The Big Hurt

“You’ve got this! Don’t stop! Less than a mile, and then it’s all downhill.”

I look up and see a woman, about my age, standing by the back of a truck. She’s wearing sunglasses on this sunny late-September Saturday.

“Stay strong!” She shouts.

I raise a hand from my handlebars and make a fist to show I’m still fighting.

“Keep those hands on your bike,” she barks. “You don’t want me to get out there and push you, do you?”

I look at her quizzically as I meekly pedal up this never-ending hill.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she says. “I see your bib number. You chose to do this whole thing by yourself.”

“You’re right,” I say.

“Focus!” she yells back. “You want to finish, don’t you?”

I nod and grimace.

“Good,” she says with a cracked smile and then adds, “Now keep pedaling!”

I breathe in deeply as I continue to mash the pedals. She keeps shouting, but she’s behind me now, and I’ve stopped listening. I wonder if she’s been yelling at everyone, or if she’s saved it all for me.

I’m about four hours into the race, and my ass feels like it’s been tenderized with a baseball bat. My shoulders are as stiff as uncooked pasta, and my hamstrings have been pissed at me for the last 30 minutes. I’ve been riding this bike for twenty miles, and I still have another ten miles to go. And then there’s the 6-mile run. Good Lord, what did I sign up for?

They call this race The Big Hurt, and I’m starting to see why. It started with a 16-mile mountain bike ride through the hills behind Port Angeles. Then it was three miles in a sea kayak along the waterfront. Those two legs would’ve been enough to earn me a guilt-free beer. Man, a beer sounds good right now. A cold one. Not too hoppy. Hell, I’d take a Bud Lite if someone handed it to me. Anyway, after the kayak is the 30-mile road ride, and then finally the 6-mile (or 10k) run.

A friend recently told me that endurance races are the new outlet for a midlife crisis.

“Sports cars and affairs are too expensive,” he said. “Races get you in shape, and they’re social. It’s kind of win-win.”

Right now, I certainly do not feel like I’m winning at anything.

My sister, Maria, found this race, and last year she got me, Giovannina, and her husband, Ryan, to join her on a team. We each took a leg of the race. Ryan started with the mountain bike, then Giovannina did the sea kayak, followed by my sister on the road bike, and I was the anchor with the run. We all had a blast. I trained for about a month before the race and felt like I did well. I wasn’t fast (I averaged just under a 9-minute mile), but I did it, and at 47 years old, I was proud I could still run a 10k. But always wanting to improve and not willing to settle for just doing one leg of the race, this year, I signed up for the iron division, and am attempting to do the whole thing by myself. I think they call it “iron” because all your joints feel like rusted metal. Or at least that’s how mine are feeling now.

I finally reach the summit, and I stand up to take some pressure off my swollen behind. I look around and see bucolic farms and valleys rolling off into the foothills of the Olympic Mountains. The sun is warm on my tired back. I pull a Cliff Bar from the pocket of my jersey and tear the wrapper open with my teeth. I eat half of it and put the rest into the sweaty Lycra pouch.

Race Central is along the waterfront, right in the middle of Port Angeles, and the road bike portion stretches westward out past the Elwha River toward the hamlet of Joyce. Other than the section along Highway 101, the ride has been beautiful. It even included a long descent down towards Salt Creek. That was awesome. My old, heavy-ass road bike felt like a young buck as it flew over the bridge that crosses the Elwha. Then, of course, I had to climb back out of there. I nearly gave myself a hernia pedaling up that hill. Then of course there was that motivational speaker. She is proof that you don’t need kindness to motivate someone who has committed to torturing themselves.

But I’m cruising now. The sun is warm as I coast onto the highway. The next five miles back into town are either flat or downhill. I take a sip of water. I’ve used all my electrolytes and have about a cup of water left. I’ll need to drink some Gatorade during my transition.

Behind me, I hear another rider approaching. I turn around and find a guy about ten years younger than me breathing heavily. His bike is sleek and lightweight. He even has fancy handlebars that let you crouch while you ride. I angle towards the edge of the highway to let him pass.

“Looking good,” I say as he passes.

Contorted into an unnatural stoop, and grimacing with effort, he responds with a barely audible grunt. I notice his race number and see that he’s on a team. He’s giving all he has for the next five miles, and then he’ll probably collapse with exhaustion. And then get a beer.

The race started at 8 am. Giovannina shuttled me and Alan to the trailhead up a logging road behind Port Angeles. Alan and Giovannina are on a team together: he’s doing the mountain bike and run, while Gio does the kayak and the road ride. At the trailhead, we met our friends Chris and Matt, who are on two other teams assembled by my sister. She organized this weekend for her friends and family members and is doing the road bike leg on a team with Chris (MTB), Ryan (kayak) and Marie (run). She also found us a big house outside of town. The place has a hot tub, which, if I can still walk, I will definitely be using.

I have given myself the simple goal of finishing this race. I don’t expect to place; I just want my body to hold up for the whole thing. I started training a couple of months ago, but I’ve got nagging back and hip issues, and every time I got on the bike, or went for a long run, I would hurt. So I started seeing a PT. Upon hearing about the race, he said, “You know you’re not in your 20s anymore, right?”

Not the encouragement I was hoping for.

But he gave me a solid regimen of exercises, and with the help of some serious anti-inflammatory drugs, I decided to go for it.

The mountain bike leg went better than I expected, though I did take it easy on the downhill sections. The last thing I wanted was to wreck on the first leg of the race. Next was the sea kayak, which was great. The water was completely flat, the air was still, and I felt like I could just sit back and relax. Again, my goal was to finish, not compete.

It was during my transition from the kayak to the road bike that I realized that maybe I should have taken things a bit more seriously. The iron division racers are responsible for all of their own gear, and can’t have any help. To prepare for the transitions, I packed a large tote with snacks, electrolytes, changes of clothes, bike tools, and a towel. Before the race, I set this tote next to my road bike, which I hung on a rack at race central. After the kayak leg, I ran to my tote to get the things I needed for the transition: a towel, Gatorade, shoes, a snack, a change of shorts, maybe some sunscreen. As I dug through the bin looking for something to nibble on, a guy I had just passed on the water ran up barefoot, slipped his feet into a pair of bike shoes, threw on a helmet, and pedaled off. I was probably still lacing up my shoes when he crossed the county line.

The route winds its way through the outskirts of town and drops me onto a busy road by the waterfront. A police officer directing traffic signals for me to ignore the traffic light and merge onto the Olympic Discovery Trail, which leads right into Race Central. The place is busy with racers, most of whom I can’t help but notice are holding plastic cups full of beer. God, a beer would be nice right now.

I coast into the Race Central, hop off my bike, and run with it through the crowd of people. My sister and Giovannina are with some of our friends to cheer me on. They’re all holding beers, having finished their legs and are enjoying the post-race chill time.

“Yay!” my sister says, holding up her camera, videoing me. “You’re doing it! Way to go!”

I put my bike on its rack. I want to start running, but I need calories and hydration, so I inhale a banana and chug some Gatorade. I’m still wearing my mountain bike shorts, and I really don’t want to run in them, so I take them off and stand there in my underwear. Giovannina lets out a chuckle.

“How’s this?” I ask. “Too lewd?”

My sister waves it off. “You’re fine,” she says.

 “You look great, honey,” Giovannina says, giving me a kiss. “Go for it.”

I give a thumbs up and head for the start of the road race. Several more of our friends are there to cheer me on.

“You’ve got this!” they shout.

I wave and begin to jog toward the starting line.

And then I see the porta-potties and realize that I really, really need to pee.

“One sec!” I shout and make a quick detour to attend to my business. Then, after having answered nature’s call, I run back to the starting line. Everyone is laughing.

“Don’t want to pee your pants!” someone shouts.

I give another thumbs up as I head towards the trail. My legs are not happy with me. I would not say they are in full revolt, but my hamstrings are certainly forming militias in the event of an uprising.

I run – let me correct that – I jog gingerly along the Olympic Discovery Trail (ODT). This trail connects communities along the north end of the Olympic Peninsula from Port Townsend to La Push. The section through Port Angeles is an absolute gem that wanders right along the Strait of Juan de Fuca, providing a designated walking path for tourists to enjoy the waterfront and for bikers and joggers to get their workouts in with a gorgeous backdrop. Today, the Strait is calm, and the trail is busy with tourists enjoying the lovely weather.

While I welcome being off the bike, I’m cautious not to push things on the run. With each footfall, I feel for cramping or pulls. I hope the banana and Gatorade do the trick as I truck my way eastward out of Port Angeles. Several other runners pass me heading west towards the finish line. By the numbers on their race bibs, I know they are also in the iron division and have done the whole thing by themselves.

“You got this!” I say to them. “Looking good! Almost there!”

Painfully, they smile back. A few respond with a “You too!” Or “Keep it up!”

I’m feeling good. I’ve got about four miles of running until the race is over. I’ve been running for decades. Four miles is nothing. As long as I don’t push it, I’ll be fine.

The trail grows quieter as I leave town, and under the shade of overhanging maples and birches, the air is cool and peaceful. I return to that inner meditative place that runners enjoy so much. My legs are holding up, and my back isn’t too sore. The trail is flat, so I just chug along.

After about thirty minutes, I see the turnaround that marks the halfway point of the run. A couple of older guys sit next to an orange cone. There are several Dixie cups full of water. I grab one.

One of the guys looks up at me, and says, “You’re still in it. Better late than never, right?”

“That’s right,” I say with a tired smile.

I gulp down the water.

I can’t believe I’m going to do this. And man, I wish this Dixie cup had beer in it.

I’m feeling pumped for the first time all day. I’m ready to cheer on the other runners, the ones behind me who have also suffered. One of the best things about the race has been the kinship with the other racers. It’s like we’re all in it together.

I drop the cup into the trash, and with a joy in my step, I turn around to head back to the finish line.

From the turnaround, I have a clear view of the next quarter mile ahead of me, and there’s something odd about it. At first, I can’t figure out what it is, and then it hits me — it’s empty. There’s no one on it.

Filled with a newfound enthusiasm, I’m ready to cheer on the runners behind me, but after about a few minutes, no one comes.

I don’t think much of it at first and instead take in the nature around me. The trail makes a long, slow bend around a small headland, and off in the water, a solitary seal pokes a head up and examines me with its big, liquid eyes. I watch it bob along for a few moments before it slips beneath the surface.

Turning my attention back to the trail, I see a couple of folks on bicycles out for an afternoon ride, but there are no racers. A strange thought wells up in my mind — Am I last?

Nah, I can’t be last. There have to be other races. They must just be a lot farther behind me.

I return my attention to the sea. A few mergansers are hunting in the shallows, and off in the distance, a small fishing boat skips across the surface on its way towards Port Angeles. It’s a perfect afternoon to be out for a run. Other than my sore legs and stiffening back, I’m feeling at ease and enjoying the moment.

The trail enters a thick patch of forest, and the cool shade soothes my sweaty skin. As I leave the forest, a long open stretch of trail appears before me. It has to be more than a mile long. I can see almost all the way to town. And there are no other racers.

Shit. I’m last.

My heart sinks as the unavoidable truth sets in: everyone else is ahead of me.

As I trudge on, I begin to analyze where I went wrong. Trying to avoid personal responsibility, I start with my gear.

It was the road bike. It’s way too heavy. And I don’t have clipless pedals. I’d be faster with clipless pedals.

And then I criticize my skills.

I totally messed up my transitions. I should have been much better with my transitions. They were way too slow. And the mountain bike portion could have been faster. I need to get better at descending switchbacks. I let a lot of people pass me on those switchbacks. I can definitely pick up some time on the switchbacks.

After a while, I come across two other solo racers. Both are guys my age. One is about 30 pounds overweight and is walking. He appears to have bonked and is now on his way to the nearest McDonald’s. The second guy is hobbling. I can’t tell if this is a temporary condition or something he lives with, but one of his calves is swollen and his leg doesn’t move right. Still, he’s cheerful, and with an encouraging smile he says to me, “Looking good! See you at the finish line!”

I wave and nod, and muster a simple, “You too!”

His enthusiasm makes me feel awful. I try to keep my spirits up, but the negative self-talk sets in.

This always happens to me. I mean, I wasn’t really trying to compete, but come on…I’ve got to be better than this. 

I continue to analyze/berate myself as I trundle my way towards Port Angeles. I’m alone on the trail, so my mind is free to criticize everything I did all day long.

I dropped a water bottle at one point. That was dumb. I fell off my bike while trying to attach my phone to the handlebars. That was stupid. I can’t believe I screwed this up so bad. I’m going to finish dead last. Oh, sorry. I will finish ahead of Mr. Big Mac and the Limpy Dude. Great. Good for me.

I feel my hamstrings tighten. The one above my left me is particularly twingey. My feet feel like two stumps, and low back throbs with every footfall. Now, I just want this thing to be over.

The trail crosses through an abandoned industrial area outside of town. On either side are high barbed-wire fences. As the trail turns left past the end of a vacant lot, I see two people walking towards me: a woman in her late sixties and a man in his early seventies. The woman’s fingers grip the handle of a shopping cart full of stuff and covered with a worn, blue tarp. From the sides hang plastic shopping bags filled with more stuff, but I can’t tell what. Behind her, the man pushes a rusty old mountain bike. On the back, he has bungeed several large garbage bags full of more stuff. More bungees attach a sleeping bag to one side of the rack, and on the other hangs a plastic jug full of water. Next to him walks a small scruffy dog, its leash looped around the handlebar of the bike.

As I jog towards them, I hear the man say, “I don’t think we should stay there. I worry about those other dogs.”

“Then where do we go?”

“How about the creek? Lots of level ground there.”

I keep my head down as I pass them, trying to respect their privacy, but they both see me coming and smile.

“Looking good,” the woman says warmly.

“Almost there,” the man adds with an encouraging nod.

I have no idea how to respond, so I simply say, “Thank you,” and keep jogging.

And then, as the afternoon sun glows warm across the still waters of the Strait of Juan de Fuca, as seals and seabirds play in the shallow waters of the bay, as birds flit through the forest that lines the shore, and thousands of people across the northern edge of the Olympic Peninsula, enjoy the gift of a beautiful late-September day in the Pacific Northwest, my ego implodes.

I’ve spent all day traipsing around a beautiful place. I started on a mountain bike, an expensive toy, ridden on miles of trail built solely for the purpose of adrenaline junkies with ample disposable income. Then I went kayaking. Another expensive hobby useful only to people with plenty of leisure time. Then, I rode my bike around for a couple of hours. Bikes at least can be used to do errands and get to work. Today, I used mine to torture myself while I watched beautiful scenery. And now I’m running along a gorgeous stretch of coastline as I criticize myself for not being better at my hobbies, activities that are specifically designed for enjoyment.

How did I end up so lucky? Why can’t I just appreciate what I have? Is my ego so fragile that, in order to feel worthy, I need to physically abuse myself for half a day doing something that is literally called The Big Hurt? Instead of being grateful for having the time, energy and resources to do fun things, why do I have to turn my hobbies into means of self-judgement?

And so it goes as I lumber my way towards the finish line.

The skies are clear, and the waterfront is busy with tourists enjoying an unseasonably warm day. Off to the north, the Black Ball Ferry, en route from Victoria, slowly chugs its way towards shore.About a hundred yards or so from the finish line, my friends and family are waiting to cheer me on.

“You’ve got this!”

“Way to go!”

“Almost there!”

My heart softens, and for the first time all day, I can really hear what they’re saying. They’re saying, “You are blessed to be alive, and we are with you.”

I will my legs to keep moving and pray that nothings breaks. With fifty yards to go, I have just enough energy to run. Ten yards from the finish, my five-year-old nephew, Kedryk, and his friend Finley, run alongside me. They’re both laughing and giggling, and I can’t help but smile.

After I cross the line, Giovannina runs up and gives me a big kiss.

“You did it!” she says. “I can’t believe it. You really did it. I’m so proud of you.”

My sister walks over and gives me a high-five.

“You crushed it!” she says.

I offer a weak smile.

“Can I get you anything?” Giovannina asks.

“Umm…a beer?”

They both laugh.

“We’ve got lots of beer back at the house,” she says. “But first we need to pack up all the gear.”

Ah yes. Gear before beer.

I smile and nod. And then, feeling incredibly tired and incredibly thankful, I reach my sweaty arms around these two amazing women. My sister and my wife, both of whom have enriched my life more than I could ever deserve, and I hug them with all the love and gratitude my feeble body can muster.

The fallacy of this race is that I did it alone, without assistance. I was never alone. I was self-absorbed, and I was lonely, but I wasn’t alone. Last year, when we did this race as a team, one of my favorite parts was being at Race Central to cheer for them as they finished their legs. In doing the race by myself, I missed that. Instead, this time, they were there for me. My loved ones have been with me the whole time. They’ve supported me, looked after me, and shared in the journey. There are always challenges, but with kindness and awareness, we made it through together.