The worst part of it all has been my father-in-law’s impending death. That’s been the best part as well.

Not that watching a family member slowly die is a picnic, but that was our goal in making this cross-country move: to be closer to family. I’m glad that we can be there for him.

Wilton Avery, my wife’s father, is 85. He’s a simple man, he keeps to himself and loves to talk sports. He was born in the same southern New Hampshire house that he’ll die in.

In October, Wilton was found to have cancer in several parts of his body. He was given one to two months to live. As of this writing (Monday, Jan. 9) he is still breathing. He hasn’t eaten or moved from the couch since Friday. Yet somehow, his chest still goes up and down.

Since his diagnosis, he’s been telling anyone who’ll listen that he “wants to be in the grave.” When his home health care provider came by the house on Sunday morning and asked, “is there anything I can do for you?” Wilt replied, “I want to leave this world; is that possible?”

In time, Wilt.

Before he stopped eating, my wife and I shared duties in taking care of him. He was still weak and simple movements left him out of breath, but we could occasionally get him off the couch and into a wheelchair in order to eat and use the bathroom.

For much of the day, he didn’t say much. We’d sit with him just so he could have some company. In silence. We wanted him to rest and he’d had trouble sleeping because was constantly thirsty because of the oxygen tube near his nose. That led to frequent trips to the bathroom, which took an hour or more because of the routine of: sit up, rest for 10 minutes; get in wheelchair, rest for 10 minutes; wheel into the bathroom, rest for10 minutes; take his pants off, rest … you get the picture.

But once back on the couch, the silence would be halted when Wilton would suddenly blurt out a sports question. Totally out of the blue. The conversation was limited, but welcome.

“Who was the greatest goaltender of all time?”

His first query caught me off guard. Quickly, I had to think.

I thought about guys like Patrick Roy, who won three Stanley Cups, but he was one of those modern goalies who are outfitted like the Michelin Man: big pads, oversized sweater.

I always thought Ken Dryden was the best, so that was my answer. Wilt seemed to agree. Dryden played for the hated Habs. When I first became a Bruins fan at age 8 while living in Natick, Mass., the Montreal Canadiens were by far the best team during the 1970s. They won 60 games one year. 60! And none of them were shootout wins. None came in overtime.

And the Bruins could never beat them. At tie was considered a victory. They were loaded with Hall of Famers, Dryden included. He was a big guy, but his pads were tiny in comparison to what is worn today. He was the best I’d ever seen. Rogie Vachon was tough to beat as well, but not like Dryden was.

More silence.

Then …

“Who was the best boxer of all time?”

I loved watching Marvin Hagler when I was a kid, but I knew he wasn’t the best. The undefeated Rocky Marciano was, and that was my answer.

Wilton mentioned Jack Johnson, who was well before my time. Wilt, as many people called him, was still sharp, despite his failing health. He couldn’t remember recent events, like when he last took his medicine, but his long-term memory was still there. Johnson sounded like a good choice; someone I never would have come up with.

As time went on, Wilt narrowed his categories. He last one – before morphine took over his system – was classic; one I’ll never forget.

“Who was the best pitcher to come out of Cuba?”

Naturally, I thought about recent times. With the many defections from national teams, several Cubans have made their name in major league baseball.

My first thought was Orlando Hernandez, another rival of a Boston team. He pitched for the Yankees and his nickname was “El Duque.” When I mentioned that, Wilt mistook this for “El Tiante,” Luis Tiant, who pitched for the Red Sox in the ’70s.

Even if he didn’t get who I was talking about, the memory of Tiant’s unorthodox pitching motion made Wilt’s face light up. “I’d watch that guy pitch any time,” he said.

El Tiante was a joy to watch, indeed. But watching Wilt slowly die is not. He’s so weak that his voice is barely audible. I already miss our “conversations” about sports.

Wilt does little else but sleep and ask for water. But before this incapacitated state, he was always polite whenever I helped him. He had every right to be cranky or embarrassed (during toilet time), but when each duty was done, he was always there with a “thanks, Tim.”

I’ll always admire him for that graciousness. And when things get quiet, I’ll long for more sports talk.

Who was the greatest ….

A co-worker of mine let me know as he was placing obituaries on the page on Saturday that  Frank Newman had died.

Frank had battled cancer for years, but it still gave me pause when I heard the news.

A few years ago, I learned that Frank had surgery to remove cancerous tumors in his chest in 2002. Five years later he was still taking chemotherapy drugs – the tumors had reappeared.

But Frank was always there on the final Saturday morning in May when the Frank Newman Marathon/Relay was ready to step off. I’ve run in the race probably five times, mostly the half-marathon.

And each year when I arrived at the start along Bridger Canyon Drive, just short of Bridger Bowl, I wondered if Frank would be there. Sure enough, he’d step out of his car, usually wearing a Montana State sweatshirt. It was a joy to go over and shake his hand.

Then a year would go by and when May rolled around, I’d begin to wonder if I’d see Frank again. He was always there.

This past May, after Ed Anacker, another Bozeman running icon, passed away, I decided I wanted to run the full Frank Newman Marathon. I’d always stopped halfway, but I felt a kinship to this small-town, laid-back race since Ed had died.

He usually ran the relay as part of the “Silver Snails,” and was a charter member of the Big Sky Wind Drinkers, a running club that Frank helped start in 1973- though Frank took little credit for its formation. He gave it all to Andy Blank.

The Newman Marathon isn’t a race where you get a packet of goodies that most won’t use anyway. There are no chips, no T-shirts and you can’ t use it as a Boston Marathon qualifier.

But you can show up that morning, pay three bucks, and then decide: half or full. No pressure, no pre-race jitters, no lousy night’s sleep.

I went for the full this time; I’m so glad I did.

Frank was there at the start, as usual, but that’s not all. He was at all the water stops as well. I’d see his vehicle drive by and look forward to seeing him up ahead. He was always so encouraging, with his soft voice under his short-cropped white hair.

And when the race was over, and everyone gathered at Sacajawea Park in Livingston, Frank had a trophy - and a handshake - for every finisher.

Sadly, that was the last time I saw Frank.

I can only imagine what his struggle with cancer was like. He had to give up running several years ago, which I’m sure was painful in itself, but he never displayed what was going inside.

Frank was a department head at Montana State University, but I only knew him through his marathon. I never saw him run, but I admired the heck out of him for the courage he showed while battling cancer.

Bozeman has lost two pillars of its running community in the past seven months. The Ed Anacker Bridger Ridge Run and the Frank Newman Marathon will continue on, though it’ll be sad not to see them at those races any longer.

Still, we should all be grateful to have been around them for so long. Their dedication – and their character – will be missed.

I have a blister on one of my toes, a sore IT band – and a
great feeling inside that only running can provide.

From the tail wind at the start to the ice bath at the end,
Sunday’s inaugural Bozeman Marathon turned out to be what will become an
unforgettable experience.

And not just because I finished first; that was part of it.
But from the second my alarm went off at 5:10 a.m. yesterday, the good times
rolled.

When we gathered downtown at Bozeman Running Company to
catch the bus to the starting line, it was pitch dark. But as we made our way
westward, a huge peach-colored moon was just setting over the horizon. By the
time we reached our destination in Gallatin Gateway, the sky had brightened a
bit, a people noticed that the tall grass and tree branches were swaying. It
wasn’t like that in Bozeman.

When we got outside, it was cold. But I was buoyed by the
fact that the wind would be behind us once we started.

With 15 minutes to go before the gun, I called my parents in
Massachusetts. It was the 10^th anniversary of the attacks on 9/11. I
had to check in before the race to say hi and recall that horrible day.

Just before the race, BRC owner Casey Jermyn led a moment of
silence and the 4-person relay team of Montana State University ROTC members
stood among us. I’m so glad they were there. They NEEDED to be there.

They also had a long pole with an American Flag at the end,
which they carried – one by one – to the finish in downtown Bozeman.

When the gun was fired, we were off. And I was alone from
the first steps. I had trained hard and was looking to run under a 6:45 for the
whole race, but I never expected to be by myself from the get-go.

After two miles, the conversations behind me dissipated. It
was just me and the quiet roads of the pristine Gallatin Valley. The Bridgers
were in the distance to the east and there were foothills nearby. I heard cows
moo and roosters cock-a-doodle do. And there was always a river nearby.

At Mile 3, I thought I was listening to the sound of rushing
water when Kal Tucker, whom I covered when he played for the Bozeman Bucks a
few years ago, came upon me. We ran together for a minutes, swapped marathon
stories and talked about how beautiful the scenery was.

Then Kal said, “I guess I’ll let you take it from here.”

I was on my own again.

The wind pushed me to a somewhat surprising 6:30 pace
through five miles. I didn’t feel like I went out too hard, so I just ran with
it. My ultimate goal was 2:55 and I was feeling GOOD, but I knew there was a
long way to go.

So I continued to admire the view.

I ran past a ranch that was for sale with a sign that read “20
acres, stunning views.” Darn right.

To keep my mind occupied, I started counting how many rivers
I crossed over, thinking that when I got to five, that would be about it.

I ran past Post Office Pizza in Gateway. I’d never been to that
restaurant, I’ve only seen the sign advertising it while whizzing down Highway
191 on the way to Yellowstone.

Eventually, the course took us under 191. At the other end,
there were stairs. I never expected to have to run up a flight during a marathon,
but just before that first step, the course turned left, and I ran on the other
side of 191 for a bit.

Soon, there was a turn on Gooch Hill Road. It never dawned
on me until running on it that the road indeed included a hill. Not a steep
one, but a gradual one. And that slowed me down a bit. I still got to Mile 9 in
less than an hour, but the 6:30 pace was a thing of the past.

Six. There goes another stream underneath me.

There were twists and turns along the course, but I never
felt lost. There were always arrows to signal the correct direction. That’s
always a good sign of course management, so kudos to RD Tyler Wilkinson and
Jermyn.

When we ran east, the sun was right there, blinding me and
growing hotter with each hour. I continued to slow once we reached Cottonwood
Road because there was another incline. And just before the halfway point, the
biggest hill slowed me even more. But it wasn’t that long and the other side
provided a nice downhill stretch; time to make up some time, I thought.

As I crossed 13.1 miles, I was disappointed to be at 1:29. Because
of my training and the quick start I got courtesy of the tail wind, I was
hoping to be at 1:27.

But the downhill section kept going until we hit 19^th
Ave. And now there were runners (from the half marathon) to pass. It was nice
to have company on the road. I tried to yell encouragement to those I passed – especially
the walkers – but eventually fell silent because just about everyone had ear
buds in. I figured I’d either scare the crap out of them or they wouldn’t hear
me. Plus, I was getting tired and didn’t feel like saying anything.

Occasionally, I heard people say, “there goes the first
marathoner,” or “did we just get passed,” as I chugged along.

The magic number for me when it comes to breaking the 3-hour
mark is 2:17 at 20 miles. If I get there in that time, I’ve got a good shot at
it. On Sunday, I was at 2:14. My goal, as I said, was 2:55. I was on it.

But I was beginning to get cramps here and there (in my
foot, which never happens, and my calf;
usually it’s my hamstrings that go first – go figure). And I was just
plain tired.

At Mile 23, I nonchalantly said to myself, “I guess I’m
going to win it.” But I was too beat to feel psyched up by the thought; I just
wanted 2:55.

My legs, however, had other ideas. I tried to surge every
once in a while, but I was barely doing 7-minute miles. And by the time I got
to the final stretch and mile along the Linear Trail, I knew my goal was out.

I did continue tallying river crossings. Final count: 14.

I finished the race in 2:58, which ties my personal best,
but wasn’t the slighted bit disappointed. It was cool to be the first finisher
and hear the cheers as I crossed the line. My wife and daughter quickly came
over to greet me. My daughter, Nina (5) kept saying, “Daddy you won!” and gave
my some stickers from the tiny purse she had brought.

Soon, friends and fellow runners Mark Slater, Matt Edwards
and Rob Maher came over to shake my hand and offer congrats. The local
newspaper reporter (OK, he works with me at the Chronicle) came over to interview
me. That was a new one. No one interviews the guy who finishes second, which I’ve
done several times. I was even announced as the marathon winner while I entered
the track at MSU for the final few yards of the Lewis and Clark Marathon a
couple of years ago, only to hear the announcer soon say, “ah, check that,”
since Darryl Nourse had somehow managed to slip in unnoticed as the winner a
few minutes before.

On Sunday, I slipped into an ice bath at Bogert Park,
something I had also never done after a marathon. But I knew they were going to
be there and promised myself earlier in the week that I was going to get in one
since it helps with recovery.

When I put my feet in they immediately went numb. Then I
slowly lowered my butt in – just like Bugs Bunny when he was making carrot
stew.

Oooooh, ooooh, ahhhhh.

I stayed in for about 15 minutes, then shivered for another
45 once I got out. I have to say, now that it’s the next day, the bath helped.
I’m not that sore, but we’ll see what happens tomorrow.

I realized pretty quick that any of the guys who placed in
the top three for the half marathon (Lyle Weese, Graydon Curry, Josh Ricardi)
could have easily run the full and finished in 2:40. But they didn’t. The field
finally went in my favor. Finally, I wasn’t the bridesmaid anymore.

I do get to enjoy having the course record for a year,
though. And, like a friend told me this morning, I’ll always be the winner of
the inaugural Bozeman Marathon.

A couple hours after the race, my mother called to see how
it had gone.

“Good. I won it,” was my reply. I think I stunned her because
she almost started to cry because she was so happy and proud. She couldn’t wait
to tell my father.

Soon, I was off for a nap, with the salty sweat stains still
lining my face. Sleep never felt so good.

In all, it was a day to remember. And, for a change, I have
a good memory to go along with a day that is usually recalled with sadness.

Not yet.

My race is Sunday. It’s Friday. I put in my last 40-minute
light run this morning.

Since the week before summer began, I’ve been targeting the
inaugural Bozeman Marathon. I awoke at or before 6 a.m. four or five times a
week all summer long in order to get my runs in. My daughter, who is 5, was out
of school and my wife leaves for work around 7:45 a.m. It was either run at
dawn or not at all.

I hardly needed an alarm to rise so early. The only time I
set it, I was up 15 minutes before. Show time!

And on the rare occasion I didn’t wake up in time, that was
okay. “I must have needed the extra rest,” was my reasoning.

The morning runs were exhilarating, for the most part. I’d
rather have tired legs and a not enough rest than get a full night’s sleep and
be cranky, wondering when I was going to run again.

I did long runs, tempo runs, easy runs. My peak week was
nearly a month ago. Everything has gone well beyond how I planned it.

But I can still blow it if I don’t sleep well tonight. I
know from experience.

Sunday marks my 14^th marathon, so I know the
drill. The final weeks of tapering always include stale legs and wandering
thoughts. And even if training goes well, the night two days before the race is
just as important as a 20-miler.

If you sleep well that night, then you’ve gotten plenty of
rest in the bank for the marathon. If you don’t, you may be in trouble on race
day. That’s because hardly anyone sleeps well the night before. There’s either
not enough time (most marathons begin near dawn) or you’re too keyed up to
sleep.

But that’s perfectly normal. And most people can run well
coming off a poor night’s sleep. But two in a row? Again, that’s asking for
trouble. I found this out the hard way in 2003.

It was my first Boston Marathon, and third marathon overall.
I had just come off a sub-3-hour race in Keene, N.H., the September before and naively
thought I could break 3 at Boston.

I was living in Vermont at the time, so coming back to
Natick, Mass., for the weekend before the race was a sort of homecoming for me.
I visited friends and tried to keep busy.

But on the Saturday night before the Monday race, I slept in
a strange room (my older brother’s old room at my parents’ house in Natick) and
the ancient, forced-heat radiators were cranking (and creaking) a little too
much – the room was hot. And I didn’t sleep well.

I had this excited, nervous feeling in my stomach the whole
weekend. Even with a 20-minute nap on Sunday, I still wasn’t sufficiently
rested.

The race on Monday wasn’t until noon and I didn’t need to
get up early, but I was awake way too early and couldn’t fall back to sleep. I
was too worked up for the big event.

When I arrived in Hopkinton for the start, I didn’t feel
right. While waiting in a seemingly endless line to pee, someone in front of me
kept looking in the other direction. Probably looking for someone he knew at
the end of the line. He just wouldn’t stop, and even though he wasn’t doing
anything wrong, it was annoying the heck out of me.

That’s when I realized how cranky I was. It was something so
simple, but it drove me nuts. I usually only get cranky when I’m tired. Uh-oh.
Not enough sleep, damn it.

I tried to get myself out of this odd state by jogging a
little after I found my corral near the starting line. But I couldn’t shake it.

Instead of taking it easy after the gun went off, I still
thought I could run sub-7s for a goal of a 3-hour race. And I did – for about
13 miles. It was a little hotter than expected, but I should have held back
more.

By the time the screams of the girls in Wellesley died down
near the halfway mark, the group of runners that were around me for the
previous few miles began to pull away. When I reached the bridge that goes over
Route 128 in Newton, my legs cramped up. I had to start walking. Race over.

I eventually crossed the finish in 4:04, after walking most
of the final 6 miles. No shuffling. Just walking. Lesson learned.

Soon, it’ll be time to get that much-needed rest. I still
have a busy night of work ahead, writing up high school football games and
putting together pages at the Chronicle. I probably won’t get home until 11:45.
Then the pressure will be on to sleep. I should be tired by then; I didn’t
sleep well last night. That hasn’t happened in months. I haven’t run so little
in a long time as well, so maybe that’s why – I just wasn’t tired.

And maybe I got the bad night’s sleep out of the way.

I’ll plead with my daughter before she goes to bed tonight
not to come into our room tomorrow morning. At all. Until someone comes out. No
jumping on the bed asking “is is morning time, daddy,” and no continuously
opening and closing the door.

She’s pretty good about being quiet in the morning if my
wife and I ask her to do so. And she’s had her first full week (minus Labor
Day) of kindergarten – plus the sun that rises on her east-facing room doesn’t
come up until 7:30 – so she’s due to sleep in a little herself.

I just want to sleep until 8.

Writing this blog probably isn’t taking any pressure away,
but it does help to get what’s to come off my chest.

I won’t do any more running until the gun goes off Sunday at
7. But hopefully plenty of sleeping.

Until then, zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

My legs feel heavy, a bit tired. I will not be running
today.

Thing is, none of this is a surprise – I’m tapering.

Ever since the week before summer started, back when it was still
cool and rainy, I’ve been rising at 6 four to five days a week to get in my
run. It was either run a dawn or not at all.

Now, with my daughter in kindergarten for much of the day,
my schedule has changed. I can run at 9:30 or 12:30 – or even 6:30. In reality,
I don’t need to run at all.

I’m a little more than a week away from running in the
inaugural Bozeman Marathon. And my training has gone better than I have ever
imagined. I put in a 93-mile week (actually, it was over 8 days), with the
final day being a 23-miler with 9 miles of tempo work at marathon pace. Two
weeks later, I was up to 80 over 6 days. I upped my tempo run to 14 miles this
past Sunday, but have run just twice since (it’s now Friday).

I knew these last two weeks pre-race were going to involve
that dead-legs feeling, which is always accompanied by thoughts of doubt. It’s
almost inevitable. There’s too much time to think; running thoughts have
replaced my running.

But I know I’ve put in the work. This will be my 14^th
marathon. I know the drill.

The key now is to rest – both my body and my mind. I have to
know that 1), I can’t do anything at this point to make my marathon any better;
and 2), realize that the training I’ve done will be sufficient for a good race
on Sept. 11.

Plus, it doesn’t matter how my legs feel now. All that
matters is that at 7 a.m. on 9/11, I’ll be ready to go. There’s bound to be a
point in the race where I get in a groove, and at that point, my legs will feel
invincible. The goal then is to avoid a rut as long as I can.

This year’s training has, again, been over-the-top good. Sometimes
I remember the training more than I do the actual race.

My second marathon, the Clarence Demar in Keene, N.H., in
2002 was like this. I recall being on Cape Cod, visiting my parents for the
week, and wanted to do my longest long run there in preparation for the race.
But it was hot and muggy (it was August; the race was at the end of the month),
and even though I set out before 8 a.m., it didn’t take long for the heat to
get to me. And because there was water everywhere (my folks lived near a
river), I kept having to turn around.

I always prefer loops runs rather than boring out-and-back
ones, but it was difficult to come up with a loop since I wasn’t familiar with
the area. I kept telling myself to not go back in the direction of my parents’
house so I wouldn’t be tempted to cut the run short.

So I ran away from the house as much as possible.
Eventually, I was near the neighborhood so I decided to head to the beach and
run along the parking lot, which ended after about a mile and a half. When it
ended, I ran along a rock jetty, which was only so long. I had promised myself
I wouldn’t run around until I was at the 2-hour mark.

Eventually, the rocks disappeared into the ocean, and I
think I turned around at 1:57. Had no choice.

Anyhow, the humid air was draining and I made it home after
a 2:30 run feeling lousy.

It wasn’t a great experience, but the best part was that
three days later, the humidity eased and the air was no longer so heavy. I
headed out on a two-hour run in the cool morning. I felt so much better in the
drier air. The run felt easy, and I was confident I could have a good marathon.
And did: broke three hours for the first time.

This year, I easily remember how well my 23-miler went. How
I added on an extra mile because I felt so good. And last week’s 14-mile tempo
run was great because I found a road (Linny Road, which connects Cameron Bridge
Road to Amsterdam Road in Belgrade) I had never run on before.

Even with the fact that my GPS watch gave out at Mile 7 (I
wore two watches because the battery in the GPS one said it was running low
before I headed out) didn’t take away from the experience.

Without the reliance of a watch that kept track of mileage, I
tried the keep up the same pace while I made my way back across Jackrabbit Lane
and toward my house. I knew of an exact mile measurement near home, so that
last one would help me determine if I’d kept up the same 6:40-ish pace the
whole way. Bingo: 6:36!

I was still two miles from home, so I walked a bit. No need
to overdo it. The training was finally OVER.

Now I count down the days to the big race. I go over the
course in my mind. I try and rest as much as possible. I may run tomorrow, I
may not. Doesn’t matter. All that matters is getting to the starting line and
letting my training take over.

At least that’s what I’m telling myself. Over and over.

Tapering is an important ingredient to a marathon. On Sept.
12 I’ll be glad I mixed it in.

For now, I hate it.

I often run with Nikki Kimball, one of the world’s top
ultramarathoners. I don’t think of her in that way since we try and run
together frequently. Before my daughter joined our family, we ran together at
least once a week.

And it’s not just her.

I, like thousands of other runners, have trotted with the
top marathoners in the world in the Boston Marathon. Try doing that in any
other sport.

You’ll never get the chance to shoot hoops with LeBron
James, or play catch with Albert Pujols, or toss a football around with Peyton
Manning or shoot pucks at Tim Thomas.

Running is different. All you need is a pair of shoes and
a willing partner.

I’ve had the chance to run with Mike Wolfe in the past –
on a group run up Bozeman Creek to Mystic Lake; on Christmas morning; and on
cool-down runs after races. But there was one time it was just Mike and me,
and, boy, was I humbled. And sore.

You see, Mike isn’t just any runner. He recently finished
second at the Western States 100 in a field of the top runners from the U.S.
and abroad. He’s one of just two runners – along with Scott Creel – to go under
3 hours, 10 minutes at the Bridger Ridge Run. He’s a national champ at 50 and
100 miles.

He’s also a hell of a nice guy.

So about five years ago when he was living in Missoula
while attending law school at the University of Montana, I decided to give him
a ring and set up a run for the morning before the ‘Cat-Griz football game. I was
in town to cover the game, but it didn’t start until noon, and I was going to
go for a run anyway…

Well, it sounded like a good idea at the time.

After meeting him at his apartment that morning, we
headed out on a leisurely jog. I remember getting near the football stadium
around 9 and smelling the bacon that was frying on many a tailgater’s grill. It
was a pleasant trot.

Until Mike suggested we take a trail up the back of Mount
Sentinel, which is where that city’s “M” is located. I soon realized this was
not going to be an ordinary run and that Mike (I knew this already) was no
ordinary runner.

Up the trail we went. And up. And up.

Soon Mike was gone. I began huffing rather furiously and
thinking, “just keep running.”

After a while, Mike came back to “catch” up to me. But
that didn’t last long, although the hill certainly did. Mike kept getting way
ahead of me, then stopping to turn around and wait for me. We did this three or
four times.

After awhile – a long while – we approached the top. I
figured I could at least keep up with him going down the hill. Wrong.

Mike looked as if he was simply tip-toeing down a flight
of stairs. Me? I always had the breaks on for fear of rolling down the
mountain.

Again, Mike was gone. Oh, well. I felt a little foolish
not being able to keep up with him on a simple training run but it wasn’t the
end of the world.

After we got back to his apartment, after what was close
to a two-hour run, I remember him telling how there was going to be a marathon in
Missoula the next year. That race has exploded and is now one of the top races
in the Northwest. My, how time flies.

Anyhow, after Mike and I parted, it was back to my hotel
for a shower. Then the ‘Cat-Griz game.

By the early afternoon, my legs had already begun to feel
tired. And the cramped press box at Washington-Grizzly Stadium didn’t help
matters.

I remember one instance where I just wanted to get up
from my chair and getting a huge cramp in my hamstring. All I wanted to do was
straighten my leg, then “owww!”

I tried to keep cool and not disturb any of the other
writers near me, but it was hard to be discreet.

Even with the pain and the all the catching up to do
behind Mike that day, I was glad we could run for a bit. I probably won’t
initiate any runs in the future, but it just goes to show that in this sport,
you can run with anyone.

Or try to.

Here is it Sunday and I’m still full of adrenalin.

When I stepped onto my front steps this morning, in shorts ready for a breezy, spring-like jog, I thought to myself, “well, I don’t need to be out for two hours;” yet upon return to those same front steps, my watch read 2:03.

Yep, 11 years after taking it up, running still gives me a kick. And all it took was a hard run for five minutes (and four seconds) around a wooden, oval track eight times around.

But it wasn’t just Friday’s race that boosted my spirits – and kept them on high. It was being a part of something special. Even though I didn’t realize it until after the feelings of nausea and burning lungs abated.

This ever-growing (and ever-engrossing) Montana Men’s Masters Mile is quickly becoming an event not to be missed; the best five minutes (give or take) of the year; the chance to feel like a kid again; MMMM good indeed.

What began as a dozen guys from all parts of the state simply hoping to give their all turned into something no one could have predicted, let alone expected. Isn’t that what makes life, well, life? If you expect something to happen and it happens, then big whoop. But an experience that goes beyond expectations leads to a feeling of magic. Unforgettable magic. A kind you wonder if it can ever be recaptured.

My thought process for the MMMM has always been along the lines of: I’m fast enough to qualify (under a 5:18) but not enough to be competitive. I always felt that it was a privilege to be part of the field, because I know there are those out there not fast enough to qualify. Sure, I’ve finished last in this thing three times, but it’s the clock I’m running against. Not Scott Creel.

What brings me back each year is the thought, however absurd, that I can run under 5 minutes. I ran 5:18 my first time, then, bang, 5:05 the second. I was hooked. It’s just like the bug you catch when taking those first figurative steps in this sport.

The first time you ran five days in a week; the first time you ran for an hour without stopping; the first time you break 20 minutes in a 5K. You catch that bug (or it catches you) and never want to lose it.

I showed up Friday evening with more confidence that I’ve ever had that the 5-minute barrier was about to fall. Not sure why. I trained hard, I thought, but sometimes it’s not how much sweat you put in. Confidence is a factor as well. If I don’t think I can run a sub-5, then I won’t. I’m always telling my daughter that if you say you can’t, then you won’t. I need to practice what I preach.

Well, I ran as hard as I could. I was well below a 5-minute pace halfway (I was at 2:26 through four laps; my goal was 2:28). But the tank ran empty about lap 6. I finished in 5:04, which is a PB, but naturally there was some disappointment coursing through my veins. I had no idea I had been a part of something special. Something … unexpected. It took some time to realize that, though.

When the nausea kicked in, a feeling of “I’m never doing this ever again,” kicked in as well. There was no way I was going on a cool down run. I just wanted to hurl.

But when the pizza and pitchers began to arrive at Columbo’s a short while later, those ill feelings were gone. It’s like when I used to drink heavily as a teenager or 20-something: the hangover was enough to make me think “I’ll never do this again.” Two days later, I’d be searching out that “high” again.

Same with running.

The gathering at Columbo’s was pure energy. There were so many topics to discuss and marvel over. There was Chad Coley’s out-of-body run and tumble to the finish; Patrick Judge’s 17-second improvement (yes, 17) over last year; another win by Peter Dan Sullivan; Shaun Marshall-Pryde’s debut, at age 49, in 4:55. Everyone seemed to improve over last year’s time. Myself included. (I’m that much closer to 4:59; the bug is back).

At Columbo’s there were slaps on the back, firm hand-shakes, enthusiastic laughs from the still-youthful Peter Dan, unmatched commentary from El Presidente John Zombro as a feeling of satisfaction and camaraderie washed over all of us.

I used to think it was a privilege to be a part of the MMMM. Now I know it.

Back to the race for a moment: I remember, just as I was making the turn for the final 100 meters, hearing the track announcer say, “Now that’s what I call giving it 100 percent.” I forgot about that for a while until I saw Chad’s shoulder, all red and deprived of skin. I had no idea he had fallen at the finish after giving it everything he had for that race.

His effort was the talk of the crowd later that night. His humble nature only added to the atmosphere. He ought to just put another “O” in his name. He’s that Cool, although if he’s over 35 then I’m 100.

Friday night was special in that you had the future (the 50-yard dash for kids), the present (Heather Haug and Dan Jackson putting up PBs in the mile, Patrick Casey running the nation’s best 800); and what I hope people will aspire to do in later years (the MMMM, of course) all in a span of two hours.

There’s something about running on those “boards” around the track that makes me feel special, cool even. When a skeletal mass like myself can make a pounding sound with my feet …

When I got home that night, I couldn’t sleep until well after 2. It wasn’t what I’d call a good night’s sleep, either; my wife has a cough and my daughter was up at 7:30.

Yet I didn’t feel tired all day. Can we ever come close to matching the MMMM magic in 2012? I don’t know. But what I do know that is a new standard has been set for this event. There were no MMMM records broken Friday night; not by the watch, anyway.

Yes, being a part of this field is still a privilege. But the effort that goes into it has changed.

I can’t wait to find out who is going to be the hot topic at next year’s post-race gathering. It’s going to take something extraordinary.

Something unexpected.

These unexpected words always help offset the complaints that trickle in to my phone or inbox, which is part of the deal when you’re a sports editor. But on Monday night, I wasn’t working when I received a pat on the back from jolly old St.Nick. My wife, daughter (Nina) and I rushed out of the house before dinner was ready in order to catch Santa Claus at the Gallatin Valley Mall. He was there until 6:30 that night, so the chicken and stuffing was taken out of the oven and off we went. Nina has been to see Santa at the mall in each of the two prior years that we’ve had her, so there was no concern of whether she wouldn’t want to go. Some kids get freaked out by Kris Kringle, but Nina isn’t one of them. She had an issue with the Easter Bunny once, but Santa rates very highly with her. Anyhoo, the picture and the sitting on Santa’s lap routine took mere minutes (there was another girl there who was crying, but Nina stepped right up), and that was that. Or so I thought. After Nina crawled off Santa’s lap, he motioned toward me. I didn’t move at first – what kind of business does he want with me? Then he said, “dad, come over here.” So over I went. You don’t disobey Santa. “Are you Tim?” he said. I wanted to blurt out, “I’ve been good this year, Santa.” But I just gave a simple “yes.” He then said how he enjoys my articles in the paper. Whoa. I couldn’t believe it! I really have been good this year. Santa likes my stuff. He then told me how his daughters work at the MSU bookstore and how he though Bobcat football player Jordan Craney was a good kid. We talked for a bit longer before it was time for the girl who had been crying to give the guy in the red suit another try. I shook Santa’s gloved hand and off I went. I know he’s just a guy playing a part (the beard was indeed real), but it was flattering for him to go out of his way and offer me a compliment the way he did. Our next trip to the mall for a picture with Nina will be in the spring when the Easter Bunny visits. But I won’t be looking for any compliments – EB doesn’t say much. Besides, when it comes to that sort of thing, I’m good. For goodness sake.