Brrr… it’s cold out here. There must be some running in the atmosphere… thankfully they had warming fires at the start line.
Utah I taw a marathon in Utah. I did. I did run a marathon in Utah.
Through the darkness of future’s past,
The magician longs to see.
One chants out between two worlds…
“Fire… walk run with me.”
Ya know, they warned me it would be in the low 30s at the start line. And so I had packed extra layers in a small “go” bag that I put next to my main traveling duffel bag to pack in the car… and about 20 miles out on the I-15 N, I realized that “go” bag had “stayed.” Fortunately, I had thought to grab a 25-year-old flannel shirt from my Nirvana grunge days and was wearing that on the drive so I could use that as a layer for the morning.
Little did I realize it would become my running uniform for the entire 26.2 miles. It did eventually warm up as the sun got a bit higher, but I kept the shirt on – partly out of core cold and partly because after a quarter of a century I couldn’t see tossing ol’ Flannigan McFlannel, my newly christened nickname for the shirt.
It was a small race – the race director had pegged it as 140 marathoners and about that many half-ers. I think the cold kept some folks in bed as the final race results seem to top out at 104 for the day. But as small as it was, it was an incredibly well organized event. Aid stations every 2 miles, course marshals and police ensuring the traffic on the roads respected the runners’ safety, and a general sense that we were all in good hands.
Yes, yes. It could be lonely on the course, as these photos can attest. But the scenery was grand and a reminder that despite long protestations that I need to be near water and sun that there is something magical about the desert mountain ranges of our nation. There’s a quiet solitude and peacefulness that can’t be found in other parts of the country. While last week’s New Orleans course had a solitary feel for long stretches, that felt out of place in such a vibrant city. Here, the being alone never felt lonely… it just felt… right.
That isn’t to say there weren’t people. I ran with a nice guy named Scott for the opening 10K or so; he would later go on to win the whole thing outright. And the half marathon started just before I got to 13.1 so I was amongst packs of halfers now and again. I hovered around 3rd place throughout the miles and while occasionally somebody might pass me, I’d overtake somebody else… and in the end, I was 6 minutes or so behind Scott’s winning time, and a minute or two behind number 2. So after the long and winding 26.2, I finished third with a time of 3:13:54. It was no Boston Qualifying time but it was a good run for me. While the course was mostly downhill, there were a few inclines that were at just enough of an angle to test the muscles and wherewithal.
That’s Scott on the right… and me on the left for what it’s worth.
I’m feeling the inclines even this morning as I prep for a recovery run… made necessary by the voluminous amounts of junk food I ate when I got home and cursed my “go” bag with its mockingly warm gloves, sweatshirt, and space blanket. Stress eating late at night is not a good thing to do… even after a marathon.
Hard to complain though when it was such a good day of running… and I did rock a Cobain-ian shirt that had a fellow teenage 10K runner telling me at the finish, “I like your shirt!”
Everything old is new again.
May that also be true of me.
