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.

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.

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.

2011 Pocatello Marathon

17. Pocatello Marathon – Pocatello, Idaho – Aug. 27, 2011

The race begins in the dark, but the sun

starts to rise after the first couple of miles

Two years earlier, I traveled all the way to Pocatello only to back down to the half marathon due to the first of several calf injuries I would suffer. I loved that race, even though I was disappointed about backing down a race. Determined to get it done in 2011, my friends Jim Lynch and Michelle Wolcott joined me in the short flight to Salt Lake City, followed by a two-hour drive north to Pocatello, a blue-collar college town.

I’ve really learned to love small races, and this one captures all the greatness that less participants and outstanding organization can offer. The expo is in a meeting room at the Red Lion Hotel. There are no lines. You walk right to a folding table and give your bib number to a smiling volunteer. Once you get your bib and T-shirt, you grab a bag of potatoes – quite possibly the most unique extra at any race. For the record, I ate the potatoes after both races, and they were outstanding. Later that night, we returned to the same meeting room for the pasta dinner. Like everything else about this race, it was cheap and good.

Michelle, who was running the half, dropped Jim and I off at the finish line, where we caught a bus to the starting line. They drove us up to a gap in the mountains. It was pitch black outside, as all the marathoners gathered and talked. It was a little chilly, so Jim and I made our way into a goat barn that the owner had offered up to runners for a little shelter. We had to be a little careful about where we stepped and put our bags down, and of course we also had to make way when the goats and chickens walked by. There were probably 20-25 runners hanging out and waiting, sitting on hay bales. This was race No. 80 for Jim, but it seems he still has things to learn from the marathon. This morning, he realized that sitting on hay after applying Vaseline to his thighs may have been a mistake.

Jim Lynch, my nerdy compression socks and

I hung out in a goat barn, waiting for the race.

The first 13 miles of the race are absolutely beautiful, not to mention significantly downhill. The course runs along a road next to a river that is surrounded by pine trees. I had planned on running with Jim, but he was feeling great and started too fast for me. About five miles in, I saw a guy with what looked like a giant rattail. As I caught up to him, I realized that it was just the band for his sunglasses. I couldn’t resist telling him about it, and he said he got that all the time. We ended up running the next 12 miles together. He was from Seattle, and oddly he had just visited the University of Denver a few weeks before with his daughter who was considering the school. As I’ve mentioned with previous races, I love meeting new people during races because talking always makes the miles go more easily. I know a lot of runners who don't say a word or even look around during races. But I would rather sacrifice a few minutes on the clock to enjoy myself a little more on the run. I wish I could remember his name, although it wouldn’t surprise me if we ran into each other at a race in the future.

The first half of the race is all downhill with amazing scenery.

I was shooting for a four-hour race, especially since I was using the race as a training run for New York City a few months later. My new friend from Seattle told me that he had to back down and wished me luck as I kept going. Once we hit the 14-mile mark, the course really flattened out as we headed back toward town. It’s not as scenic, but there was something I really liked about running along quiet roads for the next six miles. Around Mile 21, we crossed under the interstate and hit the only real uphill on the course, although the 100 feet or so of elevation gain is a small price to pay for the 1500-feet of elevation loss throughout the rest of the race. I got to the top of the hill and suddenly I had to change my stride mid-step. My foot was heading right toward the head of a snake. The head is all there was, but his eyes were pointed up toward me and his fangs were exposed, as if he wanted to protect himself even after death. I also didn’t want to find out if those fangs could make it through the soles of my shoes. Fortunately, I was able to land an inch or two away. Every race offers something I’ve never seen before.

Next the course runs by a few trailer parks. Normally that might not be ideal, but a few of the neighborhood kids came out and cheered as we ran by. On a course that doesn’t have a ton of spectators, those kids helped. My calves started tightening up, and I didn’t want to risk tearing them again. I wasn’t going all that fast, and I knew slowing down would probably cost me the four-hour mark, but the risk wasn’t worth it, especially with New York on the horizon. I was walking and running the rest of the way. I met a guy wearing a maple leaf on his shirt and shorts. He said he was hoping to qualify for Boston, but he just didn’t have it that day. A few minutes later, he admitted that he had just missed qualifying in his last race, and I asked when that was. He said two weeks before. Oh, and that one had been his first marathon. I’m no expert, but I would not have given him a very good chance of having a great race in Pocatello. We helped each other to the end, coming in at 4:07.

The sign as you drive (or run) into town says, “Pocatello. Smile Capital U.S.A.” During race weekend the two times I was there, it was true for both the people around town and the runners. The natives are extremely friendly and pleasant, and the race is outstanding. I’m sure there were some runners that were disappointed with their races, but I didn’t see them. All the finishers I saw at the finish area were smiling and enjoying themselves, while partaking in the famed baked potato bar along with several other goodies. We headed back to the hotel for quick showers and then jumped back in the car. The best part about flying in and out of Salt Lake? They built an In-n-Out Burger just north of town. It was the perfect post-race meal for us. We were away from Denver less than 36 hours, packing in perhaps more in a limited amount of time than any other race trip. For those people that don’t necessarily need a ton of spectators to carry them through the race, Pocatello is a must-do. Aside from maybe Fallsburg, I’ve never seen a race where runners get more for their time and money. And, despite my somewhat average performance (and that of my new Canadian friend), this course has BQ written all over it.

Michael Fontes Memorial Run

June 30, 2012

There is something special about runners. I don’t know what it is – and I know I’m biased and probably sound a bit egotistical saying this – but almost all the runners I know are the among the most kind, giving, funny and accepting people I know. The list of adjectives could go on endlessly, but you get the point.

Today, there was a Memorial Run for Michael Fontes. After his tragic death, the outpouring of support from the Denver running community (and beyond) was remarkable. I heard from a lot of friends who had run with Mike and considered him a friend. But I also heard a lot of stories from people who didn’t know him well. Some knew of him, others saw him cheering them on from the side of the road during a race, and others just saw his smile and wave as they passed on a run. Many of those people seemed to feel almost guilty for the grief they felt. As if they didn’t know him well enough to miss him.

But that was one of the great beauties of Mike. He touched many lives, and even he might not have known how many or how much. Runners have a bond. Most of us will never win a race. And for us, it’s not about beating other people. It’s about doing our best. Steve Prefontaine said, “To give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift.” While Prefontaine was one of the finest runners the world has ever known, the beauty of that quote is how well it relates to all of us. It’s not about who you beat. It’s about doing your absolute best.

Mike did that. During many weekly long runs, Mike would put his head down and focus on improving while the rest of us were talking and hamming it up. Certainly, he would have a great conversation with any of us, but I always felt like he didn’t necessarily need to talk. It didn’t matter to me, and I’m pretty sure it didn’t matter to Mike. The bond between all of us was there because we were out there hammering out miles. And Mike showed many times that he respected all of us, regardless of what time we crossed a finish line. Mike was there waiting – he did beat many of us a lot of the time – to congratulate us or pick us up if we were unhappy with our results. Whether we were feeling good or bad, Mike had a way of making us feel better.

When I got to the run this morning, I was delighted to see many faces I hadn’t seen in years. It was a celebration of Mike Fontes, and the entire Denver running community was invited. There were people I ran with five years ago, and haven’t seen since. One of those was Anders Hyde. While running together and catching up, we were discussing how business trips sometimes allow us to see old friends. I actually said, “The best friends are the ones you can go years without seeing and pick up mid-sentence from the last time you were together.” I don’t know if Anders caught my pause after saying it, but something occurred to me at that moment. That’s exactly what happened with Anders and I this morning. I would never claim we are really close – in fact, I’m pretty sure I mispronounced his name at one point – but I don’t think it matters. That bond seems rare in everyday life. But with runners, it happens all the time.

I wondered how I was going to feel during the Memorial Run. Certainly there is still grief, and we will carry Mike’s memory with us on almost every run in the future. What I felt this morning was joy. And camaraderie. And love. I’m not going to pretend to know what Mike would have wanted. But I’m pretty sure he would be happy to know that we felt that way this morning.

All that is not to say that people who don’t run are somehow bad or less worthy. I have many great, close friends who wouldn’t run around the block if you paid them. But I will say that for some reason, most runners get along. Age, race, occupation, income, gender, none of that matters. We are equals out there on the roads and tracks and trails. Want proof? Come out and join us. You’re all welcome.

Losing a Friend

I never thought I would finally put this out there after the tragic loss of a friend. I’d written down my thoughts on the 20-plus marathons I had run, but I kept it within the secure confines of my old school Mac laptop. However, when I came home from a Saturday morning run on June 16, 2012, when my friend and running partner Michael Fontes was hit and killed by a van while crossing a street, shortly after we had parted ways, the words flowed.

What follows in the first entry are those words I wrote that day. I do not think this blog will be all about running, although there is an awful lot about running that corresponds with everyday life. I also feel like I have learned a lot from training and running marathons, and I will recap what I saw and felt during my races. So, I apologize now if there is too much running or too much about sports. I’m writing what I know. I’m writing what I live. Some entries, like the first one, will be somber. Others will, I’d like to think, be comical. Life is a range of emotions, and my goal for this blog is to write the truth. I hope you enjoy it.

Michael Fontes at the 2012 Bear Chase

June 16, 2012

When I hear bad news, I often go numb. It may appear that I have no emotions at all. It just takes time to truly comprehend something that I don’t want to hear.

This morning, as a few of us were on the return portion of our 14-mile run with Runner’s Edge of the Rockies, we saw cops redirecting traffic at the intersection of Speer and Downing. At first, we didn’t think much of it, figuring it was some sort of fender bender.

But then I saw a group of runners talking to the police. I turned and saw a lone running shoe in the middle of the road. My heart sank. I knew it had to be a friend. Within minutes, that fear was verified when we discovered it was Michael Fontes, who I had spent countless hours running countless miles with over the past two years.

The run started like any other, as I sprinted the first half mile or so to catch up to the 3:30 pace group. When I finally reached them, I interrupted a conversation between the two guys at the back, Jay Coon and Mike. They both looked back over their shoulders, laughed and said something like, “We knew we’d see you at some point.”

That’s the thing about this pace group. We love to spend time together, and we spend most of it laughing. Although he was sometimes quiet, Mike always fit right in. The conversation I joined was about him doing a cardio test a few days ago and deciding to run this particular run by heart rate instead of pace. Being the ass I am, I asked if he still had a heart rate. “I think so, although the watch won’t tell me until after the first mile,” he said with his ever-present smile. At the first aid station, Runner’s Edge coach David Manthey was taking some photos. “Oh great. I’m sure that’s going to be a great one of me stuffing a Fig Newton into my mouth,” Mike said. Not long after that, I was sort of veering into the traffic lane and someone made a comment about not wanting to deal with me if I was hit by a car. It was one of those jokes that runners say from time to time. You just don’t think it will happen. You think that drivers will obey traffic laws, pedestrians will remain safe in crosswalks and everybody will get where they’re going.

Erin Brumleve (from left), Ted Dunst, Jay Coon,

Michael Fontes, Jim Lynch, Wayne Cousineau, me

and Nicole Mattson after a Satrday morning run.

Later, Mike said something about how he doesn’t recover quite as well from his races as he used to. I had forgotten what he had run most recently, and he said it was the Eugene Marathon, adding quickly and emphatically that it was his PR. He didn’t say his time. He didn’t need to because we always celebrate anyone reaching a goal. Running is mostly about testing your own limits. But after falling early in that particular race and scraping himself up pretty badly, he got back up and ran a 3:38, more than an hour better than he had been running just 18 months earlier. I love stories like that.

We started talking about Eugene, and I mentioned Kenny Moore’s “The Men of Bowerman.” He said he would read it right after he finished the new book by Scott Jurek, who he planned to go meet at Runner’s Roost during a book signing in a few weeks. We were talking about the movies about Steve Prefontaine. Mike said he watched both of them right before he left for Eugene. That was the thing. Mike always lit up when he found out something new about running. My guess is that Mike was the kind of person who lit up when he learned anything new, which is an absolutely wonderful trait.

With these Saturday runs, everybody starts together, but the group gets smaller as runners going shorter distances start turning around. Conversations, many in midsentence, end abruptly. Nobody really cares. Conversations on the run have unwritten rules. One of them is that you can start it back up days, weeks or months later. Or, you can have the entire conversation over again on another run. When you go long miles, even repeat conversations are appreciated, as long as they ease the pain of the distance. At the southwest corner of Denver Country Club, Mike said goodbye. I told him, “Have a good run back. We’ll see you at the finish.” His reply: “I’m not done yet. My heart rate is too high, so I’m going to take it a little slower.” That’s how our conversation about Eugene, Prefontaine and Oregon running ended.

I wish Mike had stuck with us. I wish he would have turned around instead of just slowing down. I wish that he would have stopped to tie his shoe instead of crossing at that moment. Anything to keep him away from that intersection for just a few seconds. Instead, it ended in tragedy and with a lot of people grieving.

Though I am sad and brokenhearted, I realize how lucky I was to run with Michael Fontes for the past few years. Over the many miles, we shared our dreams and frustrations. Sometimes we talked about nothing, speaking just to pass the time on a difficult run. Almost always, we laughed. This morning, I had a fun conversation with a friend. A friend I was fortunate to know.