Garin. Sounds like Erin, conveniently, with a G in front of it.

In the almost five years that my family and I have lived here, and for about the same length of time that I’ve been running with my Wolfpack team, I think every time I’ve heard someone mention racing cross-country at Garin, it’s been like watching the part in the Lion King (bear with me) when the hyenas are talking about how every time they udder the word “Mufasa,” the antagonist’s archenemy, the mere word sends an intractable chill down their spines. They can’t say Mufasa without shuddering; similarly, people here won’t speak of Garin without following it with some sort of moan or groan. Garin. Gaaaaaaaaarin.

It’s never oh, the course is so pretty! or the hills make you so much stronger later!

It’s always it’s hilly. It’s hard as hell.  It’s hella holey right off the starting line. It’s hot and exposed. God I hate that course.

It sounds super fun, right? Why not go try to race a 5k that has a couple hundred feet of elevation gain on terrain that alternates being flat but completely pocked with gopher holes everywhere (watch those ankles!), to some healthy-but-doable-climbs, to some fierce downhills that you kinda have to hope that the laws of physics and gravity won’t betray you, to more uneven footing, and more climbing, and more harsh downhill?

Add to the terrain mix the idea that, with it being a 5k and all, the idea is to redline as much as (un)comfortably possible.

And couple with those characteristics the backdrop of the rest of the east bay hills, which makes for a beautiful run and some sweeping views, but also the potential for the race to be hot hot hot — free of any tree cover or canopy whatsoever.

Again: it sounds super fun, right? Why not pay money to do something like this?!

I didn’t race Garin last year for some reason — I might have been doing a LR that day at home instead, or that might have been right after C’s surgery — so going into this storied race and course that my team has been doing for-just-about-ever,  I was blissfully unaware of what I was getting myself in to. Sorta.

I was delighted to learn that the women would be racing first, at 9am, since historically, I had heard that this was the only race on the PA XC circuit wherein the women raced last (read: in the hotter mid-morning weather). Plus, even better, come race day, Garin greeted us with a TON of fog, throwing at us some lovely autumnal crispy morning weather.

 

We fielded a full men’s and women’s team this year, which made the morning even more fun than usual, making it as much a social opportunity as a racing one. Janet and I carpooled up to the east bay, and upon getting there, ran about a 2.5 mile warmup with our other lady Wolves who’d be racing that morning. Only a handful of the women that day had raced Garin before, but I think all of us knew going in that this course would be a tough one and that people spoke so trepidatiously about it with good reason. We had just covered most of the race course in our warm-up miles; we knew what was awaiting us.

My strategy for the race was pretty straightforward: stay controlled on the first mile, most of which was flat or uphill; open it up on the downhills and continue to stay controlled on the uphills in the second and third-ish miles; and on the last 1200m to home — flat (with maybe a teeny, tiny uphill) — hammer. Oh, and not eat shit. That is always the (laudable) goal in these XC races.

Much as I did at the SF GGP open a couple weeks ago, at Garin, I never looked at my watch for the pace. Even when the mile marked beeped, I didn’t bother. I didn’t know it; I didn’t want to know it; I honestly didn’t care. Teammates have told me before that in XC, time matters less than place, and I think I’ve finally taken that to heart and have tried to race fairly strategically (or at least attempt to). The goal is to be the team with the lowest finishing score (akin to golf), so what matters more is finishing placement: try not to get passed. Pass as many women as you can. That sorta thing.   

Right off the line, I found myself fairly far back in the pack, per yoosh with the PA races (and especially XC), but I tried not to worry about it, thinking that I still had 2.1+ miles to make up for it and move ahead. With our team’s new highlighter orange jerseys, it makes it super easy to spot us, and this was especially true during the race. Even though the course was pretty ensconced in fog, I could make out my teammates ahead of me at any given time, which was fun as I willed myself to pull myself closer to them.

Running most of the course during the warm-up was also helpful because I had a good idea of what to anticipate. Certainly, running at XC race pace feels completely different than running casually over the same terrain, but it still helped to think ok, after this big climb, we have a big downhill or the footing is tricky here, so we better stay over to the right or whatever. I absolutely didn’t anticipate how much my eyes would be watering — and how hard it would be to see while careening downhill — but hey, XC is nothing if not full of surprises, right? (I almost always wear sunglasses while I run for this very reason, but I decided not to that morning because it was so foggy out).

Most of the rest of the race is a blur and passed by relatively quickly. It was cool to see my female teammates ahead of me on some of the hills — Claire (our lead woman) was like a beacon in the sea, guiding us all safely to home — and of course, hearing the support from my male teammates (whose race was after ours) mid-course was a fantastic pick-me-up. I tried super hard to stay mentally engaged, to not check out when things got tough, and to not ease up on the downs. Let me tell you: keeping the effort high on the descents was tough! I’m typically not a particularly fast or brave downhill runner, and holy shit, I felt like I had some pretty close calls racing the descents. I thought that whole don’t eat shit goal was hanging precariously in the balance.

I wanted to finish with a really strong kick over the final 1200m, especially if it was going to be the flattest part of the course. I finished feeling like I didn’t have a whole lot left to give and managed to finish as our 4th woman that day, behind Claire, Lani, and Shannon, but I also thought that I probably could have worked harder on the final finishing straight. Runners typically tend to think this way, right? I could have done better, pushed harder. Eh. Next year.

 

Shortly after the women’s race, the men toed the line, so my lady Wolves and I got in some CD miles while cheering them on at various parts in the race. Fortunately, the fog was still hanging out, so the open’s men race also had more pleasant-than-usual temps for their Garin experience. I think all of us, save for the master’s men who raced last, after the fog had dissipated and the temps began heating up, got pretty lucky this year with race day weather.

I can definitely see why or how many runners would view Garin somewhat antagonistically, in some type of twisted love-hate relationship. Without a doubt, it’s a hard course.

That said, honestly, I think that’s part of what makes XC so gratifying though (and, going out on a limb here, such a “pure” type of running): it’s you against the terrain. That’s it. You know it’s going to be hard.

You’re not signing up for these types of races in exchange for sponsor-splashed swag, or copious amounts of on-course entertainment, or an Old Country Buffet-style of food options afterward. It’s you, your race bib pinned on your singlet, the course, and an official time. Oh, and a couple Dixie cups of water afterward, provided you remember to grab some.

There are no roads closed off, no real accommodations to speak of to make for an “easier” racing experience, no nothing. The fastest way out is through.

Chalk up the experience to another deposit to the bank of mental and physical callusing for CIM.