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.