Stranger, if you passing meet me and desire to speak to me, why
should you not speak to me?
And why should I not speak to you?
-Whitman, “To You”
One of the recurring pleasures of a long-distance running race is also one of the sport’s greatest ironies: that the rigid boundaries of a solitary, ascetic practice are for a few hours made permeable as good, running folk throw their lots together and perform the joyous, arduous rituals of competition and improvisatory community. Like other groups whose interpersonal glue is that of commiseration (19th century whaling vessels, TA cubicle offices, AA meetings, and Denver Nuggets fans), races forge almost instantaneous relationships between runners and family members. Runners, I think, are often prone to the perception that the rest of the country sees them a bit like Civil War reenactors: unhealthily obsessed with arcane minutiae, insular, and weirder than turnips. Races thus affirm our weirdness and signify running as something worth doing for its own, Sisyphean sake.
In this spirit, I’m happy to recommend the Denver Marathon, especially to first-timers. Within a few years, I suspect that the Marathon could become a marquee event for the Colorado running community–something on par with the Bolder Boulder or Cherry Creek Sneak in terms of civic spirit, though prolly not participant numbers.
I want to return to the singular, wonderful people I met running the marathon in just a bit. I figure it’s my duty first, though, to remark on my three hallmarks of a successful race: an inventive, scenic course supported by aid stations in way that makes sense and isn’t annoyingly gimmicky; a race’s sense of pride; and the quality of food and brews served up at the expo.
The Course/Support. Wending its way through downtown high rises, major civic parks (City, Cheesman, and Washington), tree-lined Victorian boulevards, and along Santa Fe Drive (a historically Latino neighborhood that’s become the center of the city’s burgeoning art scene), I was struck by both the gorgeous vantages afforded by the course, as well as how it exposed runners to Denver’s broad socioeconomic and historic diversity. Aid stations were well-placed and abundant, manned by unnervingly enthusiastic volunteers, and offered Gatorade High-Endurance Formula and water the entire way. The somewhat more low-key Clif people were stationed at two points during the race, handing out Clif Shots. Running a race in October in Colorado is always a little bit of a gamble–last year’s marathon was apparently subject to a kind of King Lear-raving-out-on-the-heaths ice storm. This year, the weather was stunningly perfect (I was able to run the entire thing in a singlet without getting chilly, despite the 7 AM start), and the city’s autumn leaves were in proud display the entire way. My only complaint about the course was the fact that it perhaps spent too much time doing Daedalian loops around and inside Washington Park, which became increasingly frustrating as the race wore on, especially since it was comparatively late in the game. Part of this might be some latent PTSD on my part, too, involving all the repressed memories I’ve got from Turkey Trots and interval work in the Park during high school cross-country. The course was gently rolling, for the most part.
Pride and Spirit: Absolutely. As I ran, I had the sense that Coloradoans were immensely proud of both their status as one of the healthiest states in the Union, and of the city of Denver itself. There were sizable crowds at important intersections, and lots of stoic, heavily mustachioed guys from DPD holding up traffic importantly to let bedraggled-looking runners pass. I am somewhat saddened by the absence of Dinger outside Coors Field, but I guess Denver’s favorite purple dinosaur is a devout Episcopalian, or something, or the race people couldn’t scrounge up enough cash to get him to work early on a Sunday morning. As someone who’s away from my home state three-fourths of the year, this was all enormously heartening. I felt like this race was uniquely Colorado in all the right ways: from the choice of landmarks (my favorite part of the course, by far, was running accompanied by the ecstatic animal trumpeting coming from inside the Denver Zoo in City Park. Although I was disappointed not to see the Brunch drag crew at the Bump n’ Grind out on the sidewalk in front of their digs) to its pluralistic tramp through many of the city’s communities. The race announcer was professional and obviously cared about the race’s success. The race benefited a slew of charities, both state and national.
[Tangent: while Google image-searching for "the unsinkable Molly Brown," figuring that an appropriate choice to post following this paragraph, I came across this photograph. Which is from this, uh, website. I figure it expresses my feelings about the Denver Marathon more than anything else I could possibly dig up.]
Vittles: I’m not really the person to ask on this one. Despite all my ballyhooing about how effing good that Left Hand brew was going to be after the race, my stomach started doing a convincing Cirque du Soleil impression around mile 23, and by the time I staggered across the finish line, all I wanted was more gatorade and to curl up into a fetal ball on the Civic Center Park lawn. Which was exactly what I did, drifting in and out of sleep while a mischievous October breeze corderoyed the grass and terrible alt.rock flatulated from the Mötley Crüe tour-sized PA system on the south side of the Park. The food I did eventually ingest at the post-race Expo, however, was adequate. Although I was little taken aback to see McDonald’s, of all people, distributing miniature packages of apple slices at the finish line. Apples probably somehow secretly injected with nicotine and trans-fats. Oh, and don’t worry. I did, in fact, get a post-race beer–a cold Milwaukee’s Best thoughtfully provided to me by Liz after a post-race nap. Thanks, Liz!
But most of all, I’m thrilled that I chose Denver for my first marathon because of the indelible memories it offered up, especially the other runners I wheezingly chatted with along the way: John, a svelte, bald guy who quickly outpaced me around mile 15 and who, ravished by the virulently yellow oaks just north of Cheeseman, exclaimed, “God, I love that block” as we entered the park. An unnamed, stutter-stepping short guy in a Colorado flag singlet who I ran next to for three or four miles just before entering Washington Park who greeted everyone (including a number of dogs) along the race course with a resounding, “Good Morning!” And Simon, of course, giving me a killer high-five at mile 18, then rocketing ahead of me, shouting “stay strong!” behind his shoulder. Oh, and Chris and Buffy, of course, screaming and banging away at their hideously annoying, wonderful cowbells at several points during the race.
I didn’t run quite as well as I’d hoped to going into the race (I placed in the mid-50s and ran a 3:09, instead of going sub-3), but I’m pretty happy with my performance, since it was, after all, my first marathon. My problem, unsurprisingly, was going out way too fast: I was on pace for a 2:40 at the half-mary point, and the last six miles of the race felt like someone taking an economy-sized cheese grater to my calves.
I’m spending the next week doing runs light enough to be considered meringue-like in texture (lots of 3-milers and sauna trips), then starting to cobble together a training plan for Boston (any suggestions for how to structure it are welcome). I’m already thinking of literary-inflected, incisively clever things to put on my singlet to woo brainy hotties at the Wellesley Scream Tunnel. And by “woo,” I mean “be justifiably ignored by.”
Full results here
Course map here
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Most recent run and atmospheric conditions: Slow recovery jaunt on the Lombardi treadmill.
Workout/whether or not I heaved: 3.1 miles, watching the 1985 Hawks/Celtics NBA finals on ESPN Classic.
Total Mileage to Date: 638
Days remaining to Boston!!:175
