Weekend Getaway

After I spent a weekend traveling in the mountains, I'm sure you would expect a tourism report full of local color, keen observations of rural oddities, and small-town restaurant reviews.

But instead, you'll get a movie review, a rather spare hike report, and some unnecessarily harsh opinions about the creativity of Western Slope town namers.

We arrived in Rifle, CO, in the late afternoon on Sunday. It was pouring rain, so we elected to forego local pedestrian exploration for the evening, and opted for the nearby movie theater instead. I have been wanting to see "Avengers: The Age of Ultron" for some time now, and this seemed like a grand opportunity.

I really enjoyed the first Avengers flick, as well as the original Iron Man and Captain America movies. I was expecting to love this movie.

Sigh.

Note to Disney/Marvel: If we wanted "Transformers," we wouldn't have skipped the last several "Transformers" movies. The Avengers cast is capable of delivering character-driven drama along with the action, and that's what I was hoping to see. Not just two hours worth of CGI robots whaling on each other. Yawn.

Oh, I'll watch it again sometime, I suppose. There were a few interesting moments -- though they were definitely outnumbered by the extended chaos of confusion that made up the majority of the film. I probably would've enjoyed the banter about which hero had the best girlfriend if it wouldn't have been so obvious that neither of the girls in question appeared in the film...making me think about whether there were contract disputes or what. The introduction of new super-folk was somewhat jarring, as was the elimination of the one who seemed to have the most charisma.

The whole thing was just...jumbled.

And then there were the unanswered questions. Why does a robot need teeth? If Hawkeye has 30 arrows in his quiver and then shoots 45 of them, why is the quiver still full? If SHEILD is defunct, why does Cobie Smulders still have a large staff? And what kind of parents would name their kid Cobie Smulders, anyway?

Oh well, at least the theater chairs were comfy. And I successfully answered most of the pre-show trivia questions. I didn't make it through the credits, though -- usually I stick around until the very end, but they just went on and on, including the names of the Starbucks baristas who served coffee to the guys at Kinkos who printed the extra copies of the scripts. Geez.

But the next morning's trip to Rifle Falls State Park was a gem.



Rifle Falls will never be mistaken for Niagra, or even Bridal Veil. But they are pretty, and the park is a lovely place to spend a few hours. There are campsites, hiking trails, and a few placards that explain the history of the power plant that once existed at the site.

Most appealing, though, are the limestone caves found within the rock beneath the falls. Most are small--about bedroom sized--but there are a few cracks that lead to parts unknown, and they are all open for exploration and unsupervised spelunkery if you're into such things.

I'm not. I find that my claustrophobic tendencies tend to be in inverse proportion to my flexibility, so as I've gotten stiffer in my old age, I'm less likely to wriggle into some sharp-edged rabbit hole. Also, my eyesight and general decline in kinesthetic awareness come into play. In fact, I still have a pretty good goose-egg on my head where I straightened up without first checking for overhead stalactites. Ouch.

The photo above was taken with a flash. The caves are quite dark...so if you're planning to visit, I'd recommend taking a flashlight.

The path offers a couple of options. You can wander among the caves, walk to the top of the falls, or head off into the forest for a 2-mile hike over to the fish hatchery. It may have only been this green because of the month-long rainstorm, but I suspect it's pretty and shaded throughout the year.

Even though it was a holiday weekend, the weather seemed to have kept most of the tourists away. We had the path mostly to ourselves, and enjoyed the variety of trees, grasses, and shrubs.





Because we were expecting long traffic delays along the Georgetown-Idaho Springs corridor, we opted not to follow the trail to its end. We had lunch at a fun little "50s" Diner in Newcastle, and then drove straight back to Denver. Surprisingly, traffic was zipping right along...even through the rainy spots.

It was an excellent weekend, and fun to get away for a bit. But now it's time to start getting serious about training on the bike. Right?

Hopefully, the next set of blogs will be about intense intervals, focused hill climbs, and aero-position time trials. Unless I see a cute cat video or something. Thanks for dropping by, and have a great day!

PS. The legs are pretty much recovered from the marathon. The ego? Well, not so much. As for the promised rant about western-slope town names, well, I guess I'll have to get to that tomorrow. Sorry.

Recovery

Where are Gage and Desoto when you need them? You know... sometimes a guy just gotsta have his D5W.



Yeah -- I was pretty well spent at the end of the marathon. During the race, I felt tired, and my legs were cursing at me...but I didn't fully recognize all of my symptoms until after I crossed the finish line.

Even then, I had no real problem collecting my medal; all I had to do was let one of the nice volunteers put the ribbon around my neck. I spotted Claire as soon as she yelled my name, and had no problem grabbing a frosty water bottle from one of the ice-filled finish chute wading pools.

But I didn't have the strength to twist off the cap. And I really, really wanted to lie down. I noticed that the lower half of my face was tingling as a wobbled through the rest of the gauntlet, but I still managed to collect some Sport Beans, Clif Bars, and a Pepsi to go in the Kaiser Permanente grocery bag they handed me. A couple of my Revolution Running friends were still in the chute, so I chatted with them for a bit. (They had good races, too, by the way!) But I knew I wasn't my usual eloquent self, so I excused myself from the conversation and continued to weave my way toward the pen exit.

A kindly stranger opened my water bottle, and Claire (bless her heart!) was right by the exit to support my sweaty frame as I staggered out. I sipped some water as I assessed the extent of my facial numbness. I knew that I should eat something, but the very thought made me nauseated. Claire guided me to a bare spot in the grass and continued to talk to me as I maneuvered to the sweet relief of the supine position. It felt really good to lie down.

But apparently the volunteer staff had been trained to keep an eagle eye out for random bodies sprawled near the finish line. Within moments, there were staffers hovering above with concern on their faces. A police officer arrived moments later. They all informed me that a refreshing IV was available nearby, and that they'd be happy to help me make my way over to where I could be appropriately needled.

I told them I was fine, thanked them, and waved them away. But unfortunately, that is precisely when my stomach decided to empty itself. I rolled over on my side and shamefully barfed out what appeared to be the energy chews that didn't go into my windpipe.

Geez. How humiliating! Not only had I fallen apart at the end of the race, but I had now embarrassed myself in front of my girlfriend and the world at large. It couldn't get any worse, I thought.

Ah, but it did.

The police officer thumbed his radio. "This is Officer Lucky requesting medical support near the exit gate. We have a senior citizen who is dehydrated and vomiting and needs assistance."

Wait...what?

Did that dude just call me a senior citizen? Senior citizen! Really?

I transitioned directly from puking to laughter, which probably made them all think I was having a stroke or a senility fit or something. But Officer Lucky (and yes, that really was his name) had unintentionally put the day in perspective for me. An hour ago I had felt like Superman, on his way to a stellar sub-4:30 race performance. A half hour ago, I had felt like an undertrained and overambitious idiot who might need crutches to stumble over the finish line. But in neither of those scenarios did I remotely envision myself as a senior freakin' citizen. As time goes on, I will likely forget the details of running through the stadium or past the dragon boats, and even the hazards of eating and inhaling...but I will never forget lying in the grass next to a pile of puke and laughing at being reminded that I'm really really OLD.

But you know what? I just ran a full marathon. I ain't dead yet.

EPILOG: I never did get the IV. I just kept drinking water and breathing deeply. (Thanks, by the way, to Rich and Raechal Clark for donating their water bottles to the cause, and also for their outstanding performance as Race Ambassadors.) I didn't feel like having my free beer, or eating the race-provided BBQ meal. I just wanted to go home. But before the evening was over, I'll have you know that I enjoyed a Brownie Batter Blizzard at the local Dairy Queen. That's when I knew that I was going to make a full recovery.

Again, thanks to everyone for your support and encouragement, and for helping me maintain my illusion of youth. Have a great day!

Colfax Marathon 2015

I had 5 goals for the Colfax Marathon. They were:

1. Don't get injured
2. Finish the race
3. Beat at least 1 guy my age
4. Break 5 hours
5. Maybe even break 4:50


I'm pleased to say that I achieved each of these goals. In my wildest success scenarios, I imagined myself even breaking 4:40 -- so with my final time of 4:36.50, I have to say that I'm deliriously happy with the final race results. But there is more to the story than just that.

I ran my last marathon more than 30 years ago, before I had been subjected to the constant pummeling of the grueling responsibilities of parenthood, proposal management, and the other hardships of life as a moderately responsible adult. And even back then, in the prime health and handsomeness of my youth, the 26.2-mile distance was a formidable challenge.

Still, I've made some strides over the past couple of years. The long-overdue rehab on my busted ankle had mitigated some of my stride anomalies, and the regular training with the Revolution Running group had given me more consistency than I've had for a long time. I knew that I wasn't quite where I wanted to be with my training base, but I was confident that I could make it through 20 miles. After that? Well, I could always have a bystander call me a cab.

I was assigned to Corral G, which was the next-to-slowest pace group. Both the 4:45 and 5:00 pacers were in there, too, so if I could stick with one of them, I'd be likely to have an intelligently-paced race.

Well, sure, OK -- that is true...but it's no secret that doing things intelligently is not my modus operandi. If I had any intelligence, I'd be sitting at home watching cartoons, wouldn't I? And besides, having a plan and following that plan are two different things, as we shall see.

My recent workouts had led me to believe that I had a legitimate shot at the 4:45 target, so my intention was to get in front of the 5:00 stick and work my way up to the 4:45 group...and then stay with them as long as I could. I was thinking about this as I stripped off the long-sleeved shirt and squeezed my way into the back of the corral.

For you gearheads out there, let me take a moment to run through my raceday apparel choices. Foothills Masters Swim Team T-Shirt (of course), Nike running shorts, USA Triathlon sweat-management ballcap, and my standard dorky headband wrap with wicking tail. Since I tore my bib number last year by not accounting for chest expansion during exertion, I made sure my bib belt could stretch itself a-plenty without reaching its slack limit. (Just to be sure, I also reinforced the bib-number holes with a bit of duct tape.) I also carried my fanny pack water holster, and a FlipBelt stuffed full of Honey Stinger energy chews. The Garmin 910XT would keep track of time, and a waterproof bandage on the other arm should keep my skin-cancer surgery wound from getting too grimy.

As for my feet, well, I can't say enough good things about Injinji toe socks and the fabulous Altra Provision 2.0 running shoes. I've had a long history of blisters, bruises, and other foot discomfort, but the toe socks and Altras have solved those problems completely. I didn't once think about my feet during the race. That's pretty cool.

What I did think about was the fact that I'd need to make a pit stop at some point during the race. There wasn't a problem with lines at the porta potties before the race, but I always have plenty of fluids when I get up in the morning...and not all of them had processed by the time we needed to be in the corral. More about that later.

I wish someone would inform the race directors that absolutely NO ONE wants to hear speeches before the start of the race. Yes, I know you feel obligated to thank your sponsors and whatnot, but the sponsors should also know that any delay in getting the race started creates a negative impression, and does not help their branding. Star Spangled Banner? Sure, that's cool, and definitely sets the mood. But the acknowledgements could be done before we're cattle-penned, or after the race is done. I'm not sure why the corrals have to be so crammed with bodies, since the street extends back forever...but if they're gonna do that, they need to recognize that some of us get a little claustrophobic being sardined in while somebody drones on about the mayor and whatnot. Nobody cares. We just wanna run.

But eventually, the go-code was given, and we got to cross the mat. I felt relaxed and smooth, and passed the 5:00 stick-holder almost immediately. Surprisingly, I caught up to the 4:45 pace group within the first mile. That meant that I should slow down...but I already felt I was going as slow as I could. Everything felt easy.

But I kept an eye out for an open outhouse, just in case.

I wasn't expecting to see the 4:30 pacers at all, but ended up catching them shortly after the 3-mile mark. Again, this threw up a warning flag about possible pacing dangers, but I still felt great. I ran on past them and continued to hold an easy sub-10:00 pace.

At about 6 miles, there was a bank of porta-potties flanking the sidewalk. One of them appeared to have the green "vacant" indicator displayed, so I pulled over and yanked on the door. It did not open. Closer inspection revealed that the indicator was showing half occupied, so somebody was in there.

I was first in line for the next available stall, so I did some quick math and figured that I'd be better off waiting than starting back up and having to queue up at the next "rest area." Unfortunately, the current occupants apparently had serious business to transact, so I ended up waiting for an eternity.

OK, it was probably 15 seconds, but it seemed like forever. When my turn finally came, I was quick to get in and out. I expected to need one more such stop toward the end of the race, but figured that there would be no lines at that point. It turns out that I did not stop again, which may have something to do with the post-race situation we'll discuss later.

Mile High Stadium was next. We went through a dark tunnel and onto the path around the outside of the field, then out a different tunnel. There was a band playing some sort of grunge rock in the end zone, and many of the runners (mostly the females, for some reason) took selfies with the field in the background. It would've been cooler if Tim Tebow would've been there to pose with folks, but it was still a memorable experience.

Sloan's Lake and the Dragon Boat festival were somewhat anticlimactic. I was expecting to see some sort of aquatic "What's Up Doc," insanity, but instead saw one (empty) canoe and a couple of folks in costumes that looked more like Snuffleupagus than dragons. The festival apparently was happening later.

The rest of the course was pretty much what you'd expect. Colfax Avenue, with a few sorties into adjacent neighborhoods. I hit the 10-mile mark right at 1:40, and the half-marathon at about 2:12, so I was well ahead of my target pace. Still feeling good.

I was drinking water at each aid station (every 2nd mile or so), and had eaten a bag of Stingers at each 5-mile mark. But when I tried to eat a Clif Gel Shot at the 14-mile mark, I ran into difficulty. My coordination must've been deteriorating, because I inhaled when I should've swallowed -- and a bit of gel went down the wrong pipe.

I coughed like the Marlboro Man for the next mile and a half, trying to clear my airway. I think some of the gel actually made it into my digestive system, but I expended more calories coughing than I gained from the Shot. This may have been the turning point in the race.

But for the next 4 miles I continued to run well under 11:00, and continued to hold my running form. The clouds that had been predicted were late in arriving, so I began to notice the temperature creeping up. I found myself hoping for some sprinkles from the sky.

That didn't happen. And my pace began to slow down. I kept trying to do the math, attempting to calculate my probable finish time. I knew I was still ahead of the 4:30 stick, but also recognized that I was unlikely to stay in front of them. Sure enough, at about the 20-mile mark, the 4:30 pace group went around me like I was standing still.

The second time through Mile High Stadium was not as much fun as the first. I was starting to get tired, and the gentle slope up to the stadium entrance seemed to have significantly increased its gravity in the hours since I had previously passed. I knew I need more fuel, so I tried another bag of Stingers.

And choked again. The act of getting a little jelly thing chewed up and swallowed doesn't seem like a Herculean task, but I couldn't coordinate the chewing/breathing/swallowing timing. More coughing, more water, more slowing down. The 4:30 stick had vanished in the distance, and I was recalculating to see if I could finish at 4:35.

The path along the river and past the REI flagship store was probably lovely, but by this point I was just thinking about putting one foot in front of the other. I was still hovering around the 11:00 mark as we came back up onto the city streets, but some combination of bus exhaust fumes, downtown hills, and inability to consume fuel slapped me hard at mile 23. It was time to walk.

I thought if I could stretch my hip flexors a bit, I could loosen up enough to run again, but my legs didn't respond to my run commands. I walked for another block or two, calculating how many hours it would take to walk the last three miles.

But then I heard a voice behind me. "You can run again!" he said. "Just get your hips into it. You'll feel better when you get going!"

I thought it was another runner coming up behind me, but I never saw who was offering this encouragement. I gave it a shot. The first few "run" steps were iffy...but once I got momentum, I was able to break out of walking mode for good. "That's it!" he said. "Just keep the cadence! You can do this!"

I ran the rest of the race. It wasn't fast, but it wasn't walking. I tried really hard to keep my posture and hold my head up, but doubt that I was all that successful. At one point, I noticed that every little crack in the asphalt was throwing me out of line, and that manhole covers seemed to be Himalayan crevasses. The smoother the road, the happier I was. And then, at last...the park!

I was still pushing to break my original 4:40 goal. As the finish chute came in sight, I tried to engage a mighty sprint...but the grimace on my face was probably the only evidence of the increased effort. But no one passed me in the last 200 yards, so I guess that's something.



I made it. I got the medal. It counts as a post-parenthood PR. Despite my late-inning collapse, I still beat the time I was expecting, so I have to chalk this one up as a victory. By training more and practicing my fueling under simulated race conditions, I could get better. But I'll worry about those things later.

What happened after the finish line is probably a more interesting story than what happened in the race, and is definitely something I'll remember forever. I'll share that story with you tomorrow. Thanks for reading this rambling tale, and thanks to everyone who has helped me in training for Colfax and beyond. I really appreciate your support. Special thanks go to the Foothills Masters Swim Team, and to the Revolution Running coaches and runners. I couldn't have done this race without those wonderful people.

But I do have more to say, so please drop by again tomorrow. In the meantime, have a great day!

Sleep Injury

Ignored Star Wars Day, I have.

It wasn't intentional. I simply can't keep track of what day it is. It was merely random chance that I happened to mention Opie-Wan yesterday. What are the odds that one of my blogs would contain both a Star Trek and Star Wars reference in the same day? Astronomical, I know.

I am mildly excited by the new Star Wars flick coming at Christmas. But I'd be more excited if they would do a cross-over with the Trek universe. "The Wrath of Han" would be a good premise, as would "Solo vs. Sulu." Who would win in a fight between the Hortas and the Hutts? Could Gorns interbreed with Gungans? Would the Talosians be immune to Jedi mind tricks? Could Darth Vader's biomedical technology be adapted to make Cap'n Pike walk again?

Anyway, today is Cinco de Mayo, which I suppose could be related to the Star Wars Universe, in that the rebels (Mexico) temporarily triumphed over the Empire (France) by shutting down their battle droids or blowing up their deathstar or something. (Wikipedia wasn't specific, and I don't remember much from my high school history classes.) I'm pretty sure, though, that the conflict wasn't resolved by a knife fight between Santa Anna and Napoleon to see who could quote the E Plebnista.

Whatever. The bottom line is that the comments received regarding yesterday's post make it clear that I was misinterpreted regarding my dinner guest choice. I thought it was obvious that my interest in Ms. Locklear was solely because she is one of the few people who can talk about what it was like to work with William Shatner and Adrian Zmed, not to mention Joan Collins and John Forsythe. She must have some fascinating tales to tell. I don't know what other motivation there could be for choosing her over Clint Howard. I mean, c'mon!

Anyway, I was going to start my marathon history retrospective today, but have a minor injury report to share instead. The phrase "I must've slept on it wrong" sounds SO incredibly lame as a way to explain pains that appear overnight...but what other cause could there be? My right shoulder had been feeling better every day, so I was really disappointed to feel a twinge in there when I rolled out of bed this morning. I won't know for sure until I try to swim tomorrow, but I don't think it's anything serious. Still, when I move it around to test different motions, I feel a disturbance in the forces.

I will use my stretch bands at the office today, and will try to shake everything out well during tonight's track practice. Tomorrow, I hope to share those tales of past running adventures-- which will include memories about running barefoot, doing stadium steps, and the horrifying tale of the evil that lurked within Phil Kidd's locker.

I hope you'll join me. Have a great day!

A New Hope

I wonder if there was confusion on the set of Happy Days? If someone said "Hey, Howard!", who answered?

Think about it. And think about how that question relates to the fellow pictured here. OK, then.

Jedi knights aside, todays topics are actually swimming and running.

I ask your indulgence; it's a bit of a tortuous path from Michael Phelps to Opie-Wan Kenobe. But I'll try to make sense of it.

A good friend loaned me the book Phelps wrote about his journey to the pinnacle of swimming. It's called "No Limits: The Will to Succeed."

It provides an interesting insight into the mindset of a person with extraordinary goals and unparalleled commitment. His singular focus on winning Olympic championships meant running every single daily decision through various filters, including "Will this help me get there?" and "What are the dangers in doing this thing?"

I liked several things about this book, and I learned a few things, too. The biggest lesson is that I now understand how I've been far too nice as a swim coach. We need to do a LOT more sets of 200s butterfly, and I need to yell at people a lot more--and punish them severely if they don't swim fast enough. In other words, I need to release my inner Evil Kirk.

The book isn't really about training, but I did glean a few workout ideas, which I will unveil over the next few weeks. I also liked Michael's "WIN" acronym...which stands for "What's important, NOW?" The idea is that each moment you live through has one focus that should be a priority at that moment, and that if you constantly answer that question as you make your choices, you'll accomplish far more than if you simply drift along.

I know that I've been drifting. My goals have been blurry lately, and my commitment has been wispy. This is changing.

I'm not saying that I have suddenly transformed into a lean, mean, motivation machine...but this weekend I passed over a huge mental barrier that's been in place for decades. Guess what, my friends?

I am no longer afraid of running a marathon!

Thanks to Revolution Running, Altra shoes, Injinji toe socks, and my inspirational friends from the swim team, I have decided to go for the Full 26.2 at Colfax in two weeks. I know that I'll be slow -- my goal is to finish within an hour of my slowest previous marathon -- but I'm beginning to believe that I CAN finish, and might possibly do so without crippling myself.

This confidence boost is the result of Saturday morning's run. I ran for 19.5 miles, and could still walk afterwards. On Sunday, I swam the best that I have since the State Meet, and my legs (and feet) feel fine today. I can't tell you how excited that makes me! I know that tacking on another 7-ish miles will be really tough, and that I'll be hurting (and may have to walk)...but I think I can do it. If I stay healthy for the next two weeks and taper well, and then keep the first part of the race slow and under control while watching my fueling and hydration, I really think I can survive.

I've even started thinking about doing another one. A little.

Well, OK, let's not get ahead of ourselves. But I think I will take the opportunity to reminisce about some of my previous races during the next two weeks leading up to Colfax. There are a few memorable moments among those races from a previous era.

Anyway, it's this renewed feeling of optimism that led us to this post's title (and therefore the Star Wars connection.) But what I really wanted to discuss was a throwaway paragraph where Phelps was talking about his Aussie rival, the great Ian Thorpe (AKA The Thorpedo.) He was talking about the popularity of swimming in Australia when he mentioned a survey done Down Under. When asked who they'd most like to invite over for dinner, the country's population overwhelmingly chose Thorpe, a swimmer -- over the Prime Minister, movie stars, and champions from other sports.

This got me thinking...who would I invite over for dinner, if I could choose anyone in the world? I'll pose that same question to you, and then I'll reveal my answer. Let's restrict it to people who are alive today. Otherwise we'd have everyone calling upon Jesus to come over and fill their wine cellar from the garden hose, or inviting people who'd get punched (or worse) for their crimes against humanity (eg, Hitler, Mohammad, Steve Jobs, Bono, etc.)

My first thoughts were the obvious ones: Heather Locklear, Beth Riesgraf, Milla Jovovich, etc. Well, no...probably not. Then I pondered sports heroes like George Brett, Mark Spitz, and Tron. But those, too, would likely result in one-dimensional conversations. Hmm.

OK, here's the approach that makes sense: As an aspiring filmmaker, I should invite one of my cinematic idols, so I could get some inside information on how Hollywood works and what it would take to get my vision onto the big screen. But legendary guys like Joss Whedon, John Cameron, and Bruce Campbell are too huge, and would likely provide canned speeches and predictably lame responses to any questions. I would need to think of someone from the second tier.

Jar Jar Binks? No, he sucks. What about Curtis "Booger" Armstrong? Yeah, that's getting us in the ballpark. No wait! I got it -- this guy:



Clint Howard (sadly, no relation to Moe, Shemp, and Curley Howard) has been in show business since he was born, has appeared as an alien on Star Trek (the Corbomite Manuever) and as a serial killer on Seinfeld. His brother Ron runs one of the most prestigious filmmaking outfits in the world, and he probably has a billion interesting behind-the-scenes stories to tell about his life on the fringes of the Hollywood elite. So yeah, I think I'd invite Clint Howard over for dinner.

No...on second thought, I think I'll go with Heather Locklear. We could order pizza and Diet Cokes. Sorry, fellas, but that's how it's gonna be.

Have a great day!