Baby, I was born to uh... kind of jog
Tapping into my inner jock for my first Ragnar race
Sorry everyone, I’m a jock now.
You see, a few weeks ago, I did a Ragnar.
For you non-jocks, Ragnar is a long distance relay race. I tried to do one in Napa back in 2019, but couldn’t because of the little fact that the entire region was on fire. Now I’m pretty sure I could just outrun the fire. Natural disasters are no match for me. What’s even your pace, Natch Disasties?
This time, I’m part of a team that’s running 200 miles from Bellingham—a city near the Washington/Canada border—to the small coastal hamlet of Langley on Whidbey Island. There are 11 other people on our team, divided between two vehicles. This means someone is always running until the last person crosses the finish line. We all run three legs of varying lengths and difficulties. Some legs are 10 miles long, while others are only two miles; some are uphill, others are downhill. They happen in the midday sun, and also the pitch dark of night. The challenge is not just a matter of running, but running consecutive legs under varying conditions with very little sleep.
If all that sounds like a commercial for Ragnar, well, tough shit! I’m a jock now. A grade-A, certified jock who eats Ragnars for breakfast. Am I going to put that little Ragnar sticker on my car to prove just how much better I am than you? Who knows? Just the fact that I could should fill you with feelings of inadequacy.
I wasn’t always a jock. In fact, mere weeks ago, I was just a mild-mannered nerd caring about books and writing and shit. But I’ve transformed. I’m a different human now. Nay, a different being. I’ve emerged from my cocoon like a super swole and athletic butterfly. This is my journey.
****
It’s the morning of the race and the first person on our team—Van 2—isn’t scheduled to run until around 12:30. Van 1 had to wake up super early to hit their 6 a.m. start time. If we were good teammates, we’d all have woken up early to see them off, but last night’s beers in the Chuckanut Lobby Bar—plus a very hot room—had made it difficult to sleep. Gotta get as much shuteye as I can.
Let’s also not forget about the nerves. Not sure why I’m so nervous, but I’ve spent the night thinking what if I don’t make it? Irrational thoughts of dragging our team down sent my brain further into an insomniac spiral. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: fuck you, brain.
My brother-in-law Lewis starts our morning by firing up the hotel room coffee maker. “We’ll chug this and it’ll flush us right out,” he says. One thing I’ve learned about running—and enthusiastically embraced—is that runners are always eager to talk about shitting. But it’s important to consider—no one wants to be in the middle of a run and feel the run if you know what I mean.
I chug the coffee and it works. Of course it would. Lewis has been running Ragnars for as long as I’ve known him. A true pro when it comes to running and, I assume, shitting.
We meet up with the other Van 2-ers—Steve, Colin, Annemarie, Jason—and head out to breakfast. Annemarie has found a homey, hipster style cafe that serves monstrous portions and is decorated with frightening clowns. I order a chicken fried steak. “And with country-style gravy,” I hear my mouth say. My bowels plead with me. Brother, they say, think about us. We thought you were done after the coffee.
The chicken fried steak is excellent. Maybe the best I’ve had. I know it’s going to be trouble.
We wait at the interchange for the final runner from team one to hand off the baton, which, in this case, is a slap bracelet. These interchanges usually take place at schools or church parking lots, and this first one is decked out like a street fair of sorts: sports drink reps sling sports drinks, oatmeal people hand out samples. There’s a Ragnar merch tent, as well as a DJ playing the same three songs over and over. We meet up with the rest of Van 1, including our team captain, Karen—my sister-in-law and the person who initially planted the Ragnar bug in my head back in 2019.
Van 1 kills it. Somehow, they’re all smiling? Not going to lie, I kind of hoped there would be at least some visible misery to make me feel less inadequate. The nerves kick up again, wringing out the chicken fried steak in my stomach, which, it should be obvious by now, was a really bad idea. I’m already sweating profusely and I haven’t run a goddamn step. Truly a blessing it is that there are so many porta potties at this interchange. I’ve always thought “Honey Bucket” was a disgusting brand name for a portable toilet, but in those few moments before it’s our team’s turn to run, I realize just how sweet they really are.
The final runner from Van 1 barrels through the finish line, slaps the bracelet onto Colin, and he’s off. Lewis does this cool thing where he makes a circle in the air with his finger. Time to roll out. We rush to our van and drive to the next interchange four miles away. On the way, we see Colin and my god is he fast. He’s practically flying. We only have about 10 minutes at the next interchange before Colin appears and slaps the bracelet onto Steve, who takes off with a steadfast, mechanized fury.
“What were you running?” Lewis asks Colin.
“Looks like it was a—” Collin says, checking his watch. “7.3”
Jesus. Never in my life have I ever run a seven-minute mile. I don’t think I could even do that if the devil himself was poking me in the butt with his little pitchfork (which I think is what that Van Halen song “Running with the Devil” is about, right?).
I’m up next. My first leg is six and a half miles, and according to the Ragnar app, my first mile is all downhill. My stomach gurgles. I wonder if I have enough time for one last Honey Bucket sesh, but then Steve rounds the corner, coming in hot like the T-1000.
Boom. He slaps the bracelet and I’m off.
I’m galloping down the incline. Evergreen forest blur in my periphery. The sun blinks through the tops of trees. I’ve never run so fast! I must be at least a mile in before the Van 2 even catches up with my team hanging out the windows, whoo-ing me as they pass. I must look like an Olympian to them! I pass one, two, three people on my way down. In Ragnars, when you pass a person it’s called a “kill,” and teams count their kills with hash marks drawn on the sides of their vans. Three kills for me, baby. Hang their heads on my mantel.
I look at my running app. My pace? An 8 minute and 30 second mile. Even at the fastest I’ve ever been, I’m still not as fast as Colin’s regular pace.
The downhill levels out, and suddenly running becomes excruciatingly hard. My pace drops to 10.5 and the magic of that first mile dissipates, replaced with a vague yearning for death. Why did I agree to do this? I think. Who even likes running? I have five and a half miles to go.
I put the audiobook of Bram Stoker’s Dracula on in my headphones and plod along to the finale, listening to the character Mina’s struggle to fight off the vampiric infection coursing through her veins. That’s what my run feels like—a slow-acting infection that’s turning me undead.
The sun bears down. The heat is nauseating and I slow down to avoid throwing up. My jog turns to a walk. The flat is endless, and I can see runners pockmarking the road for miles. They’re slow moving specks that represent an unattainable destination. I get killed by tens of other runners, each saying “good job,” as they pass. I think, shut up.
I approach a sign that says, “One mile to go.” Praise the lord. I text Lewis for them to get ready for the hand-off, and then put my head down and plod forward.
It seems like I should be able to see the finish, but the road just keeps going. Ahead, there’s a solid line of runners that have passed me. They’re a trail of ants and I keep following.
A car pulls up. The driver tells me that I missed a turn half a mile back. I don’t know how to react, so I say “uh really?” Imagine how I look to these strangers: this bro, on the verge of barfing, face beet-red from heat stroke, just struggling in life, and dumbly saying, “uh really?”
I turn around. I head back from whence I came. In my defense, the sign isn’t super clear, especially to people ravaged by heat and exhaustion. I still feel like a dummy. The only consolation I can glean is the fact that a lot of runners faster than me have more distance to backtrack. Pays off to be slow, assholes! I think.
I shuffle through the exchange point, slap the bracelet on Jason and he’s gone. Jason is recovering from an actual broken foot and he can run faster than me. Everyone laughs good-naturedly about my mishap, but it feels so typical of me that it hurts: Fucking up my first Ragnar right out of the gate.
****
Jason, Lewis and Annemarie fly through their legs. I’m officially the slowest runner in Van 2. Whoo.
****
Van 1 takes over around 6 p.m., and we look for someplace to eat dinner. We settle on a fancy seafood and prime rib restaurant in the small town of La Conner, which seems surreal and even sitcom-y given that we’re in the middle of a race.
I order a prime rib French dip with a side salad and a beer. A friend once told me that leafy greens and protein was a good recovery meal, and I know my order is basically me taking that advice and perverting it to fit my needs (much like how, instead of the food pyramid, there used to be four food groups until kids discovered the loophole of pizza hitting all those marks), but I need something to lift my spirits after that disappointing first leg.
After dinner, we drive to the exchange point and try to catch some sleep before Van 1 finishes. Before the sun completely sets, we spread sleeping bags out on the grass in front of La Conner Middle School. Bodies from other teams lie strewn across the grass, as if a ton of people just dropped dead. Haunting vibes. Lewis spreads out a camping blanket for us to share and then unzips a sleeping bag we can use as a cover. Everyone falls asleep except me. I brought no long pants and I’m freezing in my jorts. Someone nearby keeps shooting off fireworks. I see a yahoo strip down to his underwear and scoop water all over himself from a pump near where I’m lying. I see an earwig crawling in the grass near my head and that freaks me out. No sleep for me.
Then at 12:30 a.m., it’s our team’s turn to run again.
****
My 2 a.m. run feels a little like a nightmare.
A follow a paved footpath behind empty office parks. I’m all by myself. It’s quiet. The only sounds are my ragged breathing, but this time it sounds less exhausted, more survivalist. It’s also freezing. I run through the ghosts of my breath. A massive, omniscient oil refinery spews thick, gray clouds in the distance. It feels like I’m being chased. I try to imagine other circumstances where I’d be in the situation—running full-bore in the middle of the night along a deserted footpath—and it always comes back to horror movies.
A small woman sprints past me and I damn near jump. She wears a flashing green light on the back of her reflective vest. As she pulls ahead, it kind of looks like a phantom. I watch the green light until it disappears.
****
The sun has just risen when we hand the bracelet off to Van 1 for them to start their final legs. Steve and Jason take showers at this exchange point. “Take every opportunity to shit, shower, and shave,” Steve says—something he learned in the military. No one has to tell me to do the first thing, but no way am I going to shower. I’ve become one with my sweat. I’ve developed a healthy sheen, like a cat who’s eaten too much fish oil.
We go to a Starbucks and I realize I can’t really make words. I point to items on the menu and just order whatever they have in stock. It’s been 24 hours since my last restless sleep, and I’ve run twice since then. I eat a breakfast sandwich with Impossible Meat and exclaim “this is so good” to no one. Not sure if I even taste it.
We drive to the final hand-off point and wait for Van 1. I set out our makeshift bedding and fall right to sleep. I get three hours of beautiful slumber. One of the best sleeps I’ve ever had.
And then it’s time to run again.
****
Sometime during my final run, I realize I love running. It’s a 7-mile leg, which would seem insurmountable, perhaps even impossible not too long ago. Even at the start of Ragnar, I don’t know if I would even consider running seven miles without some sort of medical alert button, but at this point, my body’s like “so this is something that we’re going to keep doing now, huh? Guess I better get used to it.”
I move slow and steady, keeping it at a solid 10:30 pace. The first mile is uphill, but I stick to my pace. Thick forests surround me on both sides. It feels like running through a lush, green tunnel. The temperature is perfect. It’s then that I also realize I love Seattle, Whidbey Island, and the entire Northwest. I put on a playlist called “Summer Goth” and push forward, finding a rhythm in spooky sounds about despair. It’s strangely motivating. I pass more people than pass me. Pardon me: I kill them. Five kills at least. Gotta keep it goth.
The “One more mile” sign appears and I’m not even tired. The fuck? I text Lewis about my progress. He texts back, “Legend.”
The final half mile is straight downhill, and every step is a fresh pain in my thighs. If my IT band could talk, I’m sure it would be screaming. Ow ow ow ow.
I soar into the hand-off point like a victorious, damaged falcon. I completely miss Jason’s wrist at the hand-off. “Sorry,” I mumble.
Someone is selling hot dogs at this exchange, and Lewis asks if he can buy me one. It takes a minute for me to register what he just said. Hot dogs? Is this a dream? I bite into the salty skin and for a second it’s even better than knowing that I’m finished with Ragnar. For one moment, my entire world is that lovely, processed meat. It’s better than knowing I never have to run again if I don’t want to.
But I did it. I finished. I’m a jock now. My team’s already talking about the next Ragnar, and I’m stoked. Just give me a minute to catch my breath.
But as soon as I do, it’s over for all you nerds.
THE WEEKLY GOODS
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First off, thank you to everyone who said hi at the North Park Book Fair. I’m so humbled to know that I have so many kind and wonderful readers! Sometimes it feels like I’m just throwing my inane—I mean brilliant—writing out into the void with no idea where it lands. But to connect faces to names...it’s just very rad. Also big ups to Verbatim, Justine and all the other people who put on such a good event. San Diego street fairs can sometimes feels Astroturf/Timeshare traps and overpriced beer gardens, but the book fair was all killer, no filler.
One of the items I had for sale at the book fair was my brand new zine, “Let’s Hope We Never Have to Do That Again,” an expanded and illustrated chronicle of my experience working as a polling site manager during the 2020 General Election. Some of you might remember that I wrote about this last November, but the zine has like three times the hilarity, insight, adventures and anguish. Plus, artist extraordinaire Walker Mettling provided some bonkers illustrations (I requested that he illustrate me as monstrous and grotesque as possible and, hoo boy, did he deliver!). I’m very proud of this zine, and I hope you pick it up. Cost is $10 (includes shipping). If you want a copy, Venmo me at Ryan-Bradford-2 with your address. I can also do Paypal.
I also had these brand new AWKSD shirts made. Birth-Awkward-Death. Felt like that summed up life, right? Shirts cost $20 and all sizes are unisex. Venmo or Paypal if you want one.
If you order both, I’ll throw in a free Sad CA Burrito enamel pin (a $10 value!). Thank you, and I hope you enjoy.
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Jake Najor is an essential member of San Diego’s music scene. He’s perhaps one of the most versatile drummers around, a pro who not only can tackle genre, but make it look easy. But Jake needs our help. He was recently admitted to the ER to be treated for pancreatitis and complications arose, resulting in sepsis. While he’s currently receiving dialysis and good medical care, anyone who knows anything about our broken healthcare system can predict that he’ll have some hefty medical bills when he gets out, which would be devastating for any professional artist. It’s also unlikely that he’ll be able to play out during his recovery, thereby slashing a major source of his income. Please help Jake out by donating to this GoFundMe.
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I’m still a little hesitant about recommending live shows because, well, COVID is not over. My brother and sister-in-law, who were both fully vaxxed, got COVID last week. So, I don’t know. I’m vaxxed, and I don’t have any children/vulnerable people who depend on me, so I’m relatively comfortable going to shows and bars. Please get vaxxed if you haven’t and don’t put anyone in uncomfortable situations. Namely, just don’t be a dick.
So if you’re ready to go to shows, you should see 10-19 and the Number Men next Wednesday (July 28th) at Soda Bar. I wrote about their strange, dark and amazing hip-hop a few months ago, and I’m stoked to hear the songs off their EP Spokes in a live setting.
Got a tip or wanna say hi? Email me at ryancraigbradford@gmail.com, or follow me on Twitter @theryanbradford. And if you like what you’ve just read, please hit that little heart icon at the end of the post.
Julia Dixon Evans edited this post. Thanks, Julia. Go follow her on Twitter.