Marathon Man

 

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BILL RODGERS:

To Karen, you have a Heart of Gold

MATTHEW SHEPATIN:

To Merel and Chris, the proprietors of the Monaco “Writers' Retreat”

 

Contents

 

To give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift.

—S
TEVE
P
REFONTAINE

The long run is what puts the tiger in the cat.

—
B
ILL
S
QUIRES, MY COACH

 

PROLOGUE

Relax, Mr. President

I'm lucky to have a big brother like Charlie, for many reasons, including this one: For thirty-five years, he managed the Bill Rodgers Running Center—our shoe and apparel store in Faneuil Hall, Boston. Charlie took over the responsibility of running the store so I'd be free to put in the long miles each day that serious marathon training demands. (In my prime, I was churning out up to 170 miles a week.) Over four decades, the store organically evolved into an informal museum, cluttered with memorabilia covering my running career: old newspaper clippings, framed pictures, bib numbers, racing shoes, gloves, and jerseys. The store also displayed a treasure trove of photos and artifacts celebrating the achievements of past running greats who inspired Charlie and me since we were kids. The walls were additionally plastered with items paying tribute to the 116-year history of the Boston Marathon, which, for my brother and me, has always been more than a famous road race that takes place on the third Monday of every April. It's been a big part of our life, of who we are, and of who we've become.

As Charlie's beard gradually turned white and grew down to his belly button, he became the keeper of this little temple to runners past and present. My brother, who has given thousands upon thousands of personal tours, was always happy to show off our framed
Sports Illustrated
cover of American running legend Steve Prefontaine. He was happy to divulge how we got our hands on a signed racing glove from immortal Czech distance runner Emil Zátopek. He was happy to tell you the tale behind a newspaper clipping of the infamous $10,000 Marathon Derby of 1908, when the “marathon craze” swept cities from London to New York. He's happy to do all of this because, just like me, he loves running.

Hanging among these prized mementos could be found a T-shirt with my most famous quote written on it: The marathon will humble you. But the truth is, sometimes it will do more than humble you. Sometimes it will break your heart.

It was the 1936 Boston Marathon. Ellison “Tarzan” Brown, a brash young Narragansett Indian from Rhode Island, ran at a record pace through the first seventeen miles. Despite trailing Brown by three minutes, defending champion John “the Elder” Kelley remained ice cool. He knew the impulsive rascal would pay for his fast start now that he'd hit the series of Newton Hills—or what my coach, Bill Squires, called the Killer Chain. Sure enough, Brown started to tire through the treacherous hills. Kelley smelled blood. He blasted away over a three-mile stretch, erasing Brown's entire half-mile lead. He pulled even with the fading leader. As Kelley passed him, he reached out and gave Brown a friendly pat on the shoulder, as if to say,
Good try, kid. But you're out of your league
. I'll take it from here. Brown was awoken by the gesture. He stormed back up to Kelley on the last and most daunting of the Newton Hills. As Brown surged past him on the steep climb, Kelley could only look on with helpless horror. Brown cruised to the finish line and was crowned Boston Marathon champion, while Kelley faded back to finish fifth. The late
Boston Globe
sports editor Jerry Nason, who witnessed the incident on the final hill from the press vehicle, described it as “breaking Kelley's heart.” The spot has been known as Heartbreak Hill ever since.

Here I was, forty-three Patriots' Days later, trying to avoid my own heartbreak at the very same spot along the 26.2-mile course to Boston, only in my case, I was going head-to-head with Japan's twenty-two-year-old phenom, Toshihiko Seko.

I first noticed Seko shadowing me as I charged into the hills near the sixteen-mile mark, but, in fact, he had been on my heels the whole time. He was employing the same clever tactics he had used four months earlier at the prestigious Fukuoka Marathon in Japan, the unofficial world championship for marathoners: stay tucked in safely behind me. Wait … wait … wait … Attack on the home stretch. Blow me away with his strong finishing kick. This is how he beat me on his home turf, handing me my one marathon loss in 1978, after I'd netted victories at Boston and New York.

I glanced back at the silent runner hovering just off my shoulder, like a predator patiently stalking his prey. As we ran a foot apart in the pouring rain, we looked radically different in appearance: I wore big white gardening gloves and a thick light-blue wooly cap, complete with a Snoopy patch. Seko was a sleek stealthlike figure with a neat crew cut and all-white uniform. (Author Robert Johnson once wrote, “If Bill Rodgers was the marathon's Peter Pan, forever young and enthusiastic, Toshihiko Seko was Boston's Mr. Spock—focused, businesslike, and humorless.”) Seko's face was hard to read, but his steady, relaxed breathing, compact arm swing, and fluid strides told me he felt strong. My right arm swung wildly across my body, my stomach hurt, and I had to pee. Up the hills I began to waver. Seko passed me. I tucked in behind him and watched his form. I adopted his stride—a much shorter, quicker stride. I suddenly felt more at ease. I flashed back to Fukuoka. I couldn't let him outkick me again in the end. I had to get rid of Seko now. I saw Coach Squires in the crowd and gave him a wink. It was the time to make my move.