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!