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.
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