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Michael Klee

Now I'm a Marathoner: Recollections of My First Marathon

Like Coach David said, "There will never be another first marathon - so really soak everything in and enjoy it." I did enjoy it but I also became very competitive the last five miles when my grin turned into a grimace. But that's toward the end of the story. The beginning started at 3 AM, Sunday, May 6th, 2007, at the Hampton Inn, Fort Collins. The wakeup call was accompanied by the backup radio alarm clock and both were not really needed at all as I had been awake since 1:30, being too excited to fall back to sleep. I hurried about eating breakfast that I brought from home. I ate downstairs in the lobby next to the buffet breakfast bar. It wouldn't be filled with food until 6 AM, far too late for us get-up-before dawn endurance runners. Two hard-boiled eggs, a bagel and cream cheese, some instant oatmeal with soy milk and just a quarter cup of coffee to get things moving. And move they did, thank goodness, and I took my eager trip to the bathroom as a good omen of a successful marathon to come.

My son, Sajal, drove me in the Buick to the bus depot on the north side of town, while my daughter, Joy, who was not feeling well, slept in. The race organizers were filling up every seat in the big charter buses before they were to give us that one-way trip up Highway 14, the two-lane highway that runs up to the campsite that was the staging area for the start of the Colorado Marathon.

Sitting in the front seat behind the driver I was soon accompanied by a middle-aged female runner. We immediately struck up a stimulating conversation, the first gift of this remarkable day. We shared our running experiences. Her first marathon had been in Nashville. The next day she and her Mother were to fly to Bangkok for a vacation. We wished each other a good race. Afterwards, she was to congratulate me at the finish line and we exchanged names, but alas, I soon forgot hers and have been unable to look up her results, but remember her kind face.

The staging area looked like a dimly lit refugee camp in the predawn of 5:15 AM. Runners were sitting on the ground, some walking around shrouded with large, black leaf bags to ward off the early morning chill. Every age group was represented, or so I thought, only to find out after the race that there were only four finishers in my age group, 60-64. I asked two men who were handing out paper cups of Heed, the new electrolyte replenisher drink and also water if all the twelve aid stations along the race route were set up the same way with the Heed on the left and the water on the right. One of the men answered with a chuckle that such knowledge was not appropriate for his pay grade. (They were all volunteers, of course.)

I decided to run up the canyon road for a few minutes to make sure every part of me was working OK. Didn't want any surprises after the race started. I left my personal belongings bag next to a big rock, confident that no one would have any reason to bother it up here. On the way back down the road I met Jason Drautz, who runs with me in the Tuesday night Runners Edge of the Rockies speed workouts. One evening some weeks ago Jason asked me a provocative question, "Is your wife running with you in the marathon?" I thought he knew she had died almost two years ago. He answered my quizzical expression by explaining, "All my loved ones run with me throughout the race and across the finish line." And so in this race I too often thought of my wife, now in perfect health setting my pace beside me. Other family and friends would be in my consciousness too as the race unfolded.

I turned around and ran back up the road with Jason chatting about the awesome break in the weather. It had been cold and rainy the day before and the forecast didn't look good. But above our heads were blue skies and a slight wind from the west to blow us down the canyon to Ft. Collins. What could be better? Life is good! We wished each other well and I departed back down the road not wanting to exceed 10 minutes as my warm up jog. As I walked down to the beach of the Poudre River that ran along the camping site, I worried about my daughter, Joy, who had been talking about chest and shoulder pains back at the hotel the night before. Should I be taking her to a clinic instead of selfishly running this race? A race that I had been training for since December? In the drama of the moment it felt like every running step I had ever taken had led me to this race. No, I decided that her brother, Sajal, would certainly know how to handle any contingency. Besides, this worry had all the earmarks of an obsessive thought and I ceased giving it attention.

Instead, I started my stretching routine on the beach. In spite of hundreds of runners accumulating in the campsite just yards away, the beach was almost deserted. The rushing waters glistened with the silvery moonlight and the water noise created a pleasant sound barrier against the murmuring conversations, making for an ideal space to stretch, practice just being in the moment, and mentally prepare for the race. As I was doing my stretch to work the upper quadriceps areas, with my face 18 inches above the ground, I enjoyed the sight of a purple wildflower growing in the sandy soil.

Time to make my second port-o-let stop, the first having happened as soon as I got off the bus. By this time longer lines had formed outside the row of green booths. A middle-aged gentleman stood behind me lamenting the fact that he had no safety pins to fasten his bib number to his shirt. I gave him my extra pins and took the time to close up my plastic Vitamin Cottage bag with a plastic tie. I had made my final dress decisions while waiting in the potty line. As the sun began to brighten the sky, and a promise of warmth seemed to gain credibility, I decided to wear my bright teal blue-green Runner's Edge technical T shirt, my Pearl Izumi running shorts and an old, beloved, filled with holes T shirt with the faded inscription across the chest, "Carpe Diem." This would be my overshirt that I would ceremoniously cast off when I was sufficiently warmed up and sure that I wouldn't need it later.

Organizers were shouting that warning, "Ten minutes till start of race." I tossed my extra clothes bag to a volunteer who threw it into the back of a brown UPS truck. It would later appear in clear sight under a tent near the finish line. I had decided to queue up towards the rear of the pack that now numbered around seven hundred souls, or should I say bodies in this story, as running is a very sweaty, physical sport. I could see an official standing on something high at the front of the crowd, on the side of the road. All of us were commenting how we could hear absolutely nothing that he was saying. (Some aspects of this race were decidedly low budget, or at least rustic, considering the very nature of the surroundings up in the mountains. That's what gives this race its charm.) A blast from an air horn substituted for the starting gun and we were off and away. Well at least the runners at the starting line. I didn't cross the line for about one and one-half minutes later. My strategy was to not get caught up in the adrenalin fueled starting rush of the young, elite runners and blow all my glucose and have nothing to fuel me through the rest of the race. So I started towards the rear of the crowd and tried to run a moderate 10-minute per mile pace till I saw the one-mile marker.

I didn't see the one-mile marker - until I was right on it. It was only a two-foot tall hinged board, painted white with black numbers, and it had blown down in last night's wind. (Another rustic, low-cost detail.) Until I saw this marker I had a small panic, thinking I may be running far too slowly, and I sped up. Thus my first mile was more like 9:45. No big deal, I would relax my pace a bit and try to make my next mile 9:40, the third mile 9:20, the forth and fifth miles 9:10 each and by that time I would be warmed up sufficiently to achieve my cruising speed of 9:00 for the rest of the race, God willing and the creek don't rise.

One of the first runners I would meet during the first five miles would be a tall middle-aged bald guy. He said he was running this race as a training race and promised his wife he wouldn't exceed a 10-minute pace. However it became clear to me that he wasn't keeping his promise as we ran along together, my pace gradually picking up to the 9:00 pace. I would see this fellow later on, in the later teen miles stopping to persuade a female runner that she could continue on in spite of her apparent exhaustion.

As the sixth mile began I was truly warmed up as if on cue, just like my race plan predicted. I scanned the sky for any signs of adverse weather, and tried to sense any increase in the gentle wind that was at our backs. Feeling confident that I would not need my Carpe Diem shirt any longer, I considered shouting my farewell to it, but decided that no one else would be particularly interested in this proclamation. So I silently said goodbye to this shirt my wife had bought for me by mail order from the NPR catalog so many years ago, pulled it over my head and flung in off to my left where it landed on the forest floor that sloped down to the Poudre river below: a fitting burial ground for a good friend.

The next issue requiring a decision was what to do with mounting volume in my bladder. In spite of pit stops before the race I sensed that eventually I would have to pee again, and I had better do it before exiting the canyon at mile 15. All along the way I would notice men dashing into the forest on the right, while women would prefer the less visible slope down to the river on the left. By this time I had "banked" about a minute and a half time ahead of my schedule and could afford a 30 second pit stop. I dashed across the highway to my right and up to where the trees began and gratefully "marked my territory" as our boxer would do, and knew I wouldn't have to worry about doing this again till the race was over.

Our path out of the canyon, Colorado Hwy 14, would cant to the left or the right annoyingly steeply at times and I had to abandon my plan of running in a straight line the entire way to save precious seconds lost to weaving. I would run far to the center yellow line if that were the flattest place. Race officials had placed cones along the route to make sure runners didn't venture into the south lane, as that lane was still open to traffic, mostly race and police vehicles. Sometimes the cones were in the middle of the north lane, suggesting we run near the edge of the road to be safely away from oncoming cars. Sometimes I would shift over to the edge of the road, as that became the most level surface. And whenever possible I would run on the crushed rock on the shoulder if it looked to be without potholes and other ankle killing divots. This would give my feet a welcome change of surface and help prevent repetitive motion injuries.

My game plan was to run each mile as its own separate race, "winning" each mile by staying on schedule with my splits wrist band that I had printed up and laminated weeks before the race. It had three columns: one for a goal time of 4 hrs, one for 4:10 and one for 4:20. I would glance down to my wrist as I passed a mile marker and check my watch and then memorize the next time I was shooting for when the next mile marker came around. Most of the time I would not remember it, and have to check it again and again. After mile six, it would be easy: just add 9 min to the previous split, as I was cruising at a 9 minute pace till mile 20. This is what I had rehearsed in my mind so many times before: warm up my engine during the first 5 miles and then set my cruise control for a 9 min. pace and lean back and enjoy the scenery.

And enjoy I did! The Colorado Marathon has been billed as America's most scenic marathon. I most remember wide scenic curves in the road, always bending to the left, with the swollen Poudre madly rushing below as if to hurry us down the canyon in a race that the river would always win. It was at these wide curves that would stretch perhaps 200 meters in length that I would eagerly search the edge of the road looking for the next mile marker. Panic would set in if I didn't see it when my wrist chart would indicate that there should be one there. Then all of a sudden, there it was, blown down on the shoulder of the road. On another one of these beautiful curves was the professional photographer snapping pictures as I straightened up my running posture. (I never appeared in the resulting on-line gallery.)

In this first half of the race I thought about all the mental strategies I had rehearsed to help me keep going. One of them was to imagine that I had two huge wagon wheels on either side of my hips with the axle straight through my pelvis and I would just roll down the canyon road with a minimum of effort. Another game: I was like an astronaut with a direct line to "mission control" which was a collection of all the people I loved, including my dear, deceased wife, my sister, my brothers, etc. Whenever I encountered some difficulty, like a cramping muscle, or knee or hip pain, I would be able to consult with mission control and they would tweak some dials on their control panel, which would correct my problem, or they would radio me with helpful instructions. If I started to drop below the 9 minute pace, a booster rocket would suddenly appear on my rear end. And still another image: my wife, ahead of me, drawing me forward like a magnet. However, as it turned out, much to my surprise, I didn't utilize these schemes to any great extent. The first two hours of the race didn't pose any serious problems that "Houston control" need take care of; and the last hour of the race was so painful that all I could do was be a non-stop breathing machine with legs, with no time to be distracted by my spiritual helpers. Now I may have been actually helped by the prayers of all my supporters but in the time of my greatest need, I was very physically hanging on by my finger nails and that's all I could think about, but more on that later.

You know one of my greatest strategies of all is putting a big grin on my face: smiling really makes everything feel all right.

At this point I should tell you about Stephanie, a 21-year-old young woman from Colorado Springs. I met her early on in the warm up miles of the race. She was running in the same pack as the tall, bald guy and myself. In conversation I learned that this was her first marathon and that she, too, wanted to complete it in less than four hours. She noticed how organized (some would use the word "anal") I was about keeping track of my pace using my watch and wristband, and seemed to adopt me as her pacer. We chatted off and on to keep our minds off all the effort we were putting out. One remarkable thing about Steph was her family support group. About a half dozen of them would be at every viewing point cheering like maniacs for her. It didn't take me long to realize they weren't cheering for me. Towards the end I would point to her and call out to them, "Isn't she doing fantastic?" She was.

As the sun rose higher in the sky the broad canyon became illumined with bright spring colors: the chartreuse green of grassy slopes interspersed with dark green pines and the rust colored rock walls, and overhead the azure skies with just a wisp of clouds off in the east. What a sight to see all these runners surrounded by such glory.

Somewhere around mile eleven I start seeing many more runners joining the race. They are the minimarathoners, running a shorter 15-mile course. I do not see any familiar faces, looking for the eighteen other members of the Runner's Edge group that are doing the "mini."

click here for part 2.