Last Thursday morning I ran a 10k and then plunged into the ocean. It’s actually something I’ve been doing off and on for the last decade or so. It’s not anything I’m maniacal about, but it is an interesting glimpse through the window of the runner’s world. I’ll start by sharing a little bit of the physical experience before I shift to the metaphysical and metaphorical.
The race started at 11:45 AM to give those hung over people time to return to the land of the living. I don’t have that issue anymore. I’m high on life, as they say. It was nudging somewhere into the double digits Fahrenheit at race time with a swirling, gusting 30+ mph wind that drove the new snow into hollowed out drifts and banks along the course. I guess the weather watchers who care about such things would call it around -18 degres with the wind chill. Definitely balaklava weather, and maybe furry codpiece weather.
The race was slow going with the wind and the snow/slush underfoot. It was impossible to toe-off. I ran respectfully and managed a top-50 finish in my species for which I won a pilsner glass. Yee-hah! It seems the inclement weather had driven some of my faster cohorts back under their down comforters and competition was light. It’s always a cheerful time when I win something, because I never expect to. It’s like finding a $20 bill in the pocket of a jacket you haven’t worn for awhile.
Then we headed to the beach. The finish line chute actually put you pretty much right on the beach at the end of the race. Out on the beach huddled behind a cinder-block building was a bundled up man giving out ‘plunge mugs’ to everyone who went in the water and went under.
The beach up at Salisbury is about 50 ft wide at high tide, which it was. The top of the beach was drifted with snow. Brian and I got behind the building and began removing clothes. The trick here is that you remove those things that may drown you, like your sweater and shoes, but leave all your base layers on to prevent hypothermia. This is the ultimate wicking test, and you’re already wet from the race. Some people strip down to ‘trunks’ but I have found this to be at best needless machismo and at worse life threatening folly.
I tried to explain to anyone who would listen that they needed to make sure their shoes were untied, buttons unbuttoned, zippers un-zippered, etc because when you come out of the water you can no longer use your fingers.
As we dashed to the water we crossed a patch of frozen sand mixed with snow that broke into slabs like shattering weak ice on a pond. This year it was high tide. That is better in my opinion. Last year at low tide we had to run a very long cold distance out into the surf to get to deep enough water to dive in, thus prolonging the risk of death from exposure. At high tide there is a shelf where it drops off to 4-5 feet deep right away and you can dive right in after one or two strides.
This is not something you want to approach with caution or ease yourself into. Theirs is no toe-dipping here. The best bet is to run at the ocean screaming like a banshee on fire and hope your momentum outruns your higher brain functions.
People always ask me, “What is it like?” What I should say is “you have no idea”, but I usually shrug and say “it’s not that bad”. In reality there is no way to explain the feeling of hitting 36 degree water. You can hear my words but you will never truly understand the sensation until you do it. It’s like trying to explain the feeling you get at mile 40 of an ultra-marathon – it can’t be done – but if you’ve been there you know what I mean.
It takes a couple micro seconds for your body to realize you’ve just dived into 36 degree water. You don’t paddle about. It is heart-stoppingly cold. The shock hits you like a freight train. Your only thought is “get me the hell out of this now!” Then you pop up out of the surf and try to find your footing to get out. Unfortunately all of your motor skills are leaving your body as it tries not to die. With the high tide this year you popped up in fairly deep water and had to force yourself back up the steep shelf.
It is at this point where you are floundering in the surf with no control and your extremities numb that you suddenly think of mortality. You brain says “Oh crap we’re going to die”. Some little dude in the control room spins the handle on the adrenal gland and the moment of crisis passes. You lurch forward like an over-amped zombie and get out of the water one unsure foot plant at a time.
Now you’re up on the shore and you’re numb. You are beyond shivering. You get your mug and enjoy a new sexy dance called the “taking wet clothes off without the use of your hands tango”. And you get the “plunge mug”.
I like to think of this event as a launching pad for the New Year. It’s also a nice delimiter between the holiday rest and the start of a new spring marathon training program.
Like most of the races I run, I run this one because someone told me about it. This one was back in my wildly overoptimistic running days. I was tipped off by friends – running friends who were in the know.
There were years I would simply kick off the New Year with a long run, sometimes on New Year’s Eve. I didn’t swim at first – it was just another winter 10k.
Somewhere along the line they moved the finish line closer to the beach. Somehow I started combining my new year’s run with a plunge.
Now I find it’s something to look forward to. I tell people that “If I survive the swim then I’ll survive the training for Boston”. It’s like the capital letter on the front of my spring running sentence. It’s also a bit of adventure in the middle of the short dark days of winter in New England. Another one of those things you can talk about at work just to watch the people cringe.
Next year, my friends, consider kicking off your year with a dip in the ocean. Everyone does it – you’ll certainly feel like you did something different if not notable. And I’ll see you out there - I'll be face down in the surf turning blue.