Last Tuesday, I biked alongside fellow Seattle heptathlon participant Kristin Linder on a meandering 12-mile gravel trail near North Bend as she regaled me with stories about the time she’d caught and ridden wild horses through 1,000 kilometers of Mongolia’s steppes. Now, she was hoping to participate in the 710-mile Race to Alaska — where the only rule is that your vessel can’t be motorized. “This is a woman that gets after it,” I thought. An absolute crusher. No stranger to grit and doing hard things.

So when Linder suggested we should have done this mild 3% grade ride as a descent instead of a steady climb to make it a little easier, I was surprised. “What are you talking about?” I thought. 

This bike ride was a part of the second annual Seattle heptathlon — a quest to complete, in a single day, a water sport, a land sport and a snow sport, interspersed with stops for quintessentially Seattle things like coffee, beer, seafood and a cultural outing. 

Would you do the unofficial Seattle heptathlon?

A group of outdoorsy friends created the Seattle heptathlon. The full schedule is here.

Esri, Google (Fiona Martin / The Seattle Times)

I grew up in the Seattle area skiing competitively and in adulthood, my competitive bent fuels an internal fire toward the “harder, faster, stronger” mentality. So in the lead-up to this marathon of a day, I pushed myself to run fast laps of Green Lake while sick just to ensure I would be able to keep up with the group of intense outdoors athletes I’d been invited to hang with.

Yet, here was Linder suggesting we should have done the easier option by tackling the uphill bike ride in reverse? “I just think it might have been more accessible and fun for the group,” she said. 

This all-day adventure with the grandiose name was the brainchild of Craig Janis, a transplant from the Bay Area who loves his adopted city. In many ways, Janis, a 40-year-old tech worker who loves the outdoors, fits the stereotype of what comes to mind when people think of Seattle. But he bucks the trend in one way: After having kids in their early 20s, Janis and his wife, Kaitlyn, have more time on their hands than the average couple in their early 40s.

“It’s like he’s doing adulthood in reverse,” said Daniel Singer, Janis’ good friend, Linder’s partner, another Seattle heptathlon participant and the father of a toddler. 

Now that Janis’ kids are teenagers, he’s fully embraced what his friends call an unending childlike spirit. He brings a sense of enthusiasm and wonder to everything he does — and he likes to try new adventures. (He signed up for a 90K cross-country ski race in Sweden next year without ever having been on cross-country skis. Earlier this year, he enthusiastically completed the annual Ring of Fire bike race out of Bend, Ore., though, “It’s too bad he came in third to last,” said Singer. “The first and last place finishers win free entry to next year’s race.”

In that effervescent spirit of adventure, Janis set out to create the Seattle equivalent of the classic California dual-sport itinerary of skiing and surfing in a single day. Thus, the Seattle heptathlon was born.

Janis fleshed out the original water-and-mountain activity and stuffed the itinerary with other fun things “because everything’s in such close proximity,” he said. Janis and five others participated in the inaugural Seattle heptathlon in 2024 and had so much fun they decided to do it again in 2025. 

Despite the official-sounding name, it’s very much a low-key grassroots concoction with the vibes of a group of friends at adult summer camp, and it fell into my lap when my editor asked if I wanted to take on a challenge The Seattle Times outdoors writer Gregory Scruggs had to pass on due to other priorities. 

I eagerly accepted the assignment because I couldn’t think of anything else I’d rather be doing on a random Tuesday with a bunch of adventure-hungry strangers. Especially right now, at a point where several threads in my life have unraveled. 

A couple of summers ago, while I was in grad school after having left a communications career for journalism, a friend suggested that the ages 27-30 were defining years where people either committed to choices they’d made or cut themselves loose to venture off on new frontiers. With many of the questions of your early 20s answered, the challenges of chasing what you want set in. 

On the cusp of my 28th birthday, feeling unfulfilled by a full-time reporting fellowship with benefits, I left it to pursue freelance journalism and work part time at a coffee shop. The relationship that spanned my entire adult life ended a month ago. As someone who loves to spend time outside, I’m still figuring out what this all means for my desire and ability to prioritize outdoor objectives as I navigate a new life without my former default adventure partner. 

Without nearing the physical limits of the hardcore adventurers in our state, I like to push myself. I do weekly weighted pull-ups to get stronger at climbing and hill runs to stay fit for ski touring and hiking. I have no delusion that I’ll be better than average at any outdoor sport, and still, for the past half decade, almost every outdoor adventure has been about pushing harder and going farther. 

So I was ready for the Seattle heptathlon to provide some sort of revelation about life or, at very least, my relationship to sport. I was also a little nervous — how intense of bikers were these guys going to be? Could I keep up?

MORNING

On heptathlon day, I was out of my house before 5 a.m. to get to the first event: a sunrise kayak tour through Lake Union. 

Julia Whitman, my kayak partner, couldn’t take the day off work, so she joined for the kayak portion and breakfast. The group was composed of friends and friends of friends, mostly in their late 30s, early 40s, many with kids and full-time jobs, with a mix of outdoors experience. One participant, Ben Boulch, was invited to participate after meeting Janis through an avalanche course. Having recently moved back to Seattle from Boston, the invitation had felt like an antidote to the infamous Seattle Freeze, Boulch said. 

According to Janis’ meticulously planned out itinerary, the morning water adventure would be followed by breakfast at Saint Bread — recently heralded by The New York Times as one of the U.S.’s best bakeries — a stroll through the University of Washington’s cherry blossom trees and a tour of UW’s famed Suzzallo Library.

Then we’d venture south to Capitol Hill for coffee at Espresso Vivace before beginning the land sport: a 12-mile gravel bike ride out of North Bend — with a snack stop at Scott’s Dairy Freeze. Finally, came skiing at Snoqualmie, followed by beers at Dru Bru in North Bend, a drive back to Seattle for chowder at Ivar’s, a spin on the Great Wheel, and oysters at Elliott’s Oyster House before a nightcap at Zig Zag Cafe, a Pike Place cocktail bar known for a drink called The Last Word that was popularized by the late, great renowned bartender Murray Stenson.

With all the bonus activities stuffed into the itinerary, the final tally of things we did throughout the day was 13 (not 7), and I got home shortly after 11 p.m. 

The heptathlon was a marathon of a day, but it wasn’t a race. Instead, it was a low-stakes itinerary centered on having fun. “We’re really flexible about it,” said Janis. “We told everybody, ‘Hey, join us for whichever of these seven elements you can make it for.’” 

Anyone who participates in even one activity can get a custom, commemorative T-shirt. This year, only six of the 16 participants completed every element and made it to Zig Zag Cafe for the final toast. Others came and went as schedules or interests dictated, which reinforced how this was more about enjoying the activities and the city we love, than it was about channeling a hardcore crusher spirit and finishing for the sake of bragging rights or a fast time. 

I enjoyed getting to know my fellow participants along the way.

From UW, I rode to Espresso Vivace with Janis’ wife, Kaitlyn. She talked about her family’s varying degrees of enthusiasm for outdoor adventures: ranked from most enthusiastic to least — Janis, their younger son, herself and their older son. The bike ride was the only one of the heptathlon’s physical activities she’d planned to participate in, Kaitlyn said, but she’d brought a book to read during the skiing leg, and had cheered everyone on as the kayaks pulled into Fritz Hedges Park that morning.  

I asked Kaitlyn if — with a partner like Janis, who had seemingly bottomless energy — she’d always been good at knowing her limits. Because in some ways, my ex was a lot like Janis — boundless energy, with a ceaseless stoke for adventure.

Together, we’d leaned into the big adventures and physical challenges we’d dreamed up. We’d climbed until our fingertips bled, shared second breakfast on a backpacking trip with far more vert than imagined because someone (me) hadn’t looked closely at the topo lines on the green map while planning, and cried happy tears at the top of Mount Shasta. 

With the breakup, I’d lost a partner and friend, but also, sometimes it felt, an external voice that motivated me to break the bounds of my physical limits. 

Many of my favorite outdoor adventure memories were built through my ex and me pushing each other — but so were a lot of my hardest outdoor moments. I cried my way up the final hills of a bike ride from Oakland, Calif., to the top of Mount Diablo (his vision, my prompting); rest days from climbing were always “active rest days” — go, go, go. Sometimes, he’d push me to stay out at the boulders later than I wanted, sometimes I dragged him on runs after full days of skiing.

We relished reaching “the bitter end” of our physical limits. But reflecting back, I wondered if the zest for adventure I’d started with had, over time, devolved into a need to prove that I could keep up. Was it as hard for Kaitlyn to say no to some of the heptathlon activities as it might have been for me?

They just had different approaches, she told me. She did what she knew she had the mental and physical capacity for on any given day. Janis could always find someone to match his energy for a big adventure. She knew when to say no, and no one thought her less legitimate for it.

The group hit up Espresso Vivace a few minutes after 10 a.m. for a pick-me-up before the next leg: gravel biking.

AFTERNOON

My ride up to North Bend was a U-Haul truck Janis had rented to transport everyone’s skis and bikes. On the drive, he asked me about freelance reporting and I told him about how amazing it was to bear witness to people’s lives and get to examine the world through different lenses. “But it’s also a grind,” I said. “I’m working at a coffee shop part time to make the finances all work — and honestly, it might be time to think about venturing back into communications.” 

Janis tried to instill hope. He said 27 was still a time to figure it all out, and that he’d worked a bunch of odd jobs in his 20s and passed the Foreign Service exam four times without ever receiving an appointment before landing in the tech world in his 30s. 

He seemed so sure that everything would be fine — that there was still time. What’s the balance, though, I wondered, between chasing something you want and practicality? I’d love to keep doing what I’m doing, but it sure would be nice to have employer-sponsored health insurance. I don’t know what the future will hold or how much endurance I have for the chase — a fact that keeps me oscillating between a sense of ripe possibility and crippling dread. I found his certainty only slightly reassuring. 

At North Bend, powered by a snack stop for ice cream and burgers from Scott’s Dairy Freeze, we unloaded the truck to begin a gravel bike ride that would take us up a meandering 3%-grade trail. We also reconnected with participant Miranda Poon, who had left the group after Saint Bread. Then, while we sipped coffees and drove to the start of the gravel ride, she’d biked over 40 miles from Seattle to North Bend to do the ride with us before turning around and biking home. 

Despite the presence of hardcore endurance athletes like Poon, my preheptathlon worries about slowing the group were abated. Besides, pace wasn’t the point. The ride reminded me how much fun it is to explore the world by bike. Later that week, when a friend reached out with an idea to loop the 520 and I-90 bridges, I jumped at the chance to get back on the saddle. 

The whole day was flowing seamlessly thanks to Janis’ hard work in advance: logistics involved a Google form, route planning maps and a gnarly spreadsheet to ensure everyone had transportation at every stage of the way.

Despite the packed itinerary, skiing was the only activity we started behind schedule (by about 45 minutes) but Janis had built in enough buffer time on the back end that we got right back on track. 

It was a perfect spring skiing kind of day — soft slush smeared under skis delightfully on the steeps and made for slow, sticky skating on the flats. Down moguls or cruisers, I found playful lines, looking back to see the duck on Janis’ helmet bouncing jauntily as he made his way down.

EVENING

After postskiing beers at Dru Bru in North Bend, we headed back to Seattle for chowder at Ivar’s before a sunset spin on the Great Wheel. On the drive into town, my millennial companions got a kick out of how I’d never heard of the “Now That’s What I Call Music” series of CD compilations. To their question, “Do you know this song?” my answer was often “no” or “not well,” though I did at least recognize Janet Jackson’s “Together Again” — phew. 

On the Great Wheel, Janis made sure that everyone switched spots enough throughout the four-round ride that no view of the Olympics, or the Seattle skyline at sunset, would be missed. We were right on time for our 8:15 p.m. reservation at Elliott’s Oyster House — at which point, half the group said farewell. Sleepiness had come for us all. Four dozen oysters later, the group’s boisterous energy had mellowed to match the lulling red glow at Zig Zag Cafe, the night’s final stop.

I’d love to say that the reflective atmosphere at Zig Zag culminated in shared ruminations about the day’s events and what it all meant — but in reality, everyone was far too tired for that. People talked about how much they were looking forward to a shower and bed. I could relate. The next morning, I’d be up at 5:40 a.m. to make it to my shift at the coffee shop. 

I had come into the day searching for some revelation about life, career or relationship to sport through my fellow Seattle heptathlon participants. And for them, fun was reason enough to build a day of connection with their environment and community into their busy lives. There’s already talk of what might be in store for “Sea Hep 3.” 

Four days later, I spent my 28th birthday in a forest, bouldering under sunny skies with a good group of people and no plan to try any particularly challenging boulders, but simply to have a good time and touch rock.

Surrounded by Cascade peaks, sharing snacks and enjoying movement on the rock, we talked about boulders we wanted to climb, places we wanted to see, volcanoes we wanted to ski — and I could taste the pull of a little try-hard. 

It was a reminder that sometimes, a change of pace, a goofy adventure and rolling with the unknown can reconnect us to the sense of fun and wonder that made us want to push in the first place.