Hood to Coast 2024: Captaining a 200-Mile Relay Adventure

Picture this: You’re standing atop Mt. Hood at the end of August, freezing your butt off, surrounded by a sea of singlet-clad runners, all jittery with a mix of excitement and sheer terror. Why? Because you’re about to embark on a 196-mile team relay race to the Oregon coast. Welcome to Hood to Coast, the mother of all relay races and quite possibly the most masochistic way to spend a weekend with friends.

Now, you might be wondering, “Who in their right mind signs up for this?” Well, my friend, the answer is simple: People who love fun. And suffering. But mostly fun. Oh, and people who apparently hate sleep. So…me!

Last month, I had the dubious honor of captaining a team at Hood to Coast called “The Smoky Mountain Relay on Vacation.” Ironic, considering there’s nothing remotely vacation-like about running through the night, subsisting on energy gels, and sharing a van with five other sweaty humans. But read on. You’ll see why that was our team name.

Let me break down the madness for you. These 200-mile relay races are like a mobile slumber party meets an ultramarathon. You’ve got 12 slightly unhinged individuals (or 6 or 9 if you’re really gluttons for punishment) split between two vans. Each runner tackles three legs of the race, covering an average of 13 to 20 miles total. It’s like a really long game of tag, but instead of “you’re it,” it’s “your turn to suffer.”

The vans play leapfrog along the course, one active for six legs and one “resting.” I use “resting” loosely here because trying to sleep in a van that smells like a locker room and sounds like a snoring symphony is about as restful as a coffee IV. But hey, that’s part of the charm, right?

Now, I’ve got a confession to make. When I’m not torturing myself participating in 200-mile relays, I’m actually on the other side of the finish line. That’s right, I’m one of those crazy race directors who puts on these endurance fests. Our baby? The Smoky Mountain Relay in western North Carolina. It’s like Hood to Coast’s scrappy little cousin, trading Oregon’s Mt. Hood for the Blue Ridge Mountains and the Pacific for… well, more mountains.

Running Hood to Coast as a participant is like a chef eating at another restaurant. Part of me is there to have a blast, and part of me is taking mental notes. “Ooh, that’s a good idea for an exchange point.” “Hmm, maybe we should add more port-a-potties at Exchange 24.” You know, the really glamorous stuff.

As captain, my job was part drill sergeant, part travel agent, and part therapist. First order of business? Actually getting into the race. Hood to Coast has a lottery system that’s about as straightforward as quantum physics. The application must be postmarked on October 2nd (for 2025). Not October 1st. Not October 3rd. October 2nd. It’s like the race directors are secretly testing our ability to follow arbitrary rules before subjecting us to 200 miles of madness.

Once we miraculously made it through the lottery (third time’s the charm!), the real fun began. Try coordinating 12 adults with jobs, families, and a questionable commitment to long-distance running. It’s like herding cats, if the cats were wearing running shoes and needed to fly into Portland on specific dates.

Our team of 12 split into two vans: the “Fast Ladies” van (Van 1) with six speedy women, and the “Old Dudes” (Van 2) with six men who were mostly trying to relive their glory days. Van 1 had one youngster who kept us in the “Mixed Open” category, while the rest of us were just open to the idea of finishing in a reasonable amount of time.

The race itself is a blur of hand-offs, cowbells, and increasingly pungent vans. You run, you rest (sort of), you cheer, you wonder why you’re doing this, you scurry as fast as you can to get the van to the next exchange, you run again. Repeat until you reach the beach or your legs fall off, whichever comes first.

Each leg of Hood to Coast had a unique flavor of suffering. I started with a rain-soaked 6 miler on open roads at 4 PM, followed up by a lung-searing 5.6 mile climb on gravel at midnight, and finished with a 4+ miler through rolling farmland at 8 AM the next morning. I was the only member of the team that ran in the deluge. It was raining so hard, I had what felt like the Columbia River cascading down my body and through my shorts. These races are like a buffet of pain, and you’re going back for seconds and thirds.

But here’s the thing: despite the sleep deprivation, the aching muscles, and the questionable van hygiene, you’ll have moments of pure magic. Running under a star-filled sky at 3 AM, with nothing but your headlamp, safety vest, blinky lights, and the rhythm of your breath. Cheering your teammates as they push through their own limits. Bonding over shared suffering and terrible jokes that are only funny when you’re punchy from exhaustion.

Somehow, through a combination of caffeine, camaraderie, and sheer stubbornness, we crossed the finish line in Seaside, OR after 25 hours, 3 minutes, and 15 seconds of continuous motion. We placed 20th out of 284 in our category and 93rd overall out of 1,182 teams. Not too shabby.

As we stumbled across the sand as a team to the finish, I realized something profound: This ridiculous endeavor, this 200-mile runfest, is actually about connection. It’s about pushing your limits alongside friends, sharing terrible jokes at 3 AM, and creating memories that will last far longer than the chafing.

Plus, like the Smoky Mountain Relay, there’s beer (and NA beer) at the end. And after 200 miles, let me tell you, that’s the best damn beer you’ll ever taste.

So, if you’re looking for a way to test your limits, bond with friends, and earn the right to eat whatever you want for at least a week, consider Hood to Coast. Or, if you’re feeling particularly masochistic, come on down to the Smoky Mountain Relay. We’ve got all the fun of Hood to Coast…and a bit more.