay, and we are generally happy to follow his lead. We usually manage to fit in a little tasting either before shifts of running or between them, depending on the schedule. Van 1 tastes in the afternoon, while Van 2 drives up to wineries at 10 am or so on Saturday, waiting for the tasting room to open. It doesn't really make us much faster, but it makes the trip fun.

Tori and Eileen, the other gals on this year's edition of Team "Just Watering Your Flowers, Ma'am," had prepared for the weather by wearing little sandals. I had my waterproof leather LL Bean ankle boots. Tori and Eileen's feet looked cuter, but their feet were also blue by the time we waded to the Calistoga Inn. We were the only team eating there this year, but we did run into race director Jeff Shapiro, his staff, and his entire family, whom he coerces into working the Relay with his particular blend of charm and fanaticism. It's for a good cause (Organs R Us - raising awareness of organ donation), so they join in with vigor. Jeff et al. were only slightly less cheerful than usual as they told us that the field where we usually start was a quagmire of knee-deep mud, and that howling winds had blown away the tents as soon as they had been put up. We agreed that we would park on the roadside the next morning. Even though this year's Relay had 114 teams, each with two vans, the Relay's staggered start system means that there only a few teams would be starting at any given time.

Our start was at 8:30, and Gordon wanted us at the field by 7:30, and we were staying over in Santa Rosa again, so we were up and at 'em bright and early. The Sandman is a large and soulless motel, but it's clean and functional, with a plethora of large sculptures and paintings depicting ocean themes. The giant pelican in the driveway is a giveaway. They also have a cute little breakfast room where you can even make your own fresh waffles. Can't beat that, even if it is a 40 minute drive to Calistoga.

I was in Van 2 this time, and we grumbled a bit about having to get up at 5:45 when we wouldn't start running until, oh, 1 p.m. or so. But we had to get our race numbers and t-shirts at the start, and get the group picture taken and of course cheer on our compadres in Van 1. The rain had let up, though it was chilly and the clouds hung low over the upper Napa Valley. The start field was indeed a quagmire, so we all avoided it as much as possible.

It was definitely a morning for fleece and windbreakers, so I felt sorry for the runners huddling in the mud under the start banner, all goosebumps and shivers. Tori was our first runner, and we cheered her on with gusto as the horn went off. Down Lincoln Avenue she went, as we drove off to buy ice for the cooler (usually a necessity, but this weekend - um, not so much) and from there to a nice warm breakfast spot. Hydro, right on Lincoln, has good hash browns and lively Latin music. I've given up coffee, pretty much, but it was a morning for hot coffee too, so I downed a cup or two.

As Van 2, we were now free until noonish. We whiled away some time at the Frank Family winery, wandering the grounds until the tasting room opened. Then we were treated to three very nice champagnes, poured by a jovial fellow in a Hawaiian shirt. He was interested in our running because he had been a marathoner before he blew out his knees. Unlike many of the Napa wineries, where there's a little bit of 'tude and a hefty tasting fee, Frank Family poured the champagnes for free, PLUS four still wines, which were also quite tasty. The reserve cabernet in particular was great, though the zinfandel packed a potent taste wallop and almost 16% alcohol. Our pourer referred to it as "LPR," cautioning that it was "a very lewd acronym," which he wouldn't translate for us unless we asked. Well, of course we asked. Liquid Panty Remover. I made liberal use of the spit bucket, but even so, after seven tastes at 10 a.m., I was more ready for a nap than a run. We picked up Kevin at Benessere, where we did not taste but did get to know an enormous Newfoundland who drooled happily on anyone who came in range.

And finally it was time for running. At the First Baptist Church in Napa, we donned our running apparel, marveling at the bright glowing orb that was shining through the high clouds. "What is it?" I asked Derek. "I don't know," he said, "but I'm afraid. I'm very afraid." After a while the orb was giving off so much light and heat that we had to put sunscreen on. Derek picked up the handoff from Eric, and Van 1 started its rest shift while Van 2 took off after Derek. Dave took the handoff from Derek, and I followed Dave, grabbing the green wristband that served as the baton and jogging off along Napa Avenue. Dave had been up and down through some trails and mud, but my leg was along a main road, so I tried to run a straight line between the cars and pickups on my left and the nasty-smelling ditch full of rainwater on my right.

I was happy to be moving after all that time in the van, but almost immediately my stomach started to mix an acid cocktail out of the coffee, cabernet, Gatorade and breakfast I'd consumed. I was feeling extremely uncomfortable and consequently was running even slower than usual. When I met up with the van after about 2 miles, I asked for water and Pepto-Bismol. Amazingly, Derek had some precious pink tablets stashed in his bag, and things started to improve right away. A couple of massive belches (sorry, Mom), and I was ready to rock. I picked up my pace and started to enjoy the scenery. Vines, still mostly dormant with all the late rain and cold temperatures, green hills in the background, clouds, which had conveniently moved back in to cool things off. The 5.6 mile leg was almost flat, but not quite, angling ever so slightly uphill all the time, just enough to make things kind of difficult.

Finally I saw the turnoff to Grove Street - only about a half-mile to go. I thundered up the hill, which was starting to be a little bit of a real hill, looking for the orange cones that mark the handoff zone. I took off the wristband and waved it around in the cool air so that it wouldn't be all sweaty when Kevin put it on. Perhaps that's what Gordon meant by the Nymphs being a civilizing influence. I knew I hadn't kept to my (very optimistically projected) 13:00/mile time, but I had done the best I could with the heartburn and all, so I handed off with a sense of satisfaction. Poor Kevin was about to run the nastiest of all the legs, 8.9 miles with a huge climb in the middle, along a trail that would almost certainly be knee-deep mud after all the rain.

We headed off to meet him where the trail meets the road so we could give him water and encouragement. On the way, as we went back along the roads I had just run up, we saw a car in one of the ditches I'd been trying to avoid. Glad I wasn't between the driver and the ditch when that happened. At the dead-end road where the trail came out, we parked among the throng of vans waiting for their runners. All the runners who came charging down the hill looked like they were wearing brown shoes and knee socks. They gave off a loud splatting sound as they ran by. We located Kevin's spare shoes. When he finally appeared, a little behind schedule, he too wore the mud up to his knees, and he was as close as I'd ever seen him to not having a sense of humor. We hurried down the hill after him. We were still missing Hiroshi, the JWYFM teammate who always joins Van 2 in progress so he can fulfill family obligations on Saturday morning. We were supposed to meet Hiroshi at the next exchange, and he was going to take off and run the next leg. We really needed to find Hiroshi.

As it happened, Hiroshi was waiting, all ready to run, with his wife and sister-in-law in the high school parking lot. Kevin came swooping in and Hiroshi went running out with his distinctive forward lean. "Will you need water or anything?" Derek shouted. "I need directions!" Hiroshi yelled back. Oops. Kevin got his nasty shoes and socks into a plastic bag and rinsed his legs off with bottled water, and we hustled him into the van. This leg was full of turns and we didn't want Hiroshi making a detour. As it turned out Hiroshi was just fine and perfectly well oriented to the course, cranking through Petaluma with perfect assurance and a metronomic rhythm. He maintained that stride up the steep hill on the far side of town and all the way to the exchange where Tom waited for the last leg of our first shift.

Kevin and I stayed warm in the van and wondered which of the runners around us was Dennis, whose van proclaimed that he stopped for all sheep ranches. "That's gotta be him," said Kevin. "Looks like an ouwe schaapeneuker to me." Kevin spent eight years living in Amsterdam and has a colorful vocabulary in Dutch as well as about four other languages. He says he once said something in Swahili that got him slapped upside the head. I believe him.

Sheep-lover or no sheep-lover, the relay had to go on. Tom went lumbering off into the fading light. Tom's no speedster, but he's faster than me, and by golly he can run all day and all night. There was some rumor a few years ago about how he did a marathon the day after the Relay - but I'm not sure how that could be since the Relay ends Sunday afternoon, usually.

It was cool getting to the cheese factory in western Marin with a little daylight left, but it still wasn't looking like rain. In October, this van exchange was always dark, freezing cold, and incredibly confusing with hundreds of vans trying to find their runners in the dark and make the exchange. The exchange was less crowded too, unfortunately, because there were fewer teams in this edition. I hoped that the low enrollment was a one time thing due to the six-month bump in schedule. The Relay is excellent and I want to see it thrive.

Reuniting with the other van is always fun too. You get to hear about all the missed turns, bad jokes, and sandbagging that the the other half of the team has been enjoying. During this Relay, Van 2 was pretty sure that the entire population of Van 1 was sandbagging. They were all coming in much faster than their projected times, so we gave them grief about that.

Tom, cheerful as always, trotted in to the finish and Tori took off for her second leg and we passed the sacred timing clipboard over to Gordon in Van 1. Van 1-ites would run through Marin County's back streets, finishing up with the glorious leg that crosses the Golden Gate Bridge. Meanwhile, we Van 2-ers would go in search of a quick dinner and a very short stay in the Mill Valley TraveLodge. Dinner took the form of pizza and beer (to help us fall asleep at 9:45 p.m.) at Mary's Pizza Shack. It seemed to do my stomach good, and it really seemed to help me fall asleep. My temporary roommate Dave was unconscious before I made it out of the shower.

The alarm went off at the ungodly hour of 12:10 am, and we bundled our bags back into the van for the rendezvous at the bridge. Van 1 was full of slumping, faintly snoring bodies, except for Gordon, who sat up front figuring out expenses. To our astonishment, it still wasn't raining, and we could see some stars overhead as we huddled in the parking lot waiting for Eric to finish up Leg 18 and mark the halfway point in our journey. Eric's no spring chicken, and the bridge leg is challenging because you have to climb from sea level up to bridge level in a hurry, so we were thinking Eric might look a little wan after this second leg. But no, he came powering up the hill out of the parking lot tunnel like a man possessed, with a wild grin on his face.

Van 2 was off again. Across the far western edge of the city to interminable Ocean Beach, up an evil stretch of hills to Daly City, and along the ridge of the Peninsula. In this shift, Gordon had switched me with Hiroshi so that I could run a shorter leg. Hiroshi took this with total equanimity. At one point we heard from a volunteer with a radio that it was raining right behind us. We also ran into Dean Karnazes, the "Ultramarathon Man," in Daly City. Dean usually runs the whole 199 miles by himself, but this time he was wimping out and letting his friend Jim run a few of the legs. Team Dean and Team JWYFM go back a long way, so he was happy to see us. He carried a large Starbucks cup as he jogged off into the night, as unconcerned as if he had only run three miles instead of about 70.

My leg started just north of the dam at Crystal Springs Reservoir and wound south through the hills to a spot just south of Highway 92. The leg was only 3.7 miles and was rated "easy," with a net downhill, so I thought I'd make good time. The vans keep a close eye on female runners in the middle of the night, so I'd only gone about a mile when the lads pulled up to offer me water. I also asked for some toilet paper, since I thought I'd have to make an unscheduled flower-watering stop. Now, you'd think the boys would figure out that if I needed TP, that I'd also need a place to use it. But every time I came to a likely looking turnout, the van was parked there. Finally, I eschewed subtlety altogether. "Guys," I said, "I'm not going to be able to find a suitable bathroom spot unless you go up ahead a little ways." They were abashed. "We were just looking out for you." I told them I'd be OK. Finally I was able to answer the call of nature with a bit of privacy - making sure to turn off my headlight and blinky light first. No point in squatting discreetly in the dark if you were a flashing beacon to any passing vehicle or fellow runner.

Anyway, that slowed me down temporarily, but then I ran more freely. The course was not as unformly downhill has I had hoped. There were some downhills, sure, and some of them were so steep and twisty as to make for difficult running. But then there were some steep little uphills, and they really sapped my legs, already made heavy by the lateness of the hour, and perhaps by the pizza and beer, and certainly by the 5.6 miles earlier. I motored on as best I could, trying not to get too far into the red zone, but also unwilling to take it too easy and leave my teammates waiting. Van 2 had been losing some time along the way and I didn't want to add any more to that trend than I already had. The sky was cloudy; the air was cool but not cold, and even though I'd been cold starting out, I was thinking that I didn't even need my tights that much.

Right around that moment, I started to feel an odd sensation around the top of my left inner thigh, kind of a pinching and a chafing at the same time. I hiked up the tights a little, but it persisted. Turned out that four inches of the inseam of the tights had completely given way, leaving me with a little hernia of skin poking out of the compression fabric. I was incredibly annoyed at Road Runner Sports, since the tights were quite new. I spent about a half mile composing my humorous yet snippy letter to RRS, which helped keep my mind off fatigue. But I was tiring. There was another steep little hill where 92 West branched off, and I was hating it. But at the top of the hill I could see pretty well where the finish would be, and I knew the hills were basically over.

With about a quarter mile to go I could see the finish, but I could hear footsteps behind me, too. I don't really get too competitive on the Relay, since everyone is faster than me. But I had been roadkill for too many runners already today, and I wanted to hold at least one person at bay on one of my legs. I picked up my pace a little, and the footsteps stopped getting louder for a while. But then I heard them drawing closer again, so I tried a little harder to go a little faster. I was probably going at a blistering 12-minute pace at this point, but hey, I was trying hard. About a hundred to go, and the footsteps got louder. Dang it! I put out my final "sprint" and actually felt pretty good to be running at a pace that might be recognizable to others as a run. It was like a horror movie, though, as the footsteps got closer and closer. Suddenly a hand fell on my shoulder. "OK, let's run it in together," said Dean. Dean Karnazes! I knew he was out there; I'd seen the Team Dean RV, but I hadn't thought he'd be behind me. "Dood, you've gotta save your energy," I panted. "You've got like two more marathons to run!" "Ah, more like one, really." Dean was grinning. And underestimating, I was pretty sure.

Dean ran on. He was doing two legs to Jim's one, I think, but I was done after handing off to Tom. Dazed from the flashlights and the effort, I wandered off in the wrong direction, away from Dave and Hiroshi, who had come out to greet me and record my time. "You were dueling with a celebrity, you know," one of the volunteers commented. "Yeah, I know, " I wheezed. "I had him all the way."

OK, two legs down and one to go. Tom was off into the dark and our next handoff would be to Van 1 down near Canada College. We waited for Tom in somnolent and stuffy silence, sleeping slouched in non-ergonomic positions in the van, keeping the windows closed because it was cold. Every so often it would just get too airless and we'd open a door for a while. The sky got lighter and Tom arrived in the pre-dawn grey. Still not raining. Time for another hearty breakfast. I had bought a bottle of Pepto-Bismol in Petaluma and I'd been making steady progress with it throughout the night.

We were in my home territory now, cruising along Foothill Expressway and heading for the Santa Cruz Mountains. Now Van 1 was going to have a hard shift, climbing up to Skyline from the north side. We slept some more as we waited for them. Gordon had one of the hard legs, and Eric would bring it up to the summit. Once again, he looked strong and exhilarated, wisps of grey hair flying in the breeze. Once again, we sent Derek down the road with a hearty cheer.

For my third leg, Gordon had switched me with Dave. Dave was going to take my 6.5 mile assignment, and I got his 4.7. I didn't feel too guilty. Dave has run about 28 marathons and has qualified for Boston multiple times. I have run one marathon, and it took me seven hours. The switch meant I was up right after Derek, though, so I had to get ready. Preparation consisted of taking off my fleece pants and changing into a short-sleeved shirt, but I wanted to put it off because the temperature was still only in the high 40's. I ambled over and talked to a team from the Silcone (sic!) Valley Hash House Harriers (www.svh3.com), a chapter of the worldwide "drinking club with a running problem." They were all running in kilts, which was fetching in the extreme. All of a sudden, Derek appeared from around the corner and I was off again.

We were right at the point where Highway 9 meets 236, the road to Big Basin, and I was supposed to run down to the school on the north side of Boulder Creek. I had called Tim to get him to pick me up there and take me home. I did feel guilty about that - usually the whole team runs together across the line in Santa Cruz then goes out for dinner at 99 Bottles of Beer - but I felt like I hadn't been home in weeks what with my marathon, my work, and other travels, and I desperately needed a few extra hours of domestic time.

The narrow, twisty road had mile markers on the side, so I figured it'd be easy to track my progress for once. This stretch was going to be truly downhill, I knew, the first couple of miles particularly. I tried to open up my stride and let my legs work with gravity. It was hard to breathe from the downhill pounding, but otherwise it was easy going. I started thinking of myself as the Downhill Bomber. When I got some water from the van I figured I was about 1.2 miles into my leg. But Kevin said no, I was further along than that. So I tried to remember where I was and where I had started, and I thought, oh, ok, maybe it's 2.2. A few hundred yards down the road, the van waited again. Kevin jogged beside me and said that they had figured the mileage wrong and I had 3 miles still to go. What? That can't be right, I said. I've been running downhill for a half-hour now, about as fast as I can go. There's no way that translates into 1.7 miles. I gulped some water and sent them off to the finish. A few drops of rain started to fall, but I welcomed them.

Just after that meeting, the road flattened out, then started to throw some rollers at me. I guess there's no such thing as a truly all-downhill leg. At the same time, the mile markers disappeared for a while, so I really had no idea where I was or how far I had to run. I was so tired and disoriented, I began to doubt my memory of what time I had started and what the first mile marker had said. Every time I had to go up a hill, my legs groaned and my lungs burned. I decided to put all thoughts of the distance out of my head and go into marathon mode. Just run in the present moment. The finish will come when it comes. I kind of wished I hadn't sent the van away, though. I was getting thirsty with all this running and thinking. I was bailed out by another van, whose occupants must have thought I looked a little needy. I declined their first offer of water, but the second time I saw them I couldn't resist. The driver told me I had about a mile to go. I was completely demoralized. I had tried to stop calculating where I was and how far I had to go, but even my worst case scenario had me running only another half-mile.

I reminded myself that none of these guys had slept either, so their math was as suspect as mine or my team's. I kept running; kept sucking in air.

Finally I saw the outskirts of Boulder Creek, the White Cockade tavern, some houses, a familiar intersection, and then the blessed traffic sign: "School Slow 25 MPH." One more corner, and I saw Tim leaning on the chain-link fence in the school parking lot, chatting with Kevin. I spared a brief thought for the incriminating stories Tim would be hearing. Then there was a last little leg-mashing rise, and I was handing off to Dave. I had no idea what my pace had been, but Tom told me I had come in 3 minutes ahead of schedule. Finally I was gaining time for the team instead of losing it. My quads were going to scold me loudly the next day for my hell-bent downhill pounding, but I didn't care. Short of donating an organ, I had given the Relay all I had to give.

I raided the van for snacks, and Tim and I drove along Hwy 9 towards Felton, where we'd be turning off for home. We stopped to cheer Dave and Kevin at the next exchange and say our fond goodbyes. "Ouwe kippeneuker!" I waved at Kevin. "Vuile teef!" he shouted back. I learned that Tori and Eileen were also bailing on the finish line and team dinner, leaving the team Nymphless for its celebrations. It seemed certain that we would be collectively nominated for the Gary Burt award, given each year to the individual or entity who does the greatest disservice to Team JWYFM. I was sad to leave the guys - the blend of sleepless hysteria, running euphoria, potty humor and team spirit that emerges during each relay does bond people together quite tightly - but I was also happy to see my husband and to be heading for a hot shower and laundry facilities. As we climbed Highway 17 toward the summit, the rain started to fall hard. We had squeaked through 30 hours and stayed dry. I found out later that it had rained throughout the Bay Area on and off all weekend.

So, everybody, the whole purpose of the Relay is to raise awareness of the pressing need for organ donors in the U.S. There are around 85,000 people waiting for organs, and 17 of those people die every day. I want you to stick around and be healthy as long as you can, but please let your family know that if something happens to you such that you're not going to be using your own organs anymore, you want to donate life to one or more of those 85,000 folks. Be well, be sane - and if you can't do either of those things, run a Relay.