“Joy, it’s so frickin cold out there,” I scowled as I read 17 degrees on the porch thermometer. “Daddy, you used the word, frickin?” “Yes it’s frickin cold and I don’t know what to wear to the race.” I had laid out my running shorts and long sleeve tech shirt and Runner’s Edge tech T to wear over it, already pinned up with my bib number 4980. Now I had to reconsider my choice of apparel, what with the frickin cold and snow on the ground and all.
After too much deliberation, I donned the togs that I had laid out, but then pulled over an extra layer of running pants, a zippered fleecy jacket, my black balaclava, and two layered gloves. There - I’m prepared for anything.
My Buick’s thermometer read 23 degrees as I pulled into the parking area on Franklin St. just North of I-25 and about a half-mile from the start line on Louisiana St. As I slowly jogged up Franklin toward South High School I observed the gray, overcast sky for any sign of a break in the clouds. To the east was a frail, thin patch of blue.
Upon arriving at the south end of Wash Park I entered a vacant tennis court and leisurely pursued my stretching routine, as I still had about 45 min till start time. Then I made my decision. I would jog back down to my car and strip off my running pants, my fleecy jacket and gloves. I’d gamble that the sun would come out and I’d be glad not to be weighed down by the extra clothing.
By the time I had jogged back up to the porta potties on Louisiana I felt comfortable and sufficiently warmed up to do a race. Then I ran over to the corner of Louisiana and Gilpin to greet my fellow Runner’s Edge members who looked at my bare legs and thought I looked cold. I wished them well, and then sped off to find a place about 40 feet back from the start line. I thought this would be the prefect place: not up with the elite youngsters and not back with the baby stroller crowd.
It wasn’t long before birds of a feather began flocking together: first I saw Steve Renda then Rachel, my summer speed work pacing partner, then Charles Scheibe showed up, and then friends of friends were introduced, and finally I saw Stephen Kurtz. The sun was now shining and my bet on shedding my outer layer was paying off. We all excitedly chirped away as the race officials tried to do their litany of thank you’s until finally a voice yelled out “START” and the crowd slowly made its way over the blue mesh starting pads.
It took me 18 seconds to get up to the start line and immediately I could see that I should have started up closer to the start line, because the dense pack was not moving that fast, and there weren’t any holes to move through. I thought this first mile could be so slow that I might not be able to recover my lost time.
I weaved in and out of runners heading north on Downing up the west side of Wash Park. Gradually after about a half mile the crowd opened up and I could resume my speed. At the huge one-mile marker (thank you race planners for the gigantic markers!) I looked at my watch: 7:04. I was surprised, especially considering the slow start. Should I slow down a bit? After all, I was shooting for a pace of 7:30 to give me a PR of 30 min. My competitive instinct said, “No, see if you can keep up this pace, even if it hurts a bit.”
I rounded the corner onto E. Virginia St and clipped along the North side of the park and then rounded the corner and coursed down Franklin St on the East side of the park. As I passed the 2-mile mark I checked my watch and the dial reported 10:29, which didn’t make any sense at all. I thought the cold might have made it malfunction; it sure made my bare hands inoperable. My mind was not sharp enough to realize the watch had been bumped onto “time of day” mode, instead of stopwatch mode. For the rest of the race I had no idea exactly how fast I was going, except I felt sure I would break 30 min. I just didn’t know how by how much.
Around this time just after passing and ignoring a water station, I noticed a tall runner ahead and to my left, dressed in red, with a distinctive upright posture and way of holding his head. Sure enough, I knew who it was. As I came up abreast of him, I called over, “Mike Kennedy, you’re running really well.” Mike responded in kind and we ran together for a while, and then I pulled ahead. After a while I would hear advancing footsteps behind me, and I would surge ahead so as to dishearten the potential passer, who happened to be Mike.
Mike had been following just behind me for mile three as we ran onto the path inside the park and around the lakes. Now as we moved into mile four Mike made his move, passing me. Keeping up with Mike kept me going fast, but eventually I started reaching the “puke point” and knew I was near my limit. Which brings me to an important issue: just how fast can you make yourself go? When you are breathing the frigid air as heavily as you can, when you are digging deeply into reserves, trolling the furthest reaches of that ocean of pain, trying to catch just one more lightning fast fish that will pull you over the finish line - just how much can you punish yourself? And what reason will your mind give your body for all this suffering?
The sight of the finish line as I rounded the last curve brought an end to these dark mental struggles, and I kicked in to shave off a second or two. As I neared the finish line I see 28:18 on the clock, my gun time.
No spouse or loved one to greet me with a hug and a laurel leaf crown. Oh well, I must be satisfied knowing that I did my very best. Or did I? How can one really know that for sure? Anyway I felt proud of my effort, and knew that I had trained well for this “fun run” that really wasn’t so much fun as much as an exercise in endurance and pacing out my energy reserves.
Mike Kennedy finds me and we congratulate each other. Mike beat me by 9 seconds with a finish time of 27:51 and a 6:58 pace. My time was 28:00 and a pace of 7:01, a PR of 2:18 faster than my 4M Liberty Run on 7/4/07. I came in first out of 132 in my age group 60-69. As I try to tear open the tough wrapper of my Lemon Lara Bar with my inoperable, frozen hands, Mike tells me this time will put me in the first few waves of the BolderBoulder next year.
Mike and I hung around to greet our friends as they finish. Scott Hild ran at a great clip for most of the race but had a difficult time getting out of the crowded pack at the start, giving him a slow first mile. Dave Longcope and Stephanie Jones chat with me until my damp clothes start chilling me and I walk the half-mile back to my car. I thought to myself as my walk turned into a slow jog, “Hey, I should write about this race and put it on my blog.” Hope you enjoyed reading it.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Monday, November 5, 2007
KC Road Trip Part Four
After My Race and the Trip Home
As my running abruptly ceased I tried to comprehend that my race was over. I felt relief from the hard effort; felt the pride of accomplishment; felt the need to share my joy with a friend, with my kids: to tell them every one of those affirmations that I shared with Jim Lynch last night really came true. But no one was there for me, except the volunteer who knelt at my shoe to clip off my timing chip. So I wobbled down the chute alone to another volunteer who placed over my neck the light blue ribbon holding the finisher’s medal. And then I was surprised with the gift of a finisher’s technical T-shirt. Finally, the familiar face of Merril Loomis, who finished her half-marathon, greeted me and much needed hugs of mutual congratulations followed. I picked up orange wedges, bananas and a yogurt cup and started replacing carbs, while looking about for other finishers.
In the crowd, whom should I meet but barefoot Rick. Merril and I asked Rick if we could see the bottoms of his feet, expecting to see humungous calluses. All we saw was dirt. Rick said he had run Trail Ridge Road through Rocky Mtn. National Park this summer, barefoot of course.
As my running abruptly ceased I tried to comprehend that my race was over. I felt relief from the hard effort; felt the pride of accomplishment; felt the need to share my joy with a friend, with my kids: to tell them every one of those affirmations that I shared with Jim Lynch last night really came true. But no one was there for me, except the volunteer who knelt at my shoe to clip off my timing chip. So I wobbled down the chute alone to another volunteer who placed over my neck the light blue ribbon holding the finisher’s medal. And then I was surprised with the gift of a finisher’s technical T-shirt. Finally, the familiar face of Merril Loomis, who finished her half-marathon, greeted me and much needed hugs of mutual congratulations followed. I picked up orange wedges, bananas and a yogurt cup and started replacing carbs, while looking about for other finishers.
In the crowd, whom should I meet but barefoot Rick. Merril and I asked Rick if we could see the bottoms of his feet, expecting to see humungous calluses. All we saw was dirt. Rick said he had run Trail Ridge Road through Rocky Mtn. National Park this summer, barefoot of course.
Eventually I found Kent Kirchoff, Heidi Baldwin, Nason Newberg and Jim Turosak. Kent had slashed 10 minutes off last year’s running of KC to post a PR of 3:32. Nason had run an impressive but unofficial 3:23 because he had forgotten his timing chip. (Nason, how could you?) I would like to mention all the others who may have joined us but frankly, my memory does not serve me well after running 26.2 M! Was it here that I found Doug Tisdale in his blue superman shirt, feeling very proud of running the first leg of his relay in 54 minutes? And did I then find Todd Krapf and Kristen Johnson who told me they were just engaged last night and had run the full instead of the half? It seems that Frank and Jessica were there too. I did look about for Scoff Hild, my running mate for the first half, but failed to find him.
Then I worked my way over to the curb of Baltimore Street where I could cheer on other Runner’s Edge friends as they approached the finish line. Along the way I met Coach David who had finished his marathon, and was on his way back up Baltimore to the infamous left turn to run some of the first time marathoners back to the finish. He asked me how I did and three sets of high-fives followed. Merril and I joined dozens of other spectators and whooped and hollered our teammates into the finish chute, causing a narrowing of the street for the final block.
I witnessed one middle-aged male runner doing a full cartwheel to the astonishment of all. That stunt would have totally ruined me.
I hadn’t done any stretching yet and became concerned about stiffness setting in, so I walked back from the curb and started my routine. It was then that my knee pain resurfaced for the first time since I had forgotten about it in the latter miles of the race. From that moment on, my right leg got stiffer and harder to bend. Going up and down steps was particularly uncomfortable.
Back at the curb I cheered Karen Craig, Jamie Seemiller, and Randy Caley among others. (Everyone in our group who finished absolutely deserves mention in this narrative. For each person, this was an unforgettable event, especially for the first time marathoners. Congratulations to all!)
Not finding any posting of winners of age groups, and not being able to wait till the awards ceremony at 1 PM, I left with some of our group to make the hike back to the Crown Center. Jim Lynch had wrangled a check out time of 2 PM for our room and I wanted to make sure I enjoyed a hot shower and time to pack up. Of course this entailed hobbling up many steps to go over the train yards and down many steps again. But I was a happy warrior and was assured by Dr. Dave that my knee pains were only temporary and not unusual. (I’ve fully recovered.)
Back at the Hyatt I called my kids with news about the race and asked my son, Sajal, to check the marathon website now and then for the race results. After our showers, Jim and I checked our baggage with the concierge.
We then found the Runner’s Edge gang at the Peppercorn Duck on the Mezzanine level. Each time one of us arrived in the bar cheers erupted from all. The pink cowboy hat was being passed around and eventually landed on my head. I protested and cited other worthy candidates for it, but was voted down. Reluctantly I agreed to wear it at the first training run of the winter season, as the “tradition” dictated.
As I nursed my pricey microbrewed beer and my $10 mini-pizza, I finally found Scott, my long-lost running mate of the first half. He told me that at around 13M he started losing me and finally ceased trying to catch up with “my bony butt,” but ended up with a nice PR.
Everyone had their own stories of valor or frustration to tell. Laura recapped the news about her multiple vomiting incidents culminating with dry heaves. Fortunately, Jim Lynch was there for her along the way and through to the finish. Jim regretted running another full marathon just six days after his last one. Many had PR’s to report.
Our table mysteriously came up $65 short after everyone threw in their share. Al Hawker took the cash and paid the bill with plastic. Then we started throwing cash at Al to assuage the guilt. During our celebration, I left to see the friendly concierge about looking up the awards on his computer. After repeated tries, I eventually found out that I medalled third place in my age group 60-64. That was icing on the cake. Even without medalling, for me, I had run a near perfect race, giving it my best effort.
Later in the evening our group of sore and gimpy marathoners hobbled out of the Hyatt lobby and embarked on another hike in search of the Jack Stack Barbeque restaurant, on the other side of the train yards of course. The mammoth old Union Station lay in our path. Go around it or through it? Through it we went, through a retro diner and gift shops trying to avoid stairs whenever we could. Upon arriving at our promised land where our $25 gift certificates would be honored, we were seated on Jack Stack’s delightful patio in full view of KC’s second best known signature feature (second only to their fountains), namely the bustling freight yards.
In between noisy train arrivals, happening every two minutes, Colin, Dina, Rose, Jen, Nicole and I were able to squeeze in animated conversations. While waiting for our sumptuous fillet mignons and ribs to arrive we passed around cell phones showing pictures of our cute pets, including Nicole’s very obese black cat.
Observing our hampered ability to ambulate, Eladio offered to ferry the most afflicted of us back to the hotel in his SUV. Putting the back seat down, he packed us like a school of well fed sardines into his late model can and dropped us off at the Hyatt.
The last chapter of our KC adventure was our return bus ride to Denver, leaving KC at about 10 PM. JW first drove us to a Wal-Mart on the edge of town. I painfully eased myself down the bus steps and hobbled across the asphalt so I could purchase some Aleve. Inside the store I saw the hilarious sight of Scott, driving an electric cart, with a plastic wrapped pillow in the cart’s basket to the check out counter. He asked the lady if he could drive the cart out to the bus and leave it there.
I wish I had bought a pillow too. Trying to find a comfortable sleep position was a challenge. Merril traded seats with me so I could stretch out my bum right leg across her extra seat. David played Jim Lynch’s 50 marathon DVD again, this time running it to the end with a minimum of technical problems. Next he played the James Bond movie, Casino Royale. As it wrestled, crashed, grimaced and chased away on the two TV screens, I hid under my blankie, dreaming of quieter times.
After the Casino closed for the night, sleep was pursued by all. Jim Turosak bedded himself down in the aisle. (I almost stepped on his head.) During the night nearly everyone hiked back to the on-board rest room, stepping over the ice chest. (I had long ago returned to that chest the dripping bag of ice that I used on my right knee.)
As we finally neared Strasburg JW safely piloted our sleep-mobile through quite a blowing snowstorm. The landscape had turned white, and the wipers were slapping heavy white clots off the windshield. Our arrival back at the Sam’s Club parking lot near Quebec and 35th Ave. Sunday morning at around 7:30 AM was anticlimactic. There was no welcoming party complete with brass band and the mayor, who was to bestow accolades, was absent. Just heavy wet snow to hamper us as we loaded our luggage into our snow covered vehicles. Laura thankfully offered to drive me and my dripping pink cowboy hat home.
So ends my chronicle of the Runner’s Edge first road trip. I invite participants to add their personal stories or corrections to my account. I want to extend many thanks to our coach, David Manthey, for taking a leap of faith and successfully organizing such an adventure as this. Also thanks to Eladio Valdez for his role in designing the racecourse, sharing his running wisdom and making us feel most welcome. Finally thanks to every one of our group who ran the race on that beautiful autumn Saturday. These are some of the nicest and toughest people I know. What we shared those four days will never be forgotten. I wish I could have included absolutely everyone in some way into this narrative. Everyone has an important story to tell, and is welcome to add it here or on the Runner’s Edge discussion board, or success story site. Congratulations to all!
I witnessed one middle-aged male runner doing a full cartwheel to the astonishment of all. That stunt would have totally ruined me.
I hadn’t done any stretching yet and became concerned about stiffness setting in, so I walked back from the curb and started my routine. It was then that my knee pain resurfaced for the first time since I had forgotten about it in the latter miles of the race. From that moment on, my right leg got stiffer and harder to bend. Going up and down steps was particularly uncomfortable.
Back at the curb I cheered Karen Craig, Jamie Seemiller, and Randy Caley among others. (Everyone in our group who finished absolutely deserves mention in this narrative. For each person, this was an unforgettable event, especially for the first time marathoners. Congratulations to all!)
Not finding any posting of winners of age groups, and not being able to wait till the awards ceremony at 1 PM, I left with some of our group to make the hike back to the Crown Center. Jim Lynch had wrangled a check out time of 2 PM for our room and I wanted to make sure I enjoyed a hot shower and time to pack up. Of course this entailed hobbling up many steps to go over the train yards and down many steps again. But I was a happy warrior and was assured by Dr. Dave that my knee pains were only temporary and not unusual. (I’ve fully recovered.)
Back at the Hyatt I called my kids with news about the race and asked my son, Sajal, to check the marathon website now and then for the race results. After our showers, Jim and I checked our baggage with the concierge.
We then found the Runner’s Edge gang at the Peppercorn Duck on the Mezzanine level. Each time one of us arrived in the bar cheers erupted from all. The pink cowboy hat was being passed around and eventually landed on my head. I protested and cited other worthy candidates for it, but was voted down. Reluctantly I agreed to wear it at the first training run of the winter season, as the “tradition” dictated.
As I nursed my pricey microbrewed beer and my $10 mini-pizza, I finally found Scott, my long-lost running mate of the first half. He told me that at around 13M he started losing me and finally ceased trying to catch up with “my bony butt,” but ended up with a nice PR.
Everyone had their own stories of valor or frustration to tell. Laura recapped the news about her multiple vomiting incidents culminating with dry heaves. Fortunately, Jim Lynch was there for her along the way and through to the finish. Jim regretted running another full marathon just six days after his last one. Many had PR’s to report.
Our table mysteriously came up $65 short after everyone threw in their share. Al Hawker took the cash and paid the bill with plastic. Then we started throwing cash at Al to assuage the guilt. During our celebration, I left to see the friendly concierge about looking up the awards on his computer. After repeated tries, I eventually found out that I medalled third place in my age group 60-64. That was icing on the cake. Even without medalling, for me, I had run a near perfect race, giving it my best effort.
Later in the evening our group of sore and gimpy marathoners hobbled out of the Hyatt lobby and embarked on another hike in search of the Jack Stack Barbeque restaurant, on the other side of the train yards of course. The mammoth old Union Station lay in our path. Go around it or through it? Through it we went, through a retro diner and gift shops trying to avoid stairs whenever we could. Upon arriving at our promised land where our $25 gift certificates would be honored, we were seated on Jack Stack’s delightful patio in full view of KC’s second best known signature feature (second only to their fountains), namely the bustling freight yards.
In between noisy train arrivals, happening every two minutes, Colin, Dina, Rose, Jen, Nicole and I were able to squeeze in animated conversations. While waiting for our sumptuous fillet mignons and ribs to arrive we passed around cell phones showing pictures of our cute pets, including Nicole’s very obese black cat.
Observing our hampered ability to ambulate, Eladio offered to ferry the most afflicted of us back to the hotel in his SUV. Putting the back seat down, he packed us like a school of well fed sardines into his late model can and dropped us off at the Hyatt.
The last chapter of our KC adventure was our return bus ride to Denver, leaving KC at about 10 PM. JW first drove us to a Wal-Mart on the edge of town. I painfully eased myself down the bus steps and hobbled across the asphalt so I could purchase some Aleve. Inside the store I saw the hilarious sight of Scott, driving an electric cart, with a plastic wrapped pillow in the cart’s basket to the check out counter. He asked the lady if he could drive the cart out to the bus and leave it there.
I wish I had bought a pillow too. Trying to find a comfortable sleep position was a challenge. Merril traded seats with me so I could stretch out my bum right leg across her extra seat. David played Jim Lynch’s 50 marathon DVD again, this time running it to the end with a minimum of technical problems. Next he played the James Bond movie, Casino Royale. As it wrestled, crashed, grimaced and chased away on the two TV screens, I hid under my blankie, dreaming of quieter times.
After the Casino closed for the night, sleep was pursued by all. Jim Turosak bedded himself down in the aisle. (I almost stepped on his head.) During the night nearly everyone hiked back to the on-board rest room, stepping over the ice chest. (I had long ago returned to that chest the dripping bag of ice that I used on my right knee.)
As we finally neared Strasburg JW safely piloted our sleep-mobile through quite a blowing snowstorm. The landscape had turned white, and the wipers were slapping heavy white clots off the windshield. Our arrival back at the Sam’s Club parking lot near Quebec and 35th Ave. Sunday morning at around 7:30 AM was anticlimactic. There was no welcoming party complete with brass band and the mayor, who was to bestow accolades, was absent. Just heavy wet snow to hamper us as we loaded our luggage into our snow covered vehicles. Laura thankfully offered to drive me and my dripping pink cowboy hat home.
So ends my chronicle of the Runner’s Edge first road trip. I invite participants to add their personal stories or corrections to my account. I want to extend many thanks to our coach, David Manthey, for taking a leap of faith and successfully organizing such an adventure as this. Also thanks to Eladio Valdez for his role in designing the racecourse, sharing his running wisdom and making us feel most welcome. Finally thanks to every one of our group who ran the race on that beautiful autumn Saturday. These are some of the nicest and toughest people I know. What we shared those four days will never be forgotten. I wish I could have included absolutely everyone in some way into this narrative. Everyone has an important story to tell, and is welcome to add it here or on the Runner’s Edge discussion board, or success story site. Congratulations to all!
Sunday, November 4, 2007
KC Road Trip Part Three
Personal Recollections of a Runner’s Edge of the Rockies First Road Trip
And my 2nd marathon
The Race Itself:
Just Another Saturday Morning Training Run – And Then Some!
I took my place on Grand street between the 8 and 9 minute placards and waited for my 3:40 pacer to arrive. I had met Josh the night before at the pasta dinner. He arrived wearing his red shirt and red hat carrying the 3:40 paper sign aerodynamically taped to the end of his lightweight rod. With some trepidation and fear of being greedy for glory I had decided to join the 3:40 pacer instead of the 3:50 one. Therefore I had checked the box on my pace team member bib that declared that I would welcome support by “all means necessary.” Would this mean being whipped up those hills with Josh’s rod?
Next the announcer asked all of us to walk forward to the start line. I saw Scott, a member of our 3:40 training cadre, squeezed in the crowd nearby. He and I and about four other regulars always ended up running back together from our long training runs. We exchanged assurances that each of us would do well saying, “Just another Saturday morning training run, right?”
Suddenly over the load speaker the national anthem is sung a cappella and with great feeling by a female soloist. I followed the example set by our pace leader and removed my red marathon cap, placing it over my heart. I was surprised to find myself choked up, my face contorted with emotion when I realized how fortunate I was to be in this grand company of athletes participating in a sport we all loved, in a country that has the political stability and security to make these events possible.
The gun exploded; we ran. (What would happen if someone fell under the feet of this thundering herd of humanity? I had no idea, I only knew nothing was going to stop me till the finish line!) We ran up Grand at a slight incline for about a half-mile. Knowing the first mile is that domino that could wreck all the other miles if run too fast, I was keenly watching our pacer’s speed as it seemed a bit quick.
I called over to Scott and remarked that when we turned left onto 16th street, I expected a funneling effect with everyone bunching up to get into the narrow street. This didn’t happen, and we all flew down 16th St. watching the pack ahead make a left turn at the bottom of the hill. This created an optical illusion that all the runners were bunched up and stopped, but they were actually flying around that corner. Another left turn and we were speeding down Main, looking ahead to where the first hill would start at 1.5 M.
As we ascended the 100 feet hill towards the Liberty Memorial Scott remarked that the oxygen was rich at this elevation, unlike in Denver, and made breathing so much easier, even while pushing hard. We chased towards the memorial along the grassy mall and then away from it making a loop and hit our first aid station.
Josh walked briskly through the station grabbing a cup and promptly resumed his running pace. Meanwhile I was grabbing two cups of Gatorade trying to gulp it down while walking quickly, pinching the rim of my first cup to keep the contents from splashing out. I started on the second cup when I saw Josh, out of my peripheral vision, already running a good 50 yards ahead of me. I started to run with my 2nd cup unfinished and spilled the cup on the pavement just like this year’s KC Marathon poster depicted it, with the fluid coming out like a fountain.
I played the catch up game, accelerating my speed, reeling in Josh before we all ascend another 100 feet along Wyandotte Street headed for 31st Street. Flushed with confidence that the first hill system had been conquered with relative ease (still in our first four warm up miles, at that!) we cruised gently downhill, pacing along shaded streets. The sun has come up and life is good!
With the rising sun people showed up in little scattered knots along the curb, smiling and clapping. I would tip my red hat to them and smile back. Their beaming faces, especially those of the volunteers at the intersections, would remain some of my best memories of KC.
The cops played their part too, keeping back impatient drivers from hindering runners at the intersections. To make sure I would not be delayed, as I approached an intersection I would assume a most determined look, and increase my pace as if to say. “Nothin can stop this train, mista.” And then I’d thank the officer with a smile as I passed through.
Scott and I continued to play this post-aid station catch up game with Josh again and again as the race unfolded. Finally Scott got the idea that he should accelerate ahead of Josh and gain enough distance so that when the next aid station came up, he will have finished his drink by the time Josh resumed his speed. This never quite worked for me. I was determined to get all the fluids I needed no matter what, even if it meant playing catch up, as annoying as it was. (In retrospect, if Josh had not rushed through as he did, I would not have posted the PR that I did!)
From the start Josh was determined to establish a cushion of time, faster than what was on our pacing bands. With each mile the cushion grew from :30 to 1:00, and then upwards to 2:30.
Josh and his cohorts resembled a modern day legion of knights sans horses, charging valiantly onward, 3:40 pacing rod at the fore, the wind blowing in their faces, peasants along the road cheering their valor. What color and excitement! Ready to vanquish the dragons of fatigue and cramping, blisters and aches.
Between miles 7 and 8 we toured along Brush Creek, looping over it and coming back so we could see runners on both sides, and then we headed up another hill system that took us to Mile 13 at Wornall Street. Atop this hill there was a Creole band playing some really fine catchy sounds that had just the perfect cadence to pace me up the hill. I remember making remarks about this to Scott. This is the last comment I made to Scott during the race.
You see Scott and I had cruised together, hanging in by Josh up until this point, chatting and joking now and then. When someone in the crowd would call out “Go Scott Go” I would accuse Scott of having cheerleaders planted at every intersection. It was neat having a familiar training partner there for support. But as we passed the Creole band, I began to pull ahead, or Scott fall behind, whatever perspective may suit you. I was not to see Scott again until all of us met up at the Peppercorn Duck in the Hyatt after the race.
The race was now half over and I was on my own, often times ahead of Josh. I remember Eladio Valdez, the course designer, on the bus tour of the route the day before, telling us to run the course with a conservative pace the first, more difficult half, and then to “make our move” when we felt comfortable about it in the second half. I was making my move now, putting distance ahead of the pace leader.
After a few more miles, ahead on the right a familiar face calls out to me. It is Dr. Dave from Runners Edge. He wasn’t running the race, but had come out to cheer us on. He asks me how I was doing, if I needed any water, and complimented my form. I thanked him for being there for us and continued on.
At some point I meet Barefoot Rick, who was not hard to identify, being truly barefoot and wearing a shirt bearing his name. He was quite friendly and we chatted a bit till I passed out of earshot.
At mile 17 we coasted along Brush Creek, now on the east side of town. It is an out and back on the north side of the creek. Once again I saw runners on both sides of the out and back, similar to the Brush Creek area on the West side of town around mile 7 and 8. I hurriedly tried to drink while walking with a cup of water when I hear my name called out by someone to my left, going the opposite direction, “Michael - Michael Klee.” I didn’t have time to look around, but realized that it probably was Coach David, making sure he targets me and not the dozen other Michaels out on the course.
The second half of this race was a blur of events and I don’t pretend to have all my incidents reported in the right order or at the right mile marker. But somewhere along the way before the last hill at mile 20, I passed two fellow cadre from the 3:40 Runners Edge pace group. The first is Mike Kennedy who looks a bit frustrated, having slowed his pace, reporting some cramps. I had hoped Mike would post a 3:30 finish, as he was capable of doing. Marathons can be unpredictable and rugged. As it turned out he finished a very nice 3:43:14. Then a hundred yards ahead whom should I spot but Jim Turosak, the undisputed jester of our charter bus, recent finisher of the Pikes Peak Marathon and a 3:30 finisher in the Colorado Marathon last May. I could tell that I would be passing him soon. As I accelerated past he tells me that I’m running strong and looking good. I don’t know what to say, as I’ve always considered Jim to be a stronger runner than I. Jim also posted a nice 3:39:33 at the finish line. I thanked him for his compliment and focused on the long hill ahead as we depart from Brush Creek.
Somewhere before this final hill, I heard Josh’s voice from behind say, “We’re picking you up, Michael.” Ah–oh I think, I’m not as ahead of the pace leader as I thought. Josh had reeled ME in. Oh well, so at least I’m not off the 3:40 pace. As we ascend the hill from M21 to M23, I am almost disappointed that it is not the formidable obstacle that I had dreaded for months. Yes, it is long, but not steep: just a long, gradual incline up to Linwood Blvd.
Was it before or after this hill that my right knee started hurting? It surprised me because whenever I would have knee or hip pain it would always be on my left side. I came to blame it on the fact that I pronate more with my left ankle. This worried me; I couldn’t remember when, if ever, that I had pain in my right knee. Why was it coming up now? And I knew it wasn’t “IT Band” pain because of the pain’s location. It was not a dominant pain, but how could I be sure it would not get worse and ruin my race? It seemed that at this point I called upon that wisdom of the universe to give me counsel as to what to do. Was it my late wife who channeled through to me with, “forget about it and finish the race, dude!”? So I dropped my fears of permanently damaging myself, resolved to plunge ahead toward victory and forgot about the pain. And I did.
For the second time in the race, I made my move, knowing that it was downhill from here to the finish. We rushed down The Paseo (not just Paseo, THE Paseo) a boulevard lined with high-end shops and Spanish inspired architecture. I continued to put distance and precious, hard earned time between Josh and me. Josh had come to represent Father Time, carrying his pacing rod in the place of a scythe, coming to get me and hold me back from the glory I sought. As I raced down the gradual slope past mile 24, I exerted myself as much as possible while flirting with that feeling of nearly puking.
Now I was hurting, but at a tolerable level. It was not the knee pain, but rather the general pain of exertion that can plague the last 10K of a marathon. Actually, I don’t remember it as the pain of lactic acid in the hips and groin that had so hurt me in my last marathon. Just the wear and tear of exertion and wanting it to end.
I remembered a conversation with my running friend, Laura Hollenbaugh both before and during the bus ride out to KC. She had been reading a book, titled Running Within. She paraphrased one of its main concepts, “Just run in the moment. Don’t worry about the next mile or what is before you. Just live and run deeply in the moment.” So, I asked myself, “ Can I tolerate my present level of discomfort, AT THIS MOMENT?” And I answered, “Yes, I believe that I CAN handle the pain, AT THIS MOMENT.” And so again and again over the last 3.2 miles I asked that question and answered in the affirmative, “Yes I can.”
Pounding down The Paseo I turned right onto 18th, then left onto Highland, another two quick lefts and then a right landing me back onto the flat, straight 18th again that would stretch for almost a mile before turning left onto Baltimore and the finish line. Along this most uncomfortable, final mile were many smiling, well-meaning people who called out, “You’re almost there, the left turn is just ahead.” How I wished I had never paid them any attention. For at every intersection I hoped to see that left turn onto Baltimore Street. I was losing precious psychic energy in false anticipation at every intersection. Why couldn’t I remember Eladio’s bus tour and remember how long this mile really was? (Answer: Because during the last 10K your brain goes into a weird zone mode, and reality gets really confused and really focused, all at the same time!)
Finally, THE LEFT TURN happens and I can see the finish line banner way, way off down the street, about three blocks away. Now Baltimore Street is packed on both sides with cheering spectators. I pull myself up into my best running form, remembering Coach David’s admonition to smile and enjoy the applause as I dash towards the finish. I try to summon up a bit more energy to cut another second off my time, but feel that I’m already running as fast as I can manage. I hear my name being announced as I draw near. I raise my arms to signal my personal victory. I make certain my feet run squarely over both rubber timing mats and my race is done. Done. Over. I stop my watch 4 seconds after crossing the mats: 3:37:22.
And my 2nd marathon
The Race Itself:
Just Another Saturday Morning Training Run – And Then Some!
I took my place on Grand street between the 8 and 9 minute placards and waited for my 3:40 pacer to arrive. I had met Josh the night before at the pasta dinner. He arrived wearing his red shirt and red hat carrying the 3:40 paper sign aerodynamically taped to the end of his lightweight rod. With some trepidation and fear of being greedy for glory I had decided to join the 3:40 pacer instead of the 3:50 one. Therefore I had checked the box on my pace team member bib that declared that I would welcome support by “all means necessary.” Would this mean being whipped up those hills with Josh’s rod?
Next the announcer asked all of us to walk forward to the start line. I saw Scott, a member of our 3:40 training cadre, squeezed in the crowd nearby. He and I and about four other regulars always ended up running back together from our long training runs. We exchanged assurances that each of us would do well saying, “Just another Saturday morning training run, right?”
Suddenly over the load speaker the national anthem is sung a cappella and with great feeling by a female soloist. I followed the example set by our pace leader and removed my red marathon cap, placing it over my heart. I was surprised to find myself choked up, my face contorted with emotion when I realized how fortunate I was to be in this grand company of athletes participating in a sport we all loved, in a country that has the political stability and security to make these events possible.
The gun exploded; we ran. (What would happen if someone fell under the feet of this thundering herd of humanity? I had no idea, I only knew nothing was going to stop me till the finish line!) We ran up Grand at a slight incline for about a half-mile. Knowing the first mile is that domino that could wreck all the other miles if run too fast, I was keenly watching our pacer’s speed as it seemed a bit quick.
I called over to Scott and remarked that when we turned left onto 16th street, I expected a funneling effect with everyone bunching up to get into the narrow street. This didn’t happen, and we all flew down 16th St. watching the pack ahead make a left turn at the bottom of the hill. This created an optical illusion that all the runners were bunched up and stopped, but they were actually flying around that corner. Another left turn and we were speeding down Main, looking ahead to where the first hill would start at 1.5 M.
As we ascended the 100 feet hill towards the Liberty Memorial Scott remarked that the oxygen was rich at this elevation, unlike in Denver, and made breathing so much easier, even while pushing hard. We chased towards the memorial along the grassy mall and then away from it making a loop and hit our first aid station.
Josh walked briskly through the station grabbing a cup and promptly resumed his running pace. Meanwhile I was grabbing two cups of Gatorade trying to gulp it down while walking quickly, pinching the rim of my first cup to keep the contents from splashing out. I started on the second cup when I saw Josh, out of my peripheral vision, already running a good 50 yards ahead of me. I started to run with my 2nd cup unfinished and spilled the cup on the pavement just like this year’s KC Marathon poster depicted it, with the fluid coming out like a fountain.
I played the catch up game, accelerating my speed, reeling in Josh before we all ascend another 100 feet along Wyandotte Street headed for 31st Street. Flushed with confidence that the first hill system had been conquered with relative ease (still in our first four warm up miles, at that!) we cruised gently downhill, pacing along shaded streets. The sun has come up and life is good!
With the rising sun people showed up in little scattered knots along the curb, smiling and clapping. I would tip my red hat to them and smile back. Their beaming faces, especially those of the volunteers at the intersections, would remain some of my best memories of KC.
The cops played their part too, keeping back impatient drivers from hindering runners at the intersections. To make sure I would not be delayed, as I approached an intersection I would assume a most determined look, and increase my pace as if to say. “Nothin can stop this train, mista.” And then I’d thank the officer with a smile as I passed through.
Scott and I continued to play this post-aid station catch up game with Josh again and again as the race unfolded. Finally Scott got the idea that he should accelerate ahead of Josh and gain enough distance so that when the next aid station came up, he will have finished his drink by the time Josh resumed his speed. This never quite worked for me. I was determined to get all the fluids I needed no matter what, even if it meant playing catch up, as annoying as it was. (In retrospect, if Josh had not rushed through as he did, I would not have posted the PR that I did!)
From the start Josh was determined to establish a cushion of time, faster than what was on our pacing bands. With each mile the cushion grew from :30 to 1:00, and then upwards to 2:30.
Josh and his cohorts resembled a modern day legion of knights sans horses, charging valiantly onward, 3:40 pacing rod at the fore, the wind blowing in their faces, peasants along the road cheering their valor. What color and excitement! Ready to vanquish the dragons of fatigue and cramping, blisters and aches.
Between miles 7 and 8 we toured along Brush Creek, looping over it and coming back so we could see runners on both sides, and then we headed up another hill system that took us to Mile 13 at Wornall Street. Atop this hill there was a Creole band playing some really fine catchy sounds that had just the perfect cadence to pace me up the hill. I remember making remarks about this to Scott. This is the last comment I made to Scott during the race.
You see Scott and I had cruised together, hanging in by Josh up until this point, chatting and joking now and then. When someone in the crowd would call out “Go Scott Go” I would accuse Scott of having cheerleaders planted at every intersection. It was neat having a familiar training partner there for support. But as we passed the Creole band, I began to pull ahead, or Scott fall behind, whatever perspective may suit you. I was not to see Scott again until all of us met up at the Peppercorn Duck in the Hyatt after the race.
The race was now half over and I was on my own, often times ahead of Josh. I remember Eladio Valdez, the course designer, on the bus tour of the route the day before, telling us to run the course with a conservative pace the first, more difficult half, and then to “make our move” when we felt comfortable about it in the second half. I was making my move now, putting distance ahead of the pace leader.
After a few more miles, ahead on the right a familiar face calls out to me. It is Dr. Dave from Runners Edge. He wasn’t running the race, but had come out to cheer us on. He asks me how I was doing, if I needed any water, and complimented my form. I thanked him for being there for us and continued on.
At some point I meet Barefoot Rick, who was not hard to identify, being truly barefoot and wearing a shirt bearing his name. He was quite friendly and we chatted a bit till I passed out of earshot.
At mile 17 we coasted along Brush Creek, now on the east side of town. It is an out and back on the north side of the creek. Once again I saw runners on both sides of the out and back, similar to the Brush Creek area on the West side of town around mile 7 and 8. I hurriedly tried to drink while walking with a cup of water when I hear my name called out by someone to my left, going the opposite direction, “Michael - Michael Klee.” I didn’t have time to look around, but realized that it probably was Coach David, making sure he targets me and not the dozen other Michaels out on the course.
The second half of this race was a blur of events and I don’t pretend to have all my incidents reported in the right order or at the right mile marker. But somewhere along the way before the last hill at mile 20, I passed two fellow cadre from the 3:40 Runners Edge pace group. The first is Mike Kennedy who looks a bit frustrated, having slowed his pace, reporting some cramps. I had hoped Mike would post a 3:30 finish, as he was capable of doing. Marathons can be unpredictable and rugged. As it turned out he finished a very nice 3:43:14. Then a hundred yards ahead whom should I spot but Jim Turosak, the undisputed jester of our charter bus, recent finisher of the Pikes Peak Marathon and a 3:30 finisher in the Colorado Marathon last May. I could tell that I would be passing him soon. As I accelerated past he tells me that I’m running strong and looking good. I don’t know what to say, as I’ve always considered Jim to be a stronger runner than I. Jim also posted a nice 3:39:33 at the finish line. I thanked him for his compliment and focused on the long hill ahead as we depart from Brush Creek.
Somewhere before this final hill, I heard Josh’s voice from behind say, “We’re picking you up, Michael.” Ah–oh I think, I’m not as ahead of the pace leader as I thought. Josh had reeled ME in. Oh well, so at least I’m not off the 3:40 pace. As we ascend the hill from M21 to M23, I am almost disappointed that it is not the formidable obstacle that I had dreaded for months. Yes, it is long, but not steep: just a long, gradual incline up to Linwood Blvd.
Was it before or after this hill that my right knee started hurting? It surprised me because whenever I would have knee or hip pain it would always be on my left side. I came to blame it on the fact that I pronate more with my left ankle. This worried me; I couldn’t remember when, if ever, that I had pain in my right knee. Why was it coming up now? And I knew it wasn’t “IT Band” pain because of the pain’s location. It was not a dominant pain, but how could I be sure it would not get worse and ruin my race? It seemed that at this point I called upon that wisdom of the universe to give me counsel as to what to do. Was it my late wife who channeled through to me with, “forget about it and finish the race, dude!”? So I dropped my fears of permanently damaging myself, resolved to plunge ahead toward victory and forgot about the pain. And I did.
For the second time in the race, I made my move, knowing that it was downhill from here to the finish. We rushed down The Paseo (not just Paseo, THE Paseo) a boulevard lined with high-end shops and Spanish inspired architecture. I continued to put distance and precious, hard earned time between Josh and me. Josh had come to represent Father Time, carrying his pacing rod in the place of a scythe, coming to get me and hold me back from the glory I sought. As I raced down the gradual slope past mile 24, I exerted myself as much as possible while flirting with that feeling of nearly puking.
Now I was hurting, but at a tolerable level. It was not the knee pain, but rather the general pain of exertion that can plague the last 10K of a marathon. Actually, I don’t remember it as the pain of lactic acid in the hips and groin that had so hurt me in my last marathon. Just the wear and tear of exertion and wanting it to end.
I remembered a conversation with my running friend, Laura Hollenbaugh both before and during the bus ride out to KC. She had been reading a book, titled Running Within. She paraphrased one of its main concepts, “Just run in the moment. Don’t worry about the next mile or what is before you. Just live and run deeply in the moment.” So, I asked myself, “ Can I tolerate my present level of discomfort, AT THIS MOMENT?” And I answered, “Yes, I believe that I CAN handle the pain, AT THIS MOMENT.” And so again and again over the last 3.2 miles I asked that question and answered in the affirmative, “Yes I can.”
Pounding down The Paseo I turned right onto 18th, then left onto Highland, another two quick lefts and then a right landing me back onto the flat, straight 18th again that would stretch for almost a mile before turning left onto Baltimore and the finish line. Along this most uncomfortable, final mile were many smiling, well-meaning people who called out, “You’re almost there, the left turn is just ahead.” How I wished I had never paid them any attention. For at every intersection I hoped to see that left turn onto Baltimore Street. I was losing precious psychic energy in false anticipation at every intersection. Why couldn’t I remember Eladio’s bus tour and remember how long this mile really was? (Answer: Because during the last 10K your brain goes into a weird zone mode, and reality gets really confused and really focused, all at the same time!)
Finally, THE LEFT TURN happens and I can see the finish line banner way, way off down the street, about three blocks away. Now Baltimore Street is packed on both sides with cheering spectators. I pull myself up into my best running form, remembering Coach David’s admonition to smile and enjoy the applause as I dash towards the finish. I try to summon up a bit more energy to cut another second off my time, but feel that I’m already running as fast as I can manage. I hear my name being announced as I draw near. I raise my arms to signal my personal victory. I make certain my feet run squarely over both rubber timing mats and my race is done. Done. Over. I stop my watch 4 seconds after crossing the mats: 3:37:22.
KC Road Trip Part Two
From Rim Rock Farm to Right Before the Race
By about 4:30 PM our driver and David were pouring over the instructions on how to drive to Rim Rock Farm. We were somewhere outside Lawrence, Kansas, in a cold drizzle, on rural, dirt roads searching for street names and passing puzzled bikers who were wondering why we were waving to them as we passed them going in both directions. Finally we persevered in the final direction we were headed and found the entrance to Kansas University’s home cross-country course.
We left our cozy bus-nest and tumbled out into a cold, dreary and wet landscape, decorated with flags and trail markings from a previous cross-country meet. The ever-so-faint blue paint on the grass was for the boys’ course, and the faint red paint was for the girl’s. We tried to follow the boys’ route, a 5K distance that took us from the flat farmland down into a densely wooded hollow. The surroundings brought to mind J. Denver’s, “country road, take me home, to the place I belong.” The road took us past peaceful ponds and through two covered bridges, one weathered and gray, the other freshly painted barn red. Upon completing the course, we posed for group pictures, then boarded the bus, ruddy with wind-burnt faces and feeling so much better, having given our nervous, well trained legs much needed exercise. Just so we don’t have this weather on race day!
JW pulled back onto the highway and David played Jim Lynch’s DVD that celebrated the 50 state marathons he ran with David Zonker. The narrative of their remarkable achievement contained a scene that provoked much laughter: that of Jim and friends throwing the body of his ailing brother (portrayed by a store manikin) into the back of a van with a distinct clatter. (Towards the end, the DVD failed to play properly, but was successfully played again on the return trip to Denver.)
At 7:30 PM it was dark, cool and windy as JW pulled into the Hyatt Regency Crown Center. We lined up at the desk to get passes to our rooms. My roommate, Jim Lynch, and I approached Mikka, our European desk clerk. As Mikka is looking up my reservation on his computer, Jim asked him with a totally straight face and calm voice if he could give us a room with an ocean view. Playing along, Mikka said he would see if he had something. Jim adds, “Is this one of the VIP rooms?” Mikka says he can put us on the 40th (top) floor with access to the Regency Club, complete with food buffet. I am standing there in mute amazement at Jim’s talents. Well, what do you expect from a 50 state traveler-marathoner?
As agreed upon, we all met at 7:45 in the lobby to go out to eat. And I mean OUTSIDE, over the tracks and what seems like a mile away in the blustery cold. And me without a hat and only a thin running jacket, thinking we were eating inside the hotel complex. As all 25 of us (three didn’t meet in the lobby on time) trouped inside Manny’s Mexican Restaurant I expected to hear someone shout, “We have a code 10!” Astonishingly, they set up multiple tables end to end and seated us 12 on a side with “The Doug” Tisdale at the head. Doug offered the customary toast to celebrate our camaraderie. Some of us ordered light, but I chose heavy and was admired for eating the whole thing: an El Sombrero combo plate, a calorie intense meal that fueled my return hike to the Crown Center.
Friday morning found me looking down from the window of our 40th floor hotel room upon a city that looked deceptively flatter than a pancake. I wondered where all the hills were. I was to find that out later on our bus tour of the route. But first I ate breakfast in the Regency Club room just down the hall, bringing my own granola and soymilk and using their fruit, juice and delicious coffee. The two ladies at my table must have found me somewhat curious, with my discriminating food preferences. However our conversation warmed when they revealed they were there to support their children who were running in the marathon. As the ladies left the table, in walked Jim Lynch, Jim Turosak and Scott Hild. They were not interested in the bus tour of the race route, and so perused the morning paper for a good movie to see in the afternoon.
The Expo started at 10AM. There I met Diane Hudek, who finally arrived from California around midnight. She had sat up with her roomie, Tonia Carter, chatting until way beyond late. If you ever want to know the quintessential skunk story, just ask Diane! We were all happy to have her back with us for a couple days. Next I conferred with the fellow at the exhibit where you get pacing bands and can order custom printed bibs. I couldn’t decide if I was able to handle the 3:40 or 3:50 pace but finally decided on the 3:40 band.
Then I met Eladio Valdez at the Runner’s Edge (of KC) table. I was surprised at how youthful he looked. I had pictured a wizened veteran, grandfatherly type figure, not a robust 39 year old. I had that feeling you get sometimes, you know, when you feel as though you have always known a person you have never met before. He seemed to have heard about me through David and we chatted about pacing times, of course. After picking up my ticket for the pasta dinner and throwing my name in the Saturn give away lottery, I joined the group headed for lunch at the Crown Center food court.
Coming on the heels of breakfast, a full lunch at 11:00 seemed a bit much, so I shared a sandwich with Karen Craig at the Bronx Deli. This was to be her first full marathon and she seemed appropriately respectful of the distance to which she had committed herself. Did her calm demeanor mask anxiety or a quiet confidence?
The bus tour of the race route was to start at 1PM, but the bus failed to arrive and a substitute bus company was called instead, with profuse apologies from a race official. The tour was worth waiting for, as Eladio’s comments along the way were enlightening and sprinkled with good humor. I chose to plant myself in the front seat right in front of him, and was rewarded with the chance to chat with him along the way. He asked me a number of times how I felt about the course and the pacing band, as if my answers really mattered to him. Of course he knew the route like the back of his hand, having designed the course. For me, a highlight of the tour was winning a red KC racing hat by answering a quiz question, naming two jazz greats that had their start in KC. My answer of Coleman Hawkins and Charlie Yardbird Parker won me the hat that I subsequently wore on race day. After our bus ascended the last hill from M21 to M23 I burned in my memory the street name I would see at the crest of the hill, before the downward plunge to the finish line: E. Linwood Blvd. I knew if I got that far, I’d be home free.
That evening the traditional pasta dinner, held in the expo hall of the Hyatt, was preceded by a chance to meet the pacers for the race. I was surprised to find myself among only a handful of runners who took the opportunity to meet the pacers. By this time, with some misgivings as to my ability, I had decided to go for the 3:40 pacer, Joshua, a young man I had previously seen and read about on the KC Marathon website. His smiling demeanor expressed confidence and delight in his role as pace leader, as this was his first time leading. He also communicated a no-nonsense commitment to meeting the 3:40 goal with extra time to spare.
My memories of the pasta dinner are colored by an overbearing sound system that made conversation difficult. The male karaoke crooner was actually very good, but the amplification was too loud – typical for this e-charged generation and sadly expected at most social functions. However, the highlight of the dinner happened spontaneously when Doug Tisdale, upon hearing “New York, New York” being sung by the vocalist, grabbed the mike, stood up and belted it out in a way that would make Liza Minelli proud. Immediately, everyone owning a camera was in front of Doug as he squeezed emotive content out of every word. All cheered his talented bravado.
The pasta and sauces were good and the serving staff friendly, but the salad was wimpy, lacking in the most nutritious dark leafy veggies. (OK, OK, just had to throw that in.)
Jim Turosak scurried about taking pictures of everyone at our tables as the 2007 Soul Award presentations were finishing. The male winner in absentia was Lou Jolene, an 85-year-old running powerhouse, presently in Tanzania. Jim leaned over to me and said that I was a mere embryo compared to Lou. Thanks, Jim!
Next, the featured speaker, Patti Catalano Dillon, didn’t give a talk; she delivered a performance. This elite marathon runner, winner of both the Boston and New York races, reenacted a highly emotional version of her beginning running experiences, and including the stories of coming in second in the Boston to the fraud, Rosie Ruiz, (later Patti was awarded first place) and breaking 2:30 in the New York City Marathon.
I felt a kindred enthusiasm with Patti when she told of weeping in the shower after running her first hour non-stop. She said she felt so sore, but she felt so good. She ran with so much passion in her first marathon: “I wanted to breath, to live, but was willing to die.” She recorded an astounding 2:53:40.
Her words are worth remembering: “Give yourself a chance to excel.” And, “If nobody could give it to you, nobody can take it from you.” I believe Patti is saying that nobody makes you go through the hardship of training for a marathon – it is a self-imposed discipline. And this hard-won conditioning is something no one can take from you.
On the way up to my room I met Patti in the elevator and thanked her for her “performance.” She said that she had been asked to give a “presentation” to the KC Sports Commission. She told them she didn’t know what a presentation was. I bet she gave them a bit of what she gave us: part of her self-history reenacted. She wished me a good race.
Once in my hotel room, I carefully laid out running outfit for tomorrow, attaching my timing chip to my left shoe, pinning Bib #108 on my shirt and my 3:40 pacing bib on my shirt’s back. Regretfully I decided to wear a belt to hold a pouch for my gels, as I just couldn’t properly pin the gels on my shorts. Then I sat down and wrote out some affirmations as a practice to banish some limiting, negative doubts that had crept into my consciousness. They were the following:
I am achieving my goal of 3:40
Better yet:
I am surpassing my goal of 3:40
My first 30 minutes are very easy.
I have chosen the right pace group.
My 1st 20 miles are a warm up for my last 10K.
I carry the spirits of all those I love with me at every moment.
I am at ease, relaxed, poised and at peace as I run.
Then Jim Lynch and I had a really nice, relaxing conversation. He told me that I “had the eye of the tiger,” in my zeal to increase my speed. I appreciated his mentoring and encouragement and told him so.
I showered and slept fitfully that night, cobbling together an hour here and there. I was already awake for an hour before my wake-up call at 4:30AM. I ate a really untasty breakfast in the bathroom, so as not to bother Jim, still asleep. I have the practice of never drinking unnecessary liquids before a training run or race. So I melted my fish oil caplets into some hot instant oatmeal instead of swallowing them with water, and topped the cereal with granola, soymilk and a banana. The fish oil odor was a bit nasty. However the combination caused me no stomach trouble in the race and powered me through to the end.
Outside the hotel I walked alone in the pre-dawn darkness to the Crown Center Atrium. I wanted to experience the weather, so I avoided walking through the Link, an enclosed, glass tube that connected the Hyatt, the Weston and the Crown Center Atrium, restaurant and shopping center. I was the first of the Runner’s Edge members to be there, arriving at about 5:40 AM. This gave me time to go through my stretching routine, seek out the restroom and greet my friends as they arrived.
After a while I knew that I had to take care of three important things: deposit my extra clothes bag at the truck, use the porta potties at least once, and find my place at the starting line in the 3:40 pace group. And time was getting close. Nason Newberg and I decided to leave our friends in the Atrium and head out to the starting line on Grand Street.
The weather was cool but not uncomfortably cold - no need for an overshirt. I accomplished all three tasks. Now I was ready to channel all my excitement, energy and over four months of training effort into the next few hours. I was ready for the run of my life. I thought of all my friends, family and co-workers who would be awaiting the outcome of this race, to hear how I did. I thought of my deceased wife and other family members who were gone, Mom and Dad, and brothers John and Bob. I would not disappoint them.
By about 4:30 PM our driver and David were pouring over the instructions on how to drive to Rim Rock Farm. We were somewhere outside Lawrence, Kansas, in a cold drizzle, on rural, dirt roads searching for street names and passing puzzled bikers who were wondering why we were waving to them as we passed them going in both directions. Finally we persevered in the final direction we were headed and found the entrance to Kansas University’s home cross-country course.
We left our cozy bus-nest and tumbled out into a cold, dreary and wet landscape, decorated with flags and trail markings from a previous cross-country meet. The ever-so-faint blue paint on the grass was for the boys’ course, and the faint red paint was for the girl’s. We tried to follow the boys’ route, a 5K distance that took us from the flat farmland down into a densely wooded hollow. The surroundings brought to mind J. Denver’s, “country road, take me home, to the place I belong.” The road took us past peaceful ponds and through two covered bridges, one weathered and gray, the other freshly painted barn red. Upon completing the course, we posed for group pictures, then boarded the bus, ruddy with wind-burnt faces and feeling so much better, having given our nervous, well trained legs much needed exercise. Just so we don’t have this weather on race day!
JW pulled back onto the highway and David played Jim Lynch’s DVD that celebrated the 50 state marathons he ran with David Zonker. The narrative of their remarkable achievement contained a scene that provoked much laughter: that of Jim and friends throwing the body of his ailing brother (portrayed by a store manikin) into the back of a van with a distinct clatter. (Towards the end, the DVD failed to play properly, but was successfully played again on the return trip to Denver.)
At 7:30 PM it was dark, cool and windy as JW pulled into the Hyatt Regency Crown Center. We lined up at the desk to get passes to our rooms. My roommate, Jim Lynch, and I approached Mikka, our European desk clerk. As Mikka is looking up my reservation on his computer, Jim asked him with a totally straight face and calm voice if he could give us a room with an ocean view. Playing along, Mikka said he would see if he had something. Jim adds, “Is this one of the VIP rooms?” Mikka says he can put us on the 40th (top) floor with access to the Regency Club, complete with food buffet. I am standing there in mute amazement at Jim’s talents. Well, what do you expect from a 50 state traveler-marathoner?
As agreed upon, we all met at 7:45 in the lobby to go out to eat. And I mean OUTSIDE, over the tracks and what seems like a mile away in the blustery cold. And me without a hat and only a thin running jacket, thinking we were eating inside the hotel complex. As all 25 of us (three didn’t meet in the lobby on time) trouped inside Manny’s Mexican Restaurant I expected to hear someone shout, “We have a code 10!” Astonishingly, they set up multiple tables end to end and seated us 12 on a side with “The Doug” Tisdale at the head. Doug offered the customary toast to celebrate our camaraderie. Some of us ordered light, but I chose heavy and was admired for eating the whole thing: an El Sombrero combo plate, a calorie intense meal that fueled my return hike to the Crown Center.
Friday morning found me looking down from the window of our 40th floor hotel room upon a city that looked deceptively flatter than a pancake. I wondered where all the hills were. I was to find that out later on our bus tour of the route. But first I ate breakfast in the Regency Club room just down the hall, bringing my own granola and soymilk and using their fruit, juice and delicious coffee. The two ladies at my table must have found me somewhat curious, with my discriminating food preferences. However our conversation warmed when they revealed they were there to support their children who were running in the marathon. As the ladies left the table, in walked Jim Lynch, Jim Turosak and Scott Hild. They were not interested in the bus tour of the race route, and so perused the morning paper for a good movie to see in the afternoon.
The Expo started at 10AM. There I met Diane Hudek, who finally arrived from California around midnight. She had sat up with her roomie, Tonia Carter, chatting until way beyond late. If you ever want to know the quintessential skunk story, just ask Diane! We were all happy to have her back with us for a couple days. Next I conferred with the fellow at the exhibit where you get pacing bands and can order custom printed bibs. I couldn’t decide if I was able to handle the 3:40 or 3:50 pace but finally decided on the 3:40 band.
Then I met Eladio Valdez at the Runner’s Edge (of KC) table. I was surprised at how youthful he looked. I had pictured a wizened veteran, grandfatherly type figure, not a robust 39 year old. I had that feeling you get sometimes, you know, when you feel as though you have always known a person you have never met before. He seemed to have heard about me through David and we chatted about pacing times, of course. After picking up my ticket for the pasta dinner and throwing my name in the Saturn give away lottery, I joined the group headed for lunch at the Crown Center food court.
Coming on the heels of breakfast, a full lunch at 11:00 seemed a bit much, so I shared a sandwich with Karen Craig at the Bronx Deli. This was to be her first full marathon and she seemed appropriately respectful of the distance to which she had committed herself. Did her calm demeanor mask anxiety or a quiet confidence?
The bus tour of the race route was to start at 1PM, but the bus failed to arrive and a substitute bus company was called instead, with profuse apologies from a race official. The tour was worth waiting for, as Eladio’s comments along the way were enlightening and sprinkled with good humor. I chose to plant myself in the front seat right in front of him, and was rewarded with the chance to chat with him along the way. He asked me a number of times how I felt about the course and the pacing band, as if my answers really mattered to him. Of course he knew the route like the back of his hand, having designed the course. For me, a highlight of the tour was winning a red KC racing hat by answering a quiz question, naming two jazz greats that had their start in KC. My answer of Coleman Hawkins and Charlie Yardbird Parker won me the hat that I subsequently wore on race day. After our bus ascended the last hill from M21 to M23 I burned in my memory the street name I would see at the crest of the hill, before the downward plunge to the finish line: E. Linwood Blvd. I knew if I got that far, I’d be home free.
That evening the traditional pasta dinner, held in the expo hall of the Hyatt, was preceded by a chance to meet the pacers for the race. I was surprised to find myself among only a handful of runners who took the opportunity to meet the pacers. By this time, with some misgivings as to my ability, I had decided to go for the 3:40 pacer, Joshua, a young man I had previously seen and read about on the KC Marathon website. His smiling demeanor expressed confidence and delight in his role as pace leader, as this was his first time leading. He also communicated a no-nonsense commitment to meeting the 3:40 goal with extra time to spare.
My memories of the pasta dinner are colored by an overbearing sound system that made conversation difficult. The male karaoke crooner was actually very good, but the amplification was too loud – typical for this e-charged generation and sadly expected at most social functions. However, the highlight of the dinner happened spontaneously when Doug Tisdale, upon hearing “New York, New York” being sung by the vocalist, grabbed the mike, stood up and belted it out in a way that would make Liza Minelli proud. Immediately, everyone owning a camera was in front of Doug as he squeezed emotive content out of every word. All cheered his talented bravado.
The pasta and sauces were good and the serving staff friendly, but the salad was wimpy, lacking in the most nutritious dark leafy veggies. (OK, OK, just had to throw that in.)
Jim Turosak scurried about taking pictures of everyone at our tables as the 2007 Soul Award presentations were finishing. The male winner in absentia was Lou Jolene, an 85-year-old running powerhouse, presently in Tanzania. Jim leaned over to me and said that I was a mere embryo compared to Lou. Thanks, Jim!
Next, the featured speaker, Patti Catalano Dillon, didn’t give a talk; she delivered a performance. This elite marathon runner, winner of both the Boston and New York races, reenacted a highly emotional version of her beginning running experiences, and including the stories of coming in second in the Boston to the fraud, Rosie Ruiz, (later Patti was awarded first place) and breaking 2:30 in the New York City Marathon.
I felt a kindred enthusiasm with Patti when she told of weeping in the shower after running her first hour non-stop. She said she felt so sore, but she felt so good. She ran with so much passion in her first marathon: “I wanted to breath, to live, but was willing to die.” She recorded an astounding 2:53:40.
Her words are worth remembering: “Give yourself a chance to excel.” And, “If nobody could give it to you, nobody can take it from you.” I believe Patti is saying that nobody makes you go through the hardship of training for a marathon – it is a self-imposed discipline. And this hard-won conditioning is something no one can take from you.
On the way up to my room I met Patti in the elevator and thanked her for her “performance.” She said that she had been asked to give a “presentation” to the KC Sports Commission. She told them she didn’t know what a presentation was. I bet she gave them a bit of what she gave us: part of her self-history reenacted. She wished me a good race.
Once in my hotel room, I carefully laid out running outfit for tomorrow, attaching my timing chip to my left shoe, pinning Bib #108 on my shirt and my 3:40 pacing bib on my shirt’s back. Regretfully I decided to wear a belt to hold a pouch for my gels, as I just couldn’t properly pin the gels on my shorts. Then I sat down and wrote out some affirmations as a practice to banish some limiting, negative doubts that had crept into my consciousness. They were the following:
I am achieving my goal of 3:40
Better yet:
I am surpassing my goal of 3:40
My first 30 minutes are very easy.
I have chosen the right pace group.
My 1st 20 miles are a warm up for my last 10K.
I carry the spirits of all those I love with me at every moment.
I am at ease, relaxed, poised and at peace as I run.
Then Jim Lynch and I had a really nice, relaxing conversation. He told me that I “had the eye of the tiger,” in my zeal to increase my speed. I appreciated his mentoring and encouragement and told him so.
I showered and slept fitfully that night, cobbling together an hour here and there. I was already awake for an hour before my wake-up call at 4:30AM. I ate a really untasty breakfast in the bathroom, so as not to bother Jim, still asleep. I have the practice of never drinking unnecessary liquids before a training run or race. So I melted my fish oil caplets into some hot instant oatmeal instead of swallowing them with water, and topped the cereal with granola, soymilk and a banana. The fish oil odor was a bit nasty. However the combination caused me no stomach trouble in the race and powered me through to the end.
Outside the hotel I walked alone in the pre-dawn darkness to the Crown Center Atrium. I wanted to experience the weather, so I avoided walking through the Link, an enclosed, glass tube that connected the Hyatt, the Weston and the Crown Center Atrium, restaurant and shopping center. I was the first of the Runner’s Edge members to be there, arriving at about 5:40 AM. This gave me time to go through my stretching routine, seek out the restroom and greet my friends as they arrived.
After a while I knew that I had to take care of three important things: deposit my extra clothes bag at the truck, use the porta potties at least once, and find my place at the starting line in the 3:40 pace group. And time was getting close. Nason Newberg and I decided to leave our friends in the Atrium and head out to the starting line on Grand Street.
The weather was cool but not uncomfortably cold - no need for an overshirt. I accomplished all three tasks. Now I was ready to channel all my excitement, energy and over four months of training effort into the next few hours. I was ready for the run of my life. I thought of all my friends, family and co-workers who would be awaiting the outcome of this race, to hear how I did. I thought of my deceased wife and other family members who were gone, Mom and Dad, and brothers John and Bob. I would not disappoint them.
KC Road Trip Part One
KC Road Trip: Personal Recollections of a Runner’s Edge of the Rockies First Road Trip
And My 2nd Marathon
Getting There:
Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About What Happened On the Bus
From Denver to Rim Rock Farm
Come on! Where is Holly Robinson! She called to say she was stuck in traffic? At 6:30 in the morning? All 27 of us had arrived at the Sam’s Club parking lot on the morning of October 18th to board the pink and purple pimped out charter bus called Barney. But a plain white bus awaited us. JW, our driver explained about his injured clutch leg and how he had to drive an automatic shift bus instead. If JW weren’t such a down home, friendly, folksy and ultra-competent driver, I’d be a bit put off. Besides, he says he ran a marathon in his younger days. That there is worth something!
I had arrived early, chose a seat next to Laura Hollenbaugh, veteran of about 14 marathons, reformed scantily-clad skydiver of over 1200 jumps, sub-four pace group leader, and mentor of many a first time marathoner “virgin.” (Like me, last May.) I threw my blankie and breakfast brown bag on the seat and ran over to a nearby coffee shop with Rose Nelson, just about the most pleasant running companion you can find. We hit the rest rooms there, avoiding the bus bathroom till absolutely necessary and hurried back to our bus.
Holly’s smiling face arrived to our applause and we were on the road only about 10 minutes off schedule. We were the guinea pigs of the very first Runner’s Edge of the Rockies charter bus trip to a marathon. Destination: the Hyatt Regency and Westin Hotel Crown Center Complex, just two blocks from the start line of the Waddell & Reed Kansas City Marathon.
Our bus had overhead compartments just like an airplane, but much better legroom. The windows were high and wide, offering those early morning, bleary-eyed runners who were willing to peak over their blankies, unobstructed views of the sun rising over the prairie.
Merrill Loomis, a veteran half marathoner, leaned over the seat in front of Laura’s and chatted with us about running shoes. Laura offered her experience on what to wear under various weather conditions, referencing her recent marathon under near-worst conditions in Boston. Laura also talked about a concept that would soon prove indispensable to me in the last 10K of the KC race. It was about “running in the moment.” Being aware of your body moment-by-moment, not wasting energy with anxiety about the coming miles. (More about this in Part Three of this account.)
So began the sharing that became the signature characteristic of this adventure: it seemed that we had all the time in the world to share who we were and what we knew with each other, about running and about life.
After giving us time to settle in, Coach David Manthey, who risked great credit card exposure chartering this bus, trusting that we wouldn’t fink out on this trip, stood in the aisle to make announcements: We would run Rim Rock Farm outside Lawrence Kansas. This was the site of the ’98 NCAA cross-country championships, where Adam Goucher ran for CU. David also had Scott explain the somewhat dubious tradition that was being inaugurated called the Pink Hat Challenge. So the story goes, Scott Hild and Kent Kerchoff admired a pink cowboy hat featured in an Idaho Springs shop after the half-marathon in August. A-ha, a fitting award for whoever came closest to achieving their “A” goal in running the KC Marathon. Now this might be OK for a female recipient, but could be downright embarrassing for a male winner. The hat was passed around with cheers and jeers.
Icebreakers, mc’d by David, followed. Each of us was asked to state when we joined the group, if were we running the full or the half marathon and what was our most embarrassing running moment. For most this moment involved stories of pooping or peeing while in the most cramped, uncomfortable, unclean conditions with the least amount of time possible. For a few, it involved puking or making goofy falls while racing.
For me it meant making a public confession that the squeaky-shoe sound heard by those following me after each aid station stop was “mis-heard.” It was coming from an area about two and one-half feet higher up. Be forewarned! Amazing how this exercise in self-revelation quickly gave us common ground.
“Indian names”, icebreaker followed. If runners did not have an Indian name, then they were promptly assigned one by the group. Laura was “Buff Diver,” having confessed a wild side of her skydiving past life. Coach David, with surprisingly little embarrassment, revealed the origins of his Indian name, “Bobby Poops Twice.” When it came my turn I suddenly remembered a name my brother Bob called me when I was a child, “Michael Go-Go.” I never knew what it meant then, but it all came clear to me now: he had unwittingly looked forward in time to my present passion for running. (Anyone else wanting their Indian names to be included for the record, please let me know!)
Finally, David started an on-going game that lasted for hours while movies were played. Name a celebrity with an animal name, like Tiger Woods. Just how many zillion times did someone say, “Robin Williams?”
Movie time. While Napoleon Dynamite was being played, I walked back to the rear of the bus by the on-board restroom, where Holly and Nason enjoyed a three seat spread. The three of us were joined by Jim Turosak, Scott, Rose and Jim Lynch for a high level race strategy planning summit. Jim Lynch, the experienced maverick, expressed disdain for following a pace group leader, wanting to follow his own racing intuition. And why not? Jim had just run the Denver Marathon in nasty weather last Sunday! This was his “recovery marathon.” Scott voiced disinterest in taking the bus tour of the marathon route, wanting to enjoy the novelty of seeing it fresh while running. I brought out my maps of the route, with hill sections highlighted in yellow. An elevation chart was also passed around.
When asked what pace leader I was going to follow, I launched forward on what must have been a tedious rumination of countless reasons to vacillate between a 3:40 and a 3:50 pace. My previous race predictors landed me squarely at a 3:45 pace. (A lot more on this in Part Three.)
A very laid-back but inspiring movie, Endurance, was voted on to be played next. It followed the early years of Haile Gebrselassie, named the greatest distance runner in the world by Runners World. Haile struggles through a physically challenging environment in rural Ethiopia, takes great personal risks in leaving his father and the family farm, and finds a training group in the capitol city and eventually wins gold in the 10K competition in the ’96 Atlanta Olympics.
When confronted with the obstacles that beset my own progress every day, I have used Haile’s story to bolster my resolve to meet my goals. The old saw, “If he can do it, then certainly I can too,” was never more appropriate here.
The loud, trendy movie, Snowriders, followed as I was trying to catch up on some sleep. Oh well, so this 61 year old has tastes that “diss” the younger pop-sports culture!
At 12:30 PM, outside Salida, Kansas, our driver stopped for a half-hour refueling and lunch stop at the Flying J Travel Plaza (a fancy name for a truck stop.) Before tumbling off the bus, JW forewarned us not to get in the way of any rigs coming in or out, characterizing other truckers as being ornery and impatient at best. As all 28 of us trooped in the combination restaurant, convenience store, I saw the lady behind the pizza warming table pick up the mike while eyeing the length of our line and call out, “We have a Code 10.” We were classified as a Code 10! Imagine that.
After lunch and back on the road we were treated to a most unusual movie, Running on the Sun, The Badwater 135. It had lots of shock and awe value, like the shock of bloody socks being peeled off blistered feet, and the awe of runners, reduced to shufflers, puking off the side of the road and worse. I come away from this exercise in self-destruction with one memorable quote, “You see, it’s mind over matter: you don’t mind, and it don’t matter.” Strike the Badwater off my to-do list!
And My 2nd Marathon
Getting There:
Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About What Happened On the Bus
From Denver to Rim Rock Farm
Come on! Where is Holly Robinson! She called to say she was stuck in traffic? At 6:30 in the morning? All 27 of us had arrived at the Sam’s Club parking lot on the morning of October 18th to board the pink and purple pimped out charter bus called Barney. But a plain white bus awaited us. JW, our driver explained about his injured clutch leg and how he had to drive an automatic shift bus instead. If JW weren’t such a down home, friendly, folksy and ultra-competent driver, I’d be a bit put off. Besides, he says he ran a marathon in his younger days. That there is worth something!
I had arrived early, chose a seat next to Laura Hollenbaugh, veteran of about 14 marathons, reformed scantily-clad skydiver of over 1200 jumps, sub-four pace group leader, and mentor of many a first time marathoner “virgin.” (Like me, last May.) I threw my blankie and breakfast brown bag on the seat and ran over to a nearby coffee shop with Rose Nelson, just about the most pleasant running companion you can find. We hit the rest rooms there, avoiding the bus bathroom till absolutely necessary and hurried back to our bus.
Holly’s smiling face arrived to our applause and we were on the road only about 10 minutes off schedule. We were the guinea pigs of the very first Runner’s Edge of the Rockies charter bus trip to a marathon. Destination: the Hyatt Regency and Westin Hotel Crown Center Complex, just two blocks from the start line of the Waddell & Reed Kansas City Marathon.
Our bus had overhead compartments just like an airplane, but much better legroom. The windows were high and wide, offering those early morning, bleary-eyed runners who were willing to peak over their blankies, unobstructed views of the sun rising over the prairie.
Merrill Loomis, a veteran half marathoner, leaned over the seat in front of Laura’s and chatted with us about running shoes. Laura offered her experience on what to wear under various weather conditions, referencing her recent marathon under near-worst conditions in Boston. Laura also talked about a concept that would soon prove indispensable to me in the last 10K of the KC race. It was about “running in the moment.” Being aware of your body moment-by-moment, not wasting energy with anxiety about the coming miles. (More about this in Part Three of this account.)
So began the sharing that became the signature characteristic of this adventure: it seemed that we had all the time in the world to share who we were and what we knew with each other, about running and about life.
After giving us time to settle in, Coach David Manthey, who risked great credit card exposure chartering this bus, trusting that we wouldn’t fink out on this trip, stood in the aisle to make announcements: We would run Rim Rock Farm outside Lawrence Kansas. This was the site of the ’98 NCAA cross-country championships, where Adam Goucher ran for CU. David also had Scott explain the somewhat dubious tradition that was being inaugurated called the Pink Hat Challenge. So the story goes, Scott Hild and Kent Kerchoff admired a pink cowboy hat featured in an Idaho Springs shop after the half-marathon in August. A-ha, a fitting award for whoever came closest to achieving their “A” goal in running the KC Marathon. Now this might be OK for a female recipient, but could be downright embarrassing for a male winner. The hat was passed around with cheers and jeers.
Icebreakers, mc’d by David, followed. Each of us was asked to state when we joined the group, if were we running the full or the half marathon and what was our most embarrassing running moment. For most this moment involved stories of pooping or peeing while in the most cramped, uncomfortable, unclean conditions with the least amount of time possible. For a few, it involved puking or making goofy falls while racing.
For me it meant making a public confession that the squeaky-shoe sound heard by those following me after each aid station stop was “mis-heard.” It was coming from an area about two and one-half feet higher up. Be forewarned! Amazing how this exercise in self-revelation quickly gave us common ground.
“Indian names”, icebreaker followed. If runners did not have an Indian name, then they were promptly assigned one by the group. Laura was “Buff Diver,” having confessed a wild side of her skydiving past life. Coach David, with surprisingly little embarrassment, revealed the origins of his Indian name, “Bobby Poops Twice.” When it came my turn I suddenly remembered a name my brother Bob called me when I was a child, “Michael Go-Go.” I never knew what it meant then, but it all came clear to me now: he had unwittingly looked forward in time to my present passion for running. (Anyone else wanting their Indian names to be included for the record, please let me know!)
Finally, David started an on-going game that lasted for hours while movies were played. Name a celebrity with an animal name, like Tiger Woods. Just how many zillion times did someone say, “Robin Williams?”
Movie time. While Napoleon Dynamite was being played, I walked back to the rear of the bus by the on-board restroom, where Holly and Nason enjoyed a three seat spread. The three of us were joined by Jim Turosak, Scott, Rose and Jim Lynch for a high level race strategy planning summit. Jim Lynch, the experienced maverick, expressed disdain for following a pace group leader, wanting to follow his own racing intuition. And why not? Jim had just run the Denver Marathon in nasty weather last Sunday! This was his “recovery marathon.” Scott voiced disinterest in taking the bus tour of the marathon route, wanting to enjoy the novelty of seeing it fresh while running. I brought out my maps of the route, with hill sections highlighted in yellow. An elevation chart was also passed around.
When asked what pace leader I was going to follow, I launched forward on what must have been a tedious rumination of countless reasons to vacillate between a 3:40 and a 3:50 pace. My previous race predictors landed me squarely at a 3:45 pace. (A lot more on this in Part Three.)
A very laid-back but inspiring movie, Endurance, was voted on to be played next. It followed the early years of Haile Gebrselassie, named the greatest distance runner in the world by Runners World. Haile struggles through a physically challenging environment in rural Ethiopia, takes great personal risks in leaving his father and the family farm, and finds a training group in the capitol city and eventually wins gold in the 10K competition in the ’96 Atlanta Olympics.
When confronted with the obstacles that beset my own progress every day, I have used Haile’s story to bolster my resolve to meet my goals. The old saw, “If he can do it, then certainly I can too,” was never more appropriate here.
The loud, trendy movie, Snowriders, followed as I was trying to catch up on some sleep. Oh well, so this 61 year old has tastes that “diss” the younger pop-sports culture!
At 12:30 PM, outside Salida, Kansas, our driver stopped for a half-hour refueling and lunch stop at the Flying J Travel Plaza (a fancy name for a truck stop.) Before tumbling off the bus, JW forewarned us not to get in the way of any rigs coming in or out, characterizing other truckers as being ornery and impatient at best. As all 28 of us trooped in the combination restaurant, convenience store, I saw the lady behind the pizza warming table pick up the mike while eyeing the length of our line and call out, “We have a Code 10.” We were classified as a Code 10! Imagine that.
After lunch and back on the road we were treated to a most unusual movie, Running on the Sun, The Badwater 135. It had lots of shock and awe value, like the shock of bloody socks being peeled off blistered feet, and the awe of runners, reduced to shufflers, puking off the side of the road and worse. I come away from this exercise in self-destruction with one memorable quote, “You see, it’s mind over matter: you don’t mind, and it don’t matter.” Strike the Badwater off my to-do list!
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