The older I get, the more the BolderBoulder road race feels like a yearly conversation with time.

This year marks at least my 24th time around the 10K route. Some people have done 40 or more.

Those familiar become part of the event’s architecture, moving through the same streets every Memorial Day, like human mile markers.

I measure my Springtime life against theirs.

Who’s still showing up? Ron Bostwick has kept the heats leaving the gate smoothly for as long as I can remember

Who disappeared? My Silver Sage Village cohousing had many participants at one time.

Now, I’m the last man standing.

My neighbor, Henry, has been the annual shuttle driver. This year was no exception. We sneak through the back route.

He drops me off at the Twisted Pine tap room, where we’d have a beer before the festivities. Alas, this year, they didn’t open until 10 a.m.

Times are a changing.

Who finally decided their knees, hips, or heart had negotiated enough with Folsom Hill?

That was almost me in 2014, three months after I got up off my deathbed.

I only had to take one swig of oxygen midway up Folsom Hill that leads into the stadium. I was still puffed up on Prednisone.

Will Elvis be there for my annual mugshot? Aaron Black is a mainstay at the 7-Eleven.

Every year I ask myself the same question.

When do I stop doing this?

My self-imposed assignment is a choice. I used to get paid to carry a camera and make a short movie about everything but the race. Now I do it for the free food.

Occasionally, I registered and got a bib. These days, the commemorative T-shirt is included in the signup fee. I don’t want or need any more T-shirts as an alibi.  

My videos have never gone viral. At the end of the day, my annual goal has always been to beat the course cutoff and make it into the stadium before officials start sweeping people off the route.

I’m not a casual observer, either, who stands outside an event looking in. I’ve always been in the middle of it as a runner, walker, journalist, scavenger, and documentarian. Over the years, I’ve earned media credentials and turned my attention away from the front of the pack. The winners already get their headlines.

My mission became documenting everything else. 

The real BolderBoulder exists between the timing mats.

It’s the neighborhood bands playing for strangers, including my neighbor across the street, Richard, and his band, the “Howling Commandos” of Sgt. Fury fame. Every year, they look a little older.

What nobody tells you about traditions, the BolderBoulder stays young while the participants age around it. The BolderBoulder is a big corporate event that’s managed to keep the hometown feeling.

Families along the route host annual driveway parties like the race is the 4th of July with running shoes.

Hundreds of volunteers stand along the metal barriers and monitor the course.  

Volunteers from local nonprofits hand out water in Pepsi cups. I figure more than 120,000 are discarded every Memorial Day. As an aside, what if the BolderBoulder teamed up with the other big races to have the beverage companies provide compostable cups?

Then there’s the local entertainment.

It’s the belly dancers on Folsom.

The Elvis impersonator posing for selfies.

The homemade Slip ’N Slide.

Protestors exercising their 1st Amendment rights, raving and waving signs.

This year, college kids with tequila-filled squirt guns offered “hydration support” to passing adults.

Along the route, a group wearing hotdog, mustard, and ketchup bottle costumes handed out squished, steamed dogs in foil, like at the ballpark.

I noshed on one of those on my way to Elvis. Later, neighbors handed out nacho Doritos, the other power food.

This year, the race attracted more than 53,000 runners and walkers. Organizers cut off registration because entries had reached capacity.

That’s not surprising. 

According to race director Cliff Bosley, the BolderBoulder ranks third among American running events, behind only the New York City Marathon and the Chicago Marathon.

The image on the right is race founder Steve, Race Director Cliff and Nabu Koga. Koga makes two trips to annual trips to Boulder. One to watch a CU football game and the second, for the BolderBoulder.

Bosley is also a Hastings College alum, 10 years my junior. We shared a few campus war stories. I’m surprised we don’t run into each other at the grocery store.

Hastings College hosts an alumni get-together at the Sink on University Hill because of the BolderBoulder HC connection.

Elite runners still fly through town chasing prize money and international titles.

This year, officials disqualified the apparent winner of the men’s citizen race for starting with the wrong heat, a small modern echo of Rosie Ruiz cutting corners in the 1980 Boston Marathon.

Now that I’m older, I wonder about the walkers fighting to pass Arapahoe before the cutoff brigade comes through.

Even though the course has changed from time to time, I’ve gotten to know every crack in the pavement and where the road crown is higher.

Next year, my plan is to wait around and interview the very last person to cross the finish line.

The final finisher who kept going while the crowds thinned, the TV cameras packed up, and the serious athletes had already gone home.

That person might understand the event better than anyone.

By the time I climbed the Folsom Field this year, I stopped and watched the women’s international race start. When I reached the stadium, I waited for the professional women to collapse after finishing the course and the story arc.

Later came the closing ceremonies with a flyover. Usually, it’s a formation of F-15 fighters breaking the sound barrier over the stadium.

This year, the U.S. Department of Defense treated us to a lone C-130 transport rumbling overhead. I attribute the demotion to Colorado not being in the President’s good graces.

Parachutists drifted down with service flags and the American flag while “God Bless the U.S.A.” by Lee Greenwood echoed through the stadium speakers.

Very patriotic.

The event reminded me of being in Yankee Stadium for Game 3 of the 2001 World Series six weeks after 9/11.

On Sunday before the race, I attended the annual media conference and luncheon. Looking around the room, I realized I was probably the oldest guy there, besides founder Steve Bosley. Last year, the race honored Peggy, a longtime CU Buffs fan and centenarian, with an NIL deal.

Race day has never been about how fast I can move, although, including all the stops, starts, and backtracks I make along the way, I still manage to finish in around 2 hours and 30 minutes.

At some point, I know I’ll have to hang up my Asics for good.

Maybe after the 50th anniversary race in two years.

Maybe not.

There are worse ways to grow old.