Who Doesn't Like Running on a Sheet of Ice in 12 Degrees?

For the past 7-8 Thanksgivings, I’ve woken up and headed to Washington Park in Denver for the annual Turkey Trot. It’s a fun four-mile run that makes most of us running feel just a little better about gouging ourselves at the dinner table a few hours later.

The north end of the race course a few days after Thanksgiving.

This year, though, I was heading to the Great Alaska Shootout with the University of Denver basketball team.

It’s hard to complain too much about going on a trip to watch three basketball games, but I was a little sad that my streak would end and that I wouldn’t get to meet up with friends before and after the race.

However, I quickly discovered that I wouldn’t have to miss out on Turkey Trotting entirely.

The Skinny Turkey Trot 5K in Anchorage was literally around the corner from my hotel, so I figured I would give it a shot.

What could possibly be the downside? I found out the moment our plane touched down on the runway.

Surprisingly, snow wasn’t expected while we were there, but the wheels touched down onto several inches, and the wind was howling.

Thirty-six hours later, I stepped outside the hotel to a crisp 12 degrees. Fortunately, my Brooks pants and Mizuno jacket did their jobs, along with a hat and gloves, and all 1,500 people at the starting line seemed to be moving just a little closer together than usual, trying to steal some body heat from everyone around them.

The streets were solid ice as we started the first of two loops. One man was taking a few steps at a time before sliding a good 5-6 feet, which seemed a bit strange but I try not to critique other people’s running form.

Although the race didn't get quite this close to the
Cook Inlet, we could see the ice floating in the water
during the race. This picture was taken a few days
later when I went out for a run at dusk around 4 p.m.

Most people were wearing Yaktrax or had studs in their shoes for added traction. Why I didn’t think to bring mine along is probably worth asking, unless you know me and the number of questionable, if not moronic, moves I make on a daily basis.

The street on the backstretch was snow-packed, but I remained hesitant to push it too much, fearing the images inside my head of seeing the inside of my head after it hit the ice.

Instead I relied on a shortened stride and allowed myself to take in the surroundings. On one side, I could see out to the partially frozen over Cook Inlet, while the Chugach Mountains appeared to be towering just a few miles ahead of us as we ran back the other way. Closer in, the snow covering Delaney Park appeared like a blank sheet, as though no one wanted to disturb it by walking on it. The trees all along the route were iced over and sparkling in sun that was finally peaking over the mountains when the race started at 11 a.m.

Because I had to get to the basketball team’s practice, I didn’t have time to hang around after the race, although I can’t really say I would have stuck around in the bitter cold anyway.

I would have liked to at least thanked the race organizers from Skinny Raven Running Store.

In a place like Anchorage, I wouldn’t blame anybody for spending the entire winter indoors, but Skinny Raven at least gives people the option to head out for some exercise, and based on the number of people I saw smiling (roughly 1,500 of them), I wasn’t the only one who was happy to spend part of my Thanksgiving out there.

This was the view of downtown Anchorage from my hotel just a few hours
after the race. Every street was a sheet of ice.

Voodoo, Strip Clubs & Poligrip: The Portland Marathon

Sometimes I choose races simply because I have friends going. And, if I’m lucky, those races also happen to be in great cities.

The Portland Marathon was one of those races. My good friend Jim Lynch, who moved to Maui a few years ago (if you’re a runner, you should definitely check out his blog and forthcoming book), told a few of us that if we signed up for the Portland Marathon, then he would fly in to join us. So, while watching the NCAA title game in March, a handful of us signed up. Over time, more and more people decided to join us until we ended up with a decent size group (15-20) heading to Oregon this October.

Jim, Jay (not pictured) and I decided that
we needed to carboload at Voodoo Donuts.

I haven’t been to Portland often, but I have enjoyed each of my visits. And this trip simply solidified what I had discovered previously: Portland is a charmingly weird city.

I knew things were going to work out fine right after my arrival. I got in an airport shuttle with only one other passenger. We started talking, and she said she was from Lawrence, Kansas. Never one to hide my allegiance to my alma mater, I told her I was a KU grad. As it turned out, she was a team psychologist for KU basketball, so we spent the entire drive to downtown discussing hoops. I’ve got to admit, while I know there are Jayhawks everywhere, I didn’t expect to run into them during this trip.

I checked into the hotel on Friday afternoon before the race on Sunday morning, so Jim and Jay Coon were the only ones around.

The three of us headed to Deschutes Brewery for dinner, and while we looked over the menu the waitress stopped by to impart us with the following local wisdom.

Jay: We aren’t from here. What’s good?

Waitress: Strip clubs. There’s this one called Mary’s, and it’s right next to a Mexican restaurant, which is great in case you get hungry.

Me: I think he was asking about the menu.

Waitress: Oh that. I don’t now how many times I can get fired tonight.

Immediately, we knew we were going to like Portland (and for the record, no, it had nothing to do with strip clubs next to Mexican restaurants).

The next time she stopped by the table, we had this conversation:

Waitress: There are a lot of life lessons when you live with seven chickens.

Me, Jay and Jim: (Blank stares).  

Ah, good times.

Earlier in the day, Jim had a crown come out. We were rooming together, so it was officially the first time I shared a hotel room with someone I knew was actively wearing Poligrip. At least someone I didn’t refer to with some sort of variation on grandma or grandpa.

The problem really came that night, when the Poligrip lost its poligrip, and Jim swallowed his crown.

None of us are at all immature, so it definitely did not lead to us to suggest he use a strainer to find it later and then pop it back in his mouth.

That never came up. Not once.

Concerned, however, we sent a note to our friend Dr. Dave Longcope, a fellow runner who also happens to have been on the cover of 5280’s Top Doc magazine a few months ago. Dave is a colon and rectal surgeon, so we knew he was an expert in, ahem, certain regions of the body. We texted him to ask if Jim was at any risk during the marathon after swallowing his crown.

Dr. Longcope: He should be fine. As long as it’s not the kind of crown you wear on your head.

The hotel seemed to be looking out for us, too. If there was an emergency in which Jim needed to retrieve the crown, the Marriott had left a plunger in the bathroom with a note reading, “Sanitized for your convenience.” Some might think that needing a plunger would completely eliminate the chances of “convenience,” but that’s for another blog.

Who doesn't take their toys hiking?

I met up with my old high school friend Steve Meyer and his two sons for a trip out to Multnomah Falls, in the Columbia River Gorge just 30 miles outside of Portland. I hadn’t seen Steve in several years, and he just happened to move to Portland two weeks earlier, so the timing was just about perfect.

As if trying to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Portland is weird, two guys passed us on the short hike up to the falls. Both were guiding remote controlled cars as they walked up the path. Steve looked at me and asked, “Did I really just see that?” I suggested we just ignore it and keep walking.

That night, a group of about 11 of us headed to a small Italian joint to carb up. One of the great parts of these races is spending time with good friends while also getting to know some other people a little bit better.

I belong to a running group with about 300 people at any given time with some new one joining and others leaving. The bottom line is it’s tough to know everyone, but dinners like this and breakfasts after long training runs allow us to talk to some people we don’t actually run with.

I’ve said this before and can’t emphasize it enough. I don’t care how fast or slow someone runs. There’s just some sort of bond between people who are willing to show up at the starting line of a race.

The secret to running 96 marathons is obviously
making sure your running clothes are ironed.

On Sunday morning, Jim looked at me and said, “I only have to do this early morning crap four more times.” This was Jim’s 96^th marathon, and he is convinced that No. 100 will be his last. That could be, but I know he won’t give up running entirely, and I know that half marathons and 10Ks start at the crack of dawn (or before), too.

We walked from the hotel to the starting line in the dark. It’s a little strange every time. At these moments, you’re walking through streets that are normally bustling. But before a marathon, there are rarely cars. It’s just streams of people walking in the same direction. And that direction usually ends at long lines in front of port-a-potties.

It seems to have become my M.O., but I entered this race after struggling with calf problems. Actually, I finally went to have my calf looked at. Another benefit of a large running group is that I have befriended some amazing doctors.

My friend Dr. John Hill worked his magic with an ultrasound and declared that I had absolutely nothing wrong with my calf, even though the upper outside of it seemed to be tied in countless knots. Then he scanned down and around the Achilles until he saw something. “Have you ever had ankle problems?” he asked. I told him I broke it on a trampoline when I was 10 years old, and it did not heal correctly. Apparently, the inside of my ankle was causing all of the pain in my calf. I’m so glad I know great doctors, who can explain things like that to me. I’m even more thankful that Dr. Hill gave me some physical therapy and suggested I get some active release technique chiropractic work from Dr. Michelle Clark, who also runs with us.

I don’t really understand how my inner ankle could cause fairly severe pain in my upper outer calf. And I don’t really understand how ART treatments work, but they got me back on my feet. Of course, I wasn’t really trained for the Portland Marathon, but at least I had a clean bill of health.

Posing while standing in line for the port-a-potties
is what runners call multi-tasking.

Normally, I enjoy meeting and talking to people during marathons, but for some reason I felt like keeping to myself and letting my mind wander during Portland. There were a few miles I saw some friends and ran with them for a mile or two, but for the most part, I let the race happen.

I hadn’t really focused on a time goal, which became a problem as I past the sign for Mile 24. I realized that I was in striking distance of four hours. There’s nothing terribly significant about that particular time – it’s nowhere close to a Boston qualifier, or even my PR – but for some reason at that particular moment, I knew I had to go for it.That's what runners do. We sometimes make up arbitrary goals at the spur of the moment and decide we have to achieve those goals immediately.

The problem was I had been averaging a little over nine-minute miles for 24 miles, and I had to run the final two about a minute per mile faster than that. That may not sound like much, but when you’re that far into a race and every part of your body just wants to be finished, the pain is amplified and doubt starts screaming in your head. In other words, it’s really hard to speed up that late in a marathon.

I did it anyway, willing the contents of my stomach (mostly Gatorade and energy gels) to stay where they were. My body suffered right after the race, and I could not bear to eat or drink much as volunteers attempted to hand me the post-race food. I downed some chocolate milk (the best recovery drink out there) and staggered to find my friends in the meeting area.

With just a few hours before our flights home, we couldn’t hang out very long. But the weekend was pretty ideal, thanks to great company.

And a charmingly weird city.

Denver's New Exercise Laws

On most Saturday mornings, like today, I get together with friends and go for a long run somewhere around Denver, followed by breakfast.

Like a lot of people, I started running when challenges in my life reached a point in which I needed an outlet. I found that outlet in running, in large part because I met so many great people.

Running is therapy. Sometimes we listen to each other’s problems. Sometimes we tell stories and jokes just to make each other laugh. Sometimes we just run and let the rhythmic footfalls blend with the nature around us.

Regardless, I always know that Saturday mornings are going to be a comfort place for me, a place where things seem right in the world.

That’s why I was so troubled when I read articles in the New York Times, Denver Post and Westword about a new ordinance in Denver, prohibiting group exercise in parks.

Seriously, I wish I was kidding.

As the New York Times pointed out – and yes, that is THE New York Times, complete with all the news that’s fit to print – Denver is one of the healthiest cities in a country that desperately needs healthier cities.

In this town, you can leave your house without seeing at least one person running and another on a bicycle.

Now we’re coming up with laws that discourage people from exercising? Are you kidding me?

Keep in mind, this is a state that legalized marijuana. We pride ourselves on being forward thinking and creating laws based more in rational thinking than convention (Couldn’t society benefit from getting tax dollars from legalized marijuana? And do we really want our tax dollars going to enforcement and incarceration for something that seems to primarily make people lazy and hungry?)

The argument that I’m seeing is that these laws are not intended for people who are meeting a few friends for a run, a workout or a game of kickball. It’s directed toward the people are profiting from these exercise groups. In other words, an entrepreneur might start a boot camp or a fitness class or a running club, and they might meet up in a public park (side note: I wonder how enforcement would differentiate between a paid group and a large group of friends who met up without money changing hands.)

Why would they meet there? Because there are 300 days of sunshine in this city, and most of us like spending time outside.

Are these entrepreneurs benefiting from the use of free space in our parks? There’s no question.

Jeff Green, a spokesman for Denver Parks and Rec, told the Times that these groups need a permit.

On the surface, maybe it makes sense.

But then I thought about it. All of us pay tax dollars, and our tax dollars go toward the parks. If we decide to pay for fitness classes that meet in a park, should we be required to pay again to use that park? You can claim that the cost is coming from the business owner, but anyone who has taken basic business classes (or thinks for more than 1.2 seconds) knows that it ultimately comes from customers.

I was discussing this with someone the other day, and he said, “Are you saying that the Denver Marathon should not need a permit to run through the park?”

My answer is that I’m not saying that at all, because there is a huge difference. A race course requires streets and paths to be shut down, meaning nobody else can use them.

A fitness group using the park means only that the park is a little more crowded than it would be otherwise.

Pizza delivery drivers make the streets more crowded, but does anyone think that the pizzerias should need an additional permit because they’re benefiting from roads paid by tax dollars?

I pay taxes. It’s not my favorite thing to do, but I know that it’s necessary and that I’m ultimately going to benefit in many ways – from maintained roads to police/firefighters protecting us from danger to schools for future generations.

One of my favorite benefits is the amazing parks and trails systems that we have in Denver.

Why does that benefit end if I’m in a group?

Update to "Just" and "Only"

I got a lot of great feedback about my blog about runners using the words “only” and “just.”

Therefore, I think it’s only right that I clarify. There are instances when the words are justified, and in fact encouraged when relating to running.

And I would like to thank my friends for pointing out these great examples. If you have others, please feel free to add them to the comments section at the bottom.

Here are a few of my favorites I heard:

·      I just ran a marathon, so I’m going to eat an entire pizza.

·      A 5K is just over three miles.

·      I am only eating cheeseburgers and drinking beer, because I just did an Ironman.

Those are perfectly acceptable exceptions to the rule.

On the other hand, the worst usage in the history of running came from Ben Reeves yesterday, when he uttered the words, “Just Leadville.” For those of you that don’t know, when a runner says “Leadville,” he is generally referring to a 100-mile torcher-fest that starts at 9,200 feet of elevation and climbs as high as 12,600, and of course I’m not talking about a single climb. There may be tougher races out there, but there certainly aren’t a lot of them. No matter what, the original rule should never be broken when referring to Leadville. In Ben’s defense, I think the question that led to that was something like, “What races do you have coming up?” So, it may be in the gray area.

If you have any other exceptions and/or terrible violations, I want to hear them.

InVinceable

This blog has taken awhile. I've started and stopped several times. I wasn’t even sure I should write it because I feel like it’s not my story to write.

But the more people that learn about Vince DiCroce (visit http://andsoitbeginsagain.com to read his blog – and you should read his blog) and his courageous battle brain cancer, the more his story and his fight can inspire people like it has inspired me.

Vince had pacers for the race, but I'm pretty sure
he paced them more than the other way around.

I met Vince in 2006 when I first started with Runners Edge of the Rockies. He was fast, much faster than me. Sometimes he slowed down enough for me to run a mile or two with him, and he always had time to talk after runs for guidance or motivation.

At the time, I had never run a marathon. In fact, I don’t think I had run more than about seven miles.

Vince had run dozens of marathons, and soon after I met him, he completed his first of seven Ironman competitions. I didn’t know it at the time, but 29 of Vince’s marathons and all of his Ironman triathlons have come since he was diagnosed with brain cancer in 2004.

He never mentioned it to me, and clearly he did not let it define him. Over time, the tumor shrunk, and so did Vince’s race times.

Last November, Vince set a PR in every race he ran, including a blistering 3:03 at the Richmond Marathon.

But three days later, during a physical, doctors discovered that the tumors had returned. I’m not going to go into detail because he does so very well in his own blog, http://andsoitbeginsagain.com, which I highly recommend reading and following.

Vince writes very well about the biggest battle of his life. He wrote, “My friends in my running group (Runners Edge of the Rockies) are still in disbelief about the 3:03 and wondering how soon I will break that 3:00 barrier. Soon enough they will know that I am not Superman.”

Superman is the appropriate descriptor for Vince.

Many of us were shocked to learn about the diagnosis, but few of us were surprised to see Vince back out with us cranking out miles on Saturday mornings after he finished his first round of radiation.

Someone started a “Run with Vince” program, meant to encourage people to run a distance in the Colfax Marathon that was beyond their comfort zones. You know, if Vince can sign up for his first Ironman before he had ever done a triathlon of any distance, surely other people could go out and run a 10-miler, half marathon or even a marathon.

As the weeks went by earlier this year, I was fortunate to run with Vince three or four times during Saturday morning training runs, and it wasn’t long before I started questioning whether I could keep up with him.

I asked if he was planning to run any part of the Colfax Marathon, and he said he was thinking about doing the half. I encouraged him, but I had a sneaking suspicion he would not be running that race.

Vince (third from left) inspired a new look for a lot of members

of Runners Edge of the Rockies. This is a few of them.

By that time, about 200 of us had acquired “InVinceable” shirts to wear in support of Vince, and several of us shaved our heads to join Vince in his current look.

A few days before the race, I saw Vince at a party, and he confirmed what I had suspected.

He wasn’t going to run the half. He was going to run the full 26.2 miles, just like his wife and daughter, who both committed to run their first marathons.

On May 19, Vince and seven InVinceables crossed the finish line in 3:56. While it wasn’t the 3:03 he ran six months before, it was one of the most remarkable accomplishments I have ever witnessed. In sports or in life.

Vince may have written that he’s not Superman. I’m still not convinced.

2013 Shiprock Marathon

I think I’ve mentioned before that one of the hardest parts of trying to run a marathon in all 50 states is convincing people to join me in some obscure race locations. I think I’ve also mentioned that certain people in my running club, Runner’s Edge of the Rockies, are awesomely easy to persuade.

I’d had a few people tell me that they’re favorite race was one in New Mexico that almost no one had ever heard of. Each time, the runner hesitated just a moment, as if they were deciding whether to keep it a secret. But each time, they told me about a race in the middle of a Navajo reservation near the Four Corners called the Shiprock Marathon.

The drive was going to be about seven hours, and I approached a few people I knew that preferred small races and weren’t afraid to travel. Jim Turosak, who had gone to St. George with me in October (before an extended break while trying to let my calves fully heal), was pretty easy to convince. Once he confirmed, I didn’t really worry about putting the full court press on anyone else.

Apparently, I didn’t have to. By the time we left on that Friday morning, Steve McAnnally (who had done Green Bay with me), Nason Newberg (Vermont City), Andy Hartman (a two-time veteran of the ridiculous Leadville Trail 100) and Kristin Furfari, Andy’s girlfriend who is on a quest to run a marathon each month this year (and could beat the tar out of the rest of us without trying), all joined Jim and me in a rented Suburban, and we headed southwest on Highway 285.

Trying to describe the six styles of humor in the car would be impossible, but if you remember Comic Relief and how they would put comedians with completely different styles back-to-back-to-back, you’ve got a pretty good idea. Each style was unique, but all of them blended together flawlessly. Let’s just say, I really didn’t stop laughing for at least 48 hours.

Andy Hartman ran the brutal Lead Man race series
two years ago. Clearly he knows how to carbo-load.

A little over an hour into the drive, near Buena Vista, Colo., we pulled into a gas station to use the facilities. Jim and I took the opportunity to buy a few lottery tickets, figuring only people in sparse outlying towns ever won. Our tickets were nearly as impressive as winning tickets would have been. We didn’t match a single number on any of them. 

We knew we were going to drive to Pagosa Springs, Colo., after the race, but it also provided the perfect stopping point for lunch on Friday. None of us were too concerned about having great races the next day, as our lunch orders proved. Of course, most of us weren’t as daring as Andy, who ordered some concoction with a hamburger floating in a bowl of green chili.

When we finally made it to Shiprock, N.M., we realized that the campus at Dine College, where the Expo (and bus pickup the next day) was located, was not an option on the iPhone map app or car’s GPS. Fortunately, we kind of ran into it on accident. Of course, in a town of about 8,000 people it’s not too tough to find anything. After picking up our packets and exploring every bit of the 2-3 tables in the expo, we decided to visit the Four Corners monument about 20 minutes away. There’s something to being at the only place where four states border each other. I’m still not sure what that something is, but it is something. We took the requisite photos standing in all four states, playing Twister (“right hand in New Mexico, left foot in Utah,…”) and, well, there really aren’t any other pictures to take. Or things to do there, for that matter.

This is the expo and finish area

So we left for Farmington. It’s about 30 miles from Shiprock, but since there are no hotels in Shiprock, it was really our only choice. It made for a long morning before the race because we had to drive back to Shiprock, where we caught a school bus to the starting line, which was so close to the Arizona border that half our bus actually ended up in Arizona when we turned around.

If you like to hang around the starting line for an hour or two, this may not be the race for you. We were there just long enough to hit the port-a-potty (side note: when I was growing up in Kansas City, we referred to these things by the local company’s name: Johnny On The Spot. I still like that name better than anything that uses the word “potty.”) I was in the middle of stretching when I heard, “Go” or some variation of “It’s time to start.”

I ran with Andy and Jim for a about a mile or two, before I realized that they were clearly going to run much faster than I should even attempt. I hadn’t run more than 16 miles since St. George on Oct. 6, so this was going to be more of a training run, meaning that if I made it 20-22 miles and had to walk the rest, I was good with that.

As I watched them stride into the distance, I looked to my left and saw a woman hurling on the side of the road. We weren’t even three miles in, and I was hopeful that she was running the first leg of the relay – most runners out there were doing the relay – because otherwise she was starting a very, very bad day. I also hoped it wasn’t an omen for me.

Only six miles into the race, I found myself all alone. I’ve run some small races, but that had never happened so soon. A few miles later, I started talking to a man with a Southern accent. He was running his 93^rd marathon, and he was on state No. 46. I’m pretty sure I’ve said before that I don’t run races with headphones on because I find it easier to run when I can talk to people for a while. I really enjoyed talking to this guy from Alabama, and I asked his name. “Forrest,” he said. I started laughing and asked for clarification, “Wait, I’m running across the desert with a guy from Alabama named Forrest?” He, of course, had had this reaction before and quickly verified that when his kids cheered for him, they screamed, “Run Forrest. Run.”

After parting ways with Forrest, I caught up with Tara Klima, another friend from Runner’s Edge who had made the trip down with another friend. Tara was with another woman from the Denver area named Hoa, who she happened to meet during the race (Denver runners tend to migrate toward each other, it seems).

The course itself isn’t the kind that give you a lot of variety. It’s definitely the desert, but the Shiprock itself and the wall that leads to it are pretty amazing. Like St. George, when the sun hits the rocks in this area just right, they glow a beautiful red. I was a little concerned that we would be staring at the Shiprock during the entire race, which can be frustrating because it seems like you’re never getting closer, like the bridge at Outer Banks. With this race, though, you could really only see the area’s most dominating landmark for 7-8 miles, as long as you weren’t looking back over your shoulder. It was just long enough to really enjoy it, and at Mile 14 we passed the wall and wouldn’t really see much of it again until the final few miles.

Kristin ended up catching up to Tara, Hoa and I, and we rattled off a few miles together. At points, I ran alone with each of them, including an extended stretch with Tara, who I had not run with much in the past, even though we are in the same running group.

I wasn’t trying to run my normal race pace, which might explain why I was genuinely enjoying the course. It was just like our average Saturday morning runs, except we were in a completely unique setting. The volunteers at each aid station were phenomenal. I felt bad for a kid who was clearly disappointed because not many people were taking the cut up energy bars he was offering. He obviously wanted to help but didn’t realize that he was, even if only a few people were eating the energy bars. I’m pretty sure the few people who did take them needed them and really appreciated that they were available. The bottom line is that if there are volunteers at aid stations that feel like they’re not doing enough, the race organizers did their job very well. That was the case at Shiprock, and the race director should be commended.

Nason Newberg and Jim Turosak know what it's like
to place in their age groups. I do not.

At Mile 22, my body immediately reminded me about the promise I’d made to myself. I went from feeling strong to feeling like a truck hit me. I started walking, at which point I saw Tara and Steve both fly by. Kristin reached me and said the marathon she had run two weeks before was really hitting her. But I think it’s just because she is really nice that she agreed to walk the next three miles with me. We ran most of the final mile, including the last quarter mile through sandy, desert dirt (the only questionable part of the entire course, but I honestly didn’t mind).

We crossed the line at just over 4:30. Nason, who wasn’t wearing a watch and wouldn’t know his time for at least 24 hours, won his age group, and Jim got second in his age group despite re-injuring his calf a few miles into the race. Both won Navajo pottery as trophies. All of us finished and were happy enough with our performances, so we hit the road toward Pagosa Springs, where Andy promised the natural hot springs and cold beverages provided magical healing powers.

I don’t know about those healing powers, but I do know a great dinner and a million laughs did help.

Andy summed up the weekend nicely on the way home, when he said*, “You know what hurts the worst right now? My abs. I don’t think I’m used to laughing this much.” 

Epilogue: On the way out of Pagosa Springs, we had to go over Wolf Creek Pass, which you may recognize from the song of the same name by C.W. McCall. Well, Andy sang/chanted an outstanding version of that song as we traveled that route. I filmed it but as a favor to him, I’ve decided not to post it here. So you’ll just have to enjoy the original version.

On second thought, I just can't resist. Note: Andy's rule was that everyone had to make chicken sounds throughout the song if we wanted him to continue. I'm not totally sure what kind of chickens some of these people have encountered, but I'm sure they sound exactly like this. Enjoy.




*Editor's note: There is debate on who actually uttered this line. Andy claims it was Steve.

2012 St. George Marathon

If you don’t work in sports, you might not realize just how difficult it is to do anything during the season that isn’t actually related to the season.

I started writing this in October, but basketball got in the way. So did lacrosse. Really, a lot of sports got in the way. That’s my excuse, whether you like it or not.

However, it’s time to finish and post this one, because it was a great race.

-------------------------

Has anyone ever told you a marathon was easy? If so, they were lying.

I’d heard so many great things about the St. George Marathon that I was really excited to run it. It seemed like everyone I knew set a PR on the downhill course.

I’ve run some races with significant elevation loss from start to finish, but a few days before I checked out the stats:

• Pocatello Marathon – 1,550 elevation loss
• Tucson Marathon (My PR) – 2,200 elevation loss
• St. George Marathon – 2,560 elevation loss

Holy smokes. I know the math is pretty obvious, but that’s nearly 100 feet per mile. And, surprisingly, there are some uphills out there, which means the downhills are even steeper.

It took me nearly two weeks to write this blog because, frankly, I’ve been too sore to think about it. Since the first marathon I ran, no race has come close to beating me up quite so much. Usually, I can head out for an easy run a few days after a marathon. This time, I couldn’t tackle stairs for nearly a week after the race.

But, man, what a race. When you think of the “great” marathons that require time qualifications (Boston) or lotteries (New York), nonrunners might be surprised that a little out-of-the-way town in Southern Utah is a marathon favorite.

To register for the St. George Marathon, you have to enter a lottery. The previous two times I’ve tried, I did not get in, including one year when just about everyone in my running group got in except for me (or at least that’s the way it seemed). I really didn’t expect to get in this year, which is why I wasn’t too worried when I found out my friend was getting married in Denver that same day. Oops.

I got in and found out my friend Jim Turosak also got in, and we quickly made plans to travel to the race together. Jim and I traveled to the Pocatello Marathon in 2009, when an injury forced me to bail on the full and run the half instead, so I knew that he would keep me entertained throughout the trip.

We flew to Las Vegas on Friday. It’s funny how weird things become normal after running as many races as I have. I love eating a huge breakfast the day before a marathon, and I don’t care if it’s in the morning or at lunchtime. We landed in Vegas, got the car and I drove us straight to a restaurant I’d found on Yelp. Jim looked a little concerned when I pulled into the parking lot, but I knew there were healthy sandwiches on the menu, if he wanted them. After we sat down and looked at the menu, there would be no sandwiches ordered. I got eggs and bacon with potatoes and an English muffin, and Jim got something else that would make most runners cringe.

The drive to St. George is about two hours and makes a quick cut through Arizona (20 miles or so) before hitting Utah. Because Jim had never been to Arizona before, it sparked the debate about what constitutes “visiting” a state. I’ve always thought it requires a night’s stay. Jim said all it takes a “substantial event,” such as a meal or bathroom break. Regardless, we kept driving, so Jim still can’t claim to have visited Arizona.

Jim Turosak and I before the 2012 St. George Marathon

You have to wake up really early for this race. Buses depart for the start between 4-5:30 a.m. It’s a long drive (roughly 26.2 miles) through the dark, and when we reached the starting area, it was cold. St. George is known as one of the best-organized races in the world, and when we got to the top, we realized why. As we got off the bus, each runner was handed a Mylar (space) blanket. This is a little race trick I figured out a few years ago. At the end of each race, most runners throw away the foil-like blanket they’re given at the finish. But I realized they are absolutely perfect for those times you have to wait around for a race to begin, so I generally throw mine in my gear bag for the next time. St. George’s organizers apparently knew this already.

That wasn’t the best way they tried to keep us warm, though. They set up a series of campfires, and they lit each one as soon as enough people were surrounding it. I’ve seen campfires at a few races over the years, but there was something special about these. Everyone was chatting and making new friends with the people around the fire. As the flames were waning, the call went out to head to the starting line.

The first 5-6 miles were in the dark, and we had to trust that the roads were in good shape because none of us could see much. We just followed the people in front of us. There was a strange calm to it, despite being amidst a few thousand people running down desert roads. Jim and I kept a conservative pace early until he finally broke off about seven or eight miles in. He’s a great downhill runner, so I knew he was going to fly, just as he did in Pocatello where he got a PR and a trophy for second in his age group.

I settled in, hoping to just enjoy the race. As the sun came up, the rocks all around us turned a magical red. I live in Denver, so I can drive 25 minutes to Morrison and visit Red Rocks Park, but that close proximity has never diminished my awe when the sun hits rocks like that just right. In college, I visited Uluru (or Ayres Rock) in the Australian Outback, just so I could see the red glow during sunrise and sunset. As I ran through the outskirts of St. George, I got to enjoy that glow all around me for nearly an hour of my run.

So far, the race organization had been very good, but I soon realized just how good it was. At every aid station, and there were a ton of them, they offered the standard water and Gatorade. Like a lot of races, they also had Vaseline, just in case you might be chaffing in various parts of your body. But then there was something I had never seen. At each aid station, 2-3 people in rubber gloves were rubbing Icy Hot on runners’ legs. At first I thought it was a little strange, but by Mile 16, I decided it was genius. I stopped and a nice woman helped me out. She made a point of saying that I the reason they rubbed it in for us was so we wouldn’t accidentally rub it in our eyes later. There’s no doubt that if I was left to apply it myself, I probably would have rubbed it in my eyes, in my hair and in my mouth. Yes, I become a moron when running (others might argue it’s not limited to running), so I’m glad the St. George Marathon organizers were thinking for me.

My legs were throbbing from all the downhill, so as usual I looked around for someone to talk to. I struck up a conversation with a woman and started running with her. It seemed like everyone on the course knew her. As it turned out, they very well could have. Debbie Zockoll has run the St. George Marathon all 36 times since it was founded. Yes, you read that right. And running with her for a while was nice because I could pretend all the people were cheering for me (they were not).

The final couple of miles though town were sunny, making them a little more challenging than they always are anyway, but the crowds were great yelling encouragement and making them as fun as they could be.

After a rough stretch of finishes, I finally broke the four-hour mark again with a 3:49. I was happy. Jim was even happier after turning in a solid 3:21. We jumped in the car, headed back to the hotel for quick showers and hauled it back to Vegas for our flight. I arrived back in Denver with just enough time to stop at my house for a change of clothes, and I made the wedding with about 20 minutes to spare. Sitting still at the ceremony and reception without falling asleep was tough, but I somehow pulled it off, making it a truly great day.

I hurt so bad right after this race that I couldn't even
take my awesomely nerdy compression socks off.

Christmas Traditions

The blog has been on hiatus for a while. What can I say? Sometimes life and work get in the way. But Christmas seemed like a good time for a new entry.

I like Christmas traditions. And the Kennedys have a lot of them. Some happen every year, and others only when all three brothers can get together. For example, Darren, David and I are allowed to buy each other gifts beginning on Dec. 26. When we’re together, we load into the car and head out to the after-Christmas sales. It’s especially strange, since all three of us detest shopping, especially when it’s crowded. In fact, it might be the only time each year you might catch me in a store instead of ordering everything online.

There was a report from Cairo, Egypt, where Darren and his family live, that my youngest nephew continued another Kennedy tradition, proclaiming, "This is the BEST Phineas-and-Ferb-holiday-pack um, thingamabob, EVER!" You see, no matter what the gift, it’s ALWAYS the best ever. My brother once shouted from the rooftops, “This is the BEST Preparation H EVER.” The neighbors asked him to get down from the roof and quiet down immediately.

Traditions are harder to keep these days. Part of the family is across the world, and my parents now spend the winters in Arizona instead of Kansas City, where we grew up and David still lives with his son.

So, sometimes new traditions need to be formed, and six years ago on Christmas morning I headed out for a little run on the Charouleau Gap, a trail in the mountains just north of Tucson. It’s meant for ATVs, mostly, but I liked the challenge. I’ve run it every Christmas since, usually trying to go farther up than the year before. And I do mean up, because the trail, as the name suggests, rises toward a gap between two mountains. Lately, I’ve been nursing an injured calf, so I knew I was unlikely to go farther than last year’s run of 10-11 miles. It’s not exactly ideal for running, with loose rocks scattered on every switchback, and today’s run was cut extra short by one of those rocks, which I stepped on wrong and rolled my right ankle (an injury I have only slightly more often than calf tears).

That first year, I also encountered a bull in the middle of the trail on my way back down. It stopped me in my tracks, as I tried to figure out the best move. It occurred to me that all that land is free range, and the bull stared at me with no indication that he might charge. I wished him a Merry Christmas. He said “moo” – or maybe it was “keep moooving.” I’m really not sure. I was a little surprised to see him in the exact same spot the next year. And the next. Six years later, I was disappointed to approach the spot and find it empty. Hopefully the old boy was sleeping in. I did, however, run across three deer at the trailhead.

Despite the gimpy ankle, I made it back without too much trouble. Now it’s time to open a few gifts and see what Santa left in my stocking (which most years includes an annex – or grocery bag filled with more stuff).

I’m pretty sure they’re going to be the best gifts ever.

Merry Christmas, everybody. And if you don’t celebrate Christmas, I hope you have a wonderful Tuesday.

Marathon Cheaters

I chose not to post about Paul Ryan’s ridiculous marathon claim, simply because I didn’t want to spark a political debate (or at least throw more gasoline on the fire). However, when I read the story in the New Yorker about Kip Litton, I couldn’t resist this one. Lying is certainly annoying. Cheating is reprehensible.

You can buy a finisher's shirt for a race that doesn't exist.

For those that haven’t read it, Mark Singer wrote a remarkable story (Warning: give yourself time to read it - it's a LONG story) about a guy who claims to run sub-3 hour marathons (sound familiar). However, unlike Ryan, Litton did so much more than make an untrue claim. Litton appears to have cheated in nearly every race he’s run, including the “Western Wyoming Marathon,” which he actually made up completely (including a full list of other “finishers” and their times, not to mention profiles on Athlinks.com).

The reason Litton’s story is so unbelievable is because it’s such an anomaly in the world of running. Honestly, when I’ve been on an out-and-back during some races, I have wondered how easy it would be to simply pull an about-face without going to the turnaround point (it would generally be undetectable because there is rarely a timing mat at the turnaround point). Back in my high school cross country days, I sometimes ran close to another runner, simply hoping he would clip my heel and send me tumbling down a hill, giving me an excuse not to finish.

You know why neither of those things ever happened? Because, like most sports, running has an unwritten code. But unlike other sports, running is individual. So the code is not meant to protect teammates, like a hockey fight to protect your star player or hitting a batter with a pitch to retaliate for a teammate that’s been plunked.

The code in running is based almost entirely on oneself. If I was to cut a course or otherwise cheat, I wouldn’t deserve to wear that medal at the end of the race. I wouldn’t deserve to add it to my list of completed races. And I certainly wouldn’t deserve to accept an award for an exceptional finish, like a top age group finish. For almost all of us, that’s enough to deter us. That and, of course, there’s really no point in doing so. At the end of the day, unless you’re in the hunt for the win, your finish means nothing to anyone except yourself.

Rosie Ruiz sure looked tired after running a mile.

That code is why most marathoners can tell you all about Rosie Ruiz. In 1980, Ruiz acted as though she had won the Boston Marathon. It didn’t take long to realize that she actually had jumped into the race with only a mile to go. Likewise, at the 1976 Olympics in Montreal, Frank Shorter likely would have been declared the winner (therefore repeating as Olympic champion) if drug testing had been as advanced as it is today, because East German Waldemar Ciepinski was almost certainly doping, based on evidence collected from the Stasi. And, a clown in the United Kingdom named Rob Sloan accepted third place in last year’s Kielder Marathon for a 2:51:00 finish, despite the fact that his “run” included a six-mile bus ride from Miles 20-26.

These, like Litton, are the exceptions. According to MarathonGuide.com, there were approximately 523,000 marathon finishes in 2011. Add in the number of half marathons, 10Ks, 5Ks and other distances, and the number of racers last year was staggering. Almost every one of those finishers ran the race without cheating, and I’d be willing to bet nearly all of them were proud of their performance, despite how it may have matched up with the other runners in the race.

People like Litton, Ruiz, Ciepinski and Sloan really frustrate me as a runner. Most of us have good races and bad races, but like all but a handful of other runners, we know that those finishes are ours. And I know that we ran the same course – and same distance – as the winner, the person who finished last and everybody inbetween.

Yesterday, 2,166 people finished the Denver Rock ‘n’ Roll marathon, and 8,138 people finished the half marathon. To all 10,304 finishers of that race, and all the finishers of races around the world, congratulations on your accomplishment. And, thank you for doing it the right way. You have every right to be proud, regardless of how long it took.

Side Note: Originally, I planned on writing about the infamous false claim by a certain politician. While I chose not to post it, I came across the following celebrities in marathon finishes, and I can’t resist posting this excerpt.

Will Ferrell has run a few marathons - and he went all 26.2.

I commend people like George W. Bush (3:44 in the 1993 Houston Marathon), Al Gore (4:54 in the 1997 Marine Corp Marathon), Sarah Palin (3:59 at the 2005 Humpy’s Marathon), Jill Biden (4:30 at the 1998 Marine Crop Marathon), Mike Huckabee (4:37 at the 2005 Marine Corp Marathon), William Baldwin (3:24 at the 1992 New York City Marathon), Will Ferrell (3:56 at the 2003 Boston Marathon), Sean “Puff Daddy” Combs (4:14 in the 2003 New York City Marathon), Oprah Winfrey (4:29 at the 1994 Marine Corp Marathon), Freddie Prinze Jr. (5:50 at the 2006 Los Angeles Marathon), David Lee Roth (6:04 at the 2010 New York City Marathon), Al Roker (7:09 at the 2010 New York City Marathon) and whoever was in the Teddy Roosevelt mascot costume from the Washington Nationals (6:26 at the 2009 Marine Corp Marathon).

Regardless of whether I like their political views or entertainment value, each of them had the guts to train for and tackle at least one marathon.

I’d be willing to bet all of them could tell you their PR’s, too.

2012 Missoula Marathon

22. Missoula Marathon – Missoula, Montana – July 8, 2012
I’d been in a feud with the marathon for the past 18 months. I hadn’t run a race that I’d been happy with since Marine Corp in 2010, and I fell apart in that one. The last couple of months had been especially rough with the heat in Nashville and the nausea in Deadwood. I needed a good race. Or at least a decent one.

Me with Chuck to my left and Annette and Tom

just behind us. The other dude? No idea, but

I'm sure he enjoyed the race, too.

A few days before we were scheduled to fly to Montana, I checked the forecast. High of 94 degrees. Are you kidding me? More than a few times, I thought about bagging it.

But I was going with my friend Jim Lynch, who was moving to Hawaii less than a week after the race, and a few other friends were heading up, too. Oh, why not?

Jim and I flew out on Saturday morning. He’s a veteran with 87 marathons under his belt heading into this one, and he likes to make these trips quickly. We got to Missoula around 1 p.m., following a quick layover in Salt Lake City, and we were flying out at 1 p.m. the next day. After taking care of the usual pre-race stuff, we met up with our friends Donna Wise and Kandy Timinski, as well as Kandy’s friend Jill, for some carbo loading at Ciao Mambo.

Morning came too soon. The questions about why I was about to run a marathon came quickly. Jim and I were up at 4 a.m. and out the door 45 minutes later, heading to the buses that would take us to the start. We found the bus pickup, and the line was literally wrapped around the block. At first, I was a little annoyed (for no real reason, other than it was early and I was cranky), but the nervous, happy energy among those waiting changed my attitude. We reached the starting area, and they had everything we needed (i.e. – plenty of port-a-potties and a bag drop).

The Missoula Marathon is 26.2 miles

of stunning beauty. I am 6-foot-2

of considerably less beauty.

The race started when a cannon fire fired, and fireworks shot off to our left. We started near Frenchtown and headed down a long road with cow pastures on both sides. Seriously, we were on that road for nearly 9.5 miles without making a turn.

Both Jim and I had bibs on our back with pictures of Michael Fontes on them, and I thought about Mike a lot during those early miles. I couldn’t help but think he would love the cool morning with the sun cresting the mountain on our left side.

At dinner the night before, Jim and Donna said they really don’t like talking to people during a race. I’m the opposite. I love meeting new people during races and clicking off a few miles with them. For the first four miles, I kept to my own thoughts and reflections.

Then I ran past a few people, and all I heard was, “In K.C.” I turned and asked if they were talking about the Kansas City Marathon. They were, and I told them it was my hometown. It turned out that two of them went to Rockhurst College in K.C., so we struck up a conversation. I asked if I could latch on to them for a while and they were welcoming.

I generally stick with people for a couple of miles and then we part ways. Little did I know, I would hang with Annette Toomer, her dad Chuck and her friend Tom for quite a while. Chuck was running his 17^th marathon, but Annette and Tom were running their first.

Like I said, I was in a feud with the marathon, and I needed something to help me. I decided I wanted to stick with these guys and try to help them finish their first.

Right after the halfway mark, we headed up the only real hill on the course. It was pretty tough, but Tom (who lives in Missoula) said that the views at the top made it worth the climb. He was right. The next three miles were among the best I’ve ever run during a race. We were high up, overlooking rivers and pastures with mountains all around us. Living in Colorado for the last 14 years, I see beautiful views on a daily basis. But this was different. It was peaceful. It was perfect.

At some point I jumped in a port-a-potty and figured I was probably not going to see them anymore. Instead, I spotted Chuck. We laughed as we speculated that Annette and Tom were probably miles ahead already. I had a great conversation with Chuck, who said the first half of the race was the best he had ever felt during a marathon. We talked about running and families and life in general – this was the first time he had ever gotten to run a race with one of his six children – as we passed a man in a tuxedo playing a grand piano. And we crossed over a bridge with a wide stretch of whitewater below us, and a kazoo playing “band” at the end.

About that time, Annette caught back up to us. It seems she made a stop, too, so she had to track us down. Not long after, Annette and I started to pull away from Chuck. Also around this time, I noticed a guy named Matt who had been running near us for a few miles, so I asked him to join us. He was running his second marathon, but his first had been a few years before.

By that point, we had hit the neighborhoods with enough turns to make up for the straight stretch on Mullan Road to start the race. This was also the point when first time marathoners begin to struggle and to lose trust in their training. Actually, that’s the point when nearly all of us, regardless of the number of marathons we’ve run, begin to struggle and to lose trust in our training.

I can almost guarantee you that Annette and Matt would tell you I was helping them. The truth is that I was using them. I needed something to help me through this race and this slump I’d been in. I hadn’t done a marathon without walking in a long, long time.

Annette's caption for this picture was,

"Kicking Mike Kennedy's ass." She did.

I’m not a marathon expert. Not even close to it. But I do know quite a bit about walking during marathons. And this is all you need to know: Once you start walking, it’s almost impossible to get any kind of rhythm back. I knew the three of us needed to just keep going. Just keep moving forward.

There are not a ton of people along the Missoula Marathon course, but the ones that were out there were outstanding – and I include the volunteers and police directing traffic in that statement. Everyone was friendly, and everyone was cheering for all the runners. I thanked several people for coming out, and they looked taken aback. Their reply was always the same: “Thank you for coming to our town and allowing us to do this.” And that, my friends, is why I absolutely love smaller marathons.

Around Mile 22, I saw a guy with “Kive” printed on the back of his shirt. He was walking and I just said, “Come on, Kive. Run with us.” He smiled and then started running. It was his first marathon, too. Annette, Matt, Kive (real name Kevin) and I weaved through the neighborhoods, never really knowing where we were.

Kive had to start walking again at Mile 24, and at Mile 25 I heard Matt groan. He cramped up bad enough to pull something in his leg. I wanted to finish the race with Annette and Matt, but I knew Annette and I had to keep going. We yelled some encouragement to Matt and told him we’d wait for him at the finish.

Annette really didn’t complain much. She clearly had hit the wall at Mile 20, but she was gutting it out. The last mile was probably the hardest for her, but I kept telling her whatever I could think of that might keep her going.

“You’ve got a mile to go. You can have a beer in your hand in less than 10 minutes.”

“Less than a half mile to go.”

And, finally, “Hey Annette, see that sign? How beautiful is that?”

The sign said, “Mile 26.” And Annette beamed. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anyone smile that big.

We made one last turn, and people were lining the bridge for the final 200 meters. We saw the finish line, and Annette went into an absolute sprint. She pulled ahead of me and I saw her turn back. I said, “No way. Keep going. This is all yours.”

The next thing I heard was, “Crossing the finish line now is Annette Toomer from Yakima, Washington. And Mike Kennedy from Denver, Colorado.”

Friends Jim Lynch (look for his book coming out soon),

Donna Wise and Kandy Timinski all agreed with me that

Missoula should be toward the top of every marathoner's list

We crossed at 4:08. It’s not a BQ. It’s not a PR. But it’s an hour better than my last two. And it was as much fun as I’ve ever had in a race. I realized it during those final 6.2 miles. I had fallen in love with the marathon again. There is so much more to it than a simple finish time. It’s the things you see, and the people you meet.

I have a feeling Annette is going to drop at least 30 minutes in her next marathon. And I can pretty much guarantee you she will be signing up for another one soon.

Tom had a great race, too, finishing right around four hours. Matt crossed the line a few minutes after us, and I saw Kive finish with a giant, well deserved smile a couple minutes after that.

The Missoula Marathon is nearly perfect. I still love Big Sur, but Missoula is right on its heels. I hope they don’t change the race in any way in the future. And the heat held off until a couple hours after we finished.

A few years ago, Runner’s World called Missoula the best marathon in America. With all due respect to Big Sur, I’m not about to argue. I loved it.