Dr. Ron Beetham found joy in running and in living

I did not get to run with Dr. Ron Beetham much, but whenever we did get out onto a trail — it was invariably a trail — the run turned into a social event. “Dr. Ron” seemed to know everyone, from his five decades running and cycling here and around the world and from 30plus years working as an urgent care doc at the Boulder Medical Center over on Alpine and Broadway.

That is where I got to know him, and where his actions in saving my dad’s life endeared him to me and my family, as was the case for literally hundreds of others. Like many of his friends and patients — who were often one and the same — I was saddened to hear of Ron’s passing on Feb. 12. He was 69.

A celebration of life is set for 2 to 4 p.m. Saturday at the Finkel & Garf Brewing Co., 5455 Spine Road. “We will share photographs, memories and stories, some sadness and some joy,” said his friend, Jane Garmyn. “Words falter when trying to describe Ron, words just aren’t enough.”

Most of Dr. Beetham’s good habits, including running, came from living in Boulder since 1971, when he came here to attend the University of Colorado, his sister Janet said in a phone call on Tuesday. Janet recalled the excitement Ron showed on visits home, how happy he was to be delving into the Boulder lifestyle, telling her how he had joined Ironman triathlon great Dave Scott’s training group and Jane Scott’s swim workouts.

He simply absorbed the Boulder lifestyle, Janet said, adding, “It was a gift having him as a brother.”

A gift, too, having Dr. Beetham part of the Boulder community for so many years. At a gathering of friends at the Hungry Toad — a family-style pub and another favorite Beetham hangout — he was described in a heartfelt way by Ruby Spalding, 15. “I knew him since I was born. He was always there for us, and always came over when we were hurt. That’s why we called him ‘Uncle Ronny.’ He always brought over carrot cake and ice cream.”

Running and cycling were big parts of his life, said Laura Spalding, Ruby’s mom, who went on many weekend running trips with Beetham, often to half marathons in Moab, Steamboat and Vail. “Ron was very adventurous and very kind,” said Spalding, an RN who worked with Dr. Beetham for 20-plus years. And in another example of how Boulder is still in many ways a small town, she was on duty when I brought my dad into urgent care.

One summer evening when I returned home from work, my father had not done his typical dad yard projects; the lawn unmowed, bushes untrimmed. A bit concerned when he said he had been tired all day, I called a nurse friend and told her I was taking my dad for a checkup in the morning. “No,” she commanded, directing me to go immediately. We went, and Dr. Beetham was on duty.

I recall the calm manner and gentle demeanor that immediately put my ill-atease dad at ease and belied the seriousness of his heart blockage.

“We’re going to the ER,” Ron said, adding that we were waiting for the ambulance.

“How much does the ambulance cost?” my dad asked.

It was, if I recall, $500. My dad, whose Depression-era job was shoveling out a chicken farm near Higgins and Harlem avenues, on the northwest side of Chicago where the Kennedy Expressway now runs, blanched at the cost, even though it was covered by insurance.

“It has to come from Denver,” Dr. Beetham explained.

My dad shook his head. “Can you take me?”

And so there we were, waiting at the corner of Broadway Street and Balsam Avenue for the light to turn. Once it did, we started across; my dad in his examination gown and slippers in the wheelchair, Dr. Beetham pushing the wheelchair, and me walking alongside holding the intravenous bag up high above my dad’s head. All at once, a voice rang out from the first car waiting at the stoplight:

“Hey, Big Rock! What are you doing in the wheelchair? Get out of there and go for a run.” It was Steve Jones, the Welsh marathon legend and a former world record holder.

My dad soon afterwards underwent successful quintuple bypass surgery and lived many more fulfilling years. And who was a frequent visitor? Dr. Beetham, of course. And over the years, even when busy, Ron took time to chat with my dad, showing a real concern for him.

“Ron was one of the most joy-filled people I know,” said Garmyn. “He found joy in snow; he found joy in flowers; he found joy in people. He had a way of touching your heart, of touching you.”