HTC 2010

I shot Hood-to-Coast racers again in 2010. Since I've already written about the experience here and here, I won't bore you with the details of the job; instead I'll talk about some of the competitors I met and post the pictures I took of them (when available).

I don't have pictures to accompany these guys, but I saw two one-armed runners, one one-legged runner, and one blind runner. I probably scared the crap out of the blind guy when I hopped out of my chair to photograph him, as I was stationed at a pretty remote spot, on a private logging road, but he seemed to figure out who I was and what I was doing. What I found funny was that about three minutes later his hunchbacked escort ran by. Shouldn't they have been running together, or maybe even the guide out in front to keep the path clear?

This woman cradled her boobs and shouted "Team handful!" for me as I took her picture. My first reaction was that she was boasting of her bounteous endowment, maybe even trying to give me a stamina boost to help me last the day, but I realized she she was just marketing her team, which is an actual company that makes sports bras (for women, of course).



When I ran my last marathon in 2002, Meg (7-months pregnant) patiently waited for me to finish. One of the runners who beat me looked similar to to this guy. If you don't lubricate particular parts of the male body before long runs, they will chaff and chaff until blood dribbles out. Fortunately for this fellow, his shirt was painted (I asked), unlike the guy Meg saw in the marathon.

Even though they weren't dressed up in costume, a few runners bear resemblance to famous people. These two represent what I thought looked like Forrest Gump and Kirby Heybourne. I've never understood why some people wear costumes while they race, since it slows you down so much, and they soon become stinky stained with sweat that you just can't ever eliminate before Halloween. But then I remember all of the people dancing and going crazy at the beach in Seaside after all is said-and-run and recall that not everyone is trying their best to race for a fast time.


One of the most common gripes runners voice to me is, "Why do you have to be taking my picture at the end of the race when I'm all sweaty and gross and feeling so much pain?" Uhh, because that's my job, duh.

This woman offered these words to me but somehow managed to pose and smile big and look like she was on a leisurely stroll through the park. I'd argue that she looks pretty good, especially considering the circumstances. And based on the fact that she and I were able to carry on a relatively lengthy conversation without her slowing down only further demonstrates her mastery of the fine art of sandbagging. Back when I used to race, fellow racers often accused me of such, but I was just really good at pacing myself and being able to dig deep for a final, balls-out sprint to the finish.



With a race of 12,000+ runners, you see a little bit of everything, gays included. When I saw the guy on the left coming I immediately labeled him as such. A few seconds later he asked me how far it was to the finish, which put to rest any doubt I had of my original premonition. I don't know about the guy on the right, but he's probably a good candidate. So for all of you heterosexual male runners out there who fear looking gay, avoid swinging your arms all loose-goosey, tilting your head to one side, and bending your hands at the wrist.



Many of you know that I have become a convert to wearing Vibram FiveFingers exclusively, and I'm so drunk on the kool-aide that I dread putting on my dress shoes for church on Sundays (the lone day time I wear traditional shoes). I haven't built up a tolerance to running more than a few miles in my FiveFingers, so I was quite impressed when I saw about five different men and this lone woman sporting them. I even shot one woman who was completely and utterly barefoot. I'm guessing her excuse was that she was pregnant.

Because Leg 35 was on a private logging road, I guess the local sheriff thought he needed a small army to patrol the six miles of peaceful serenity. All the local law enforcement officials must have left town (like most smart Seasidians do every year during this weekend), because we were left with two mounties (probably had migrated south from Canada for the summer), two teen-age boys wearing their daddys' uniforms, and some dude riding a four-wheeler. They caused more harm then good, kicking up dust storms, getting in the way of the runners, and ruining my pristine photographic backdrop. Although the real sheriff drove by at one point and gave me the third degree. Sure, he just asked if I had enough water or if I needed anything else--to which I tried to think of something clever to retort, but failed--but you could tell he was fishing for some reason to haul my well-shaped a** to county lock-up.

I listened to my Zune the entire first day, but I kept my ears free the second and shouted encouragement to every passerby. Many asked how far it was to the finish, and I offered the information to just about everyone. Upon hearing that only 1.5 miles remained (out of 7.5 miles total for the leg), most thanked me or God or Jesus, some called me their hero and savior, and maybe two or three jerks cursed me out because they thought they were closer to finishing.