Marathon Man (14 page)

I remember sitting in this smoky beach bar when an empty feeling came over me. I tapped my restless leg on the booze-sticky floor as I burned through another smoke, and silently watched girls pass by with their orange-skinned complexions, thick, black mascara'd eyes, and long shiny fingernails. The war had taken my life on a detour. I'd just arrived at the dead end. This can't be it, I thought to myself. There has to be something more to life than drinking, smoking, and staying out all night with my friends. I was once a pretty good New England runner. Now look at me.

I was going nowhere. I was tired of going nowhere. I was tired of being squashed down. I still didn't know where I was headed, but I felt deep in my bones that I wanted to be heading somewhere.

That Sunday, Jason and I decided to wake up early to get back home in time to see the Boston Marathon, which neither of us had ever been to before.

After driving a couple hours north on Interstate 93, we reached Boston, and were soon winding our way through the streets. There was nothing that could have prepared us for the scene unfolding before our eyes. It looked like every soul in the city was outdoors, partying and having a good time. It was raucous.

We parked our bikes in front of our apartment and walked up to the race course, only a few blocks away. The scents of spring mingled with the scents of outdoor vendors cooking hot dogs and pretzels. When we reached the course, we marveled at the scene. Hundreds of thousands of fans lined the road. I was amazed to see there was hardly a policeman in sight. It was a total free-for-all.

The roar of the crowd was deafening as the cavalcade of press and motorcycles and runners came bursting into view. The moment sent chills down my spine. I watched as the race leaders approached. All of a sudden, I saw Jeff Galloway come into view. He even had on his Wesleyan singlet that I used to race in, too. I heard the announcer say, “Here comes Jeff Galloway of Atlanta, Georgia!”

Wait a minute, I know that guy! He was my teammate! I almost swallowed my cigarette in a gasp of surprise. Maybe I never ran the two mile as fast as Jeff in college, but I could hang with the guy on our longer training runs. And there he was, battling for a top-ten finish at the Boston Marathon. My mind was spinning.

I was still recovering from seeing my old Wesleyan teammate run by in seventh place when I heard the announcer say, “Here comes John Vitale of the University of Connecticut.” Vitale? I ran against him! I beat him! What the heck? I felt like the last person to show up at a party. Oh, so this is where everybody has been.

By today's standards, the Boston Marathon I witnessed that day was small, but it dwarfed any local New England road race I'd ever seen. I was accustomed to running in tiny college dual meets that had almost no spectators. I found it enthralling to see a road race like this, on the big stage, with the big lights. I was mesmerized by the spectacle of runners battling along the city streets flanked by thousands of spectators. There was nothing like it.

I had seen the Boston Marathon up close, and while a part of me instantly desired to race in it, I knew the idea was bonkers. I was in lousy shape.

One night, Jason and I crossed over the Mass. Avenue Bridge into Cambridge and walked over to Jack's Bar. I can't remember which band took the stage that night, but I do remember people dancing. As usual, I was drinking my gin and tonics and smoking. Yes, I was still smoking my Winston cigarettes. What did it matter? I was through with racing.

Jason pointed out a girl he recognized from around town. She was a nice-looking hippie girl in casual attire. She wore a floppy hat over her pin-straight, shoulder-length brown hair.

I was not an outgoing guy when it came to women. When I imagined walking over to a girl in a bar and striking up a conversation, I was victimized by heart palpitations. As for my dancing skills, they hadn't improved any since high school, when I'd sit up in the bleachers waiting for some buddy to come by and knock my clip-on tie to the ground.

But there I was and there she was and somehow I got the nerve to walk over to the girl in the floppy hat and introduced myself. She smiled and let her eyelids flutter open, revealing her striking eyes, one brown and one green. Somebody once described her as having a Liv Ullman look of good, clear sense, whereas I had the Woody Allen look of a wiry, neurotic daydreamer. She told me her name was Ellen and that she was a receptionist at the children's hospital next door to the Brigham. We hit it off right away.

Ellen lived in an old Victorian house in Jamaica Plain with a couple of roommates. I started going over to her place to visit her. A lot.

When I met Ellen, I was barely running. Whatever confidence I'd built up from my runs at the Y was demolished during my run-ins with the hospital administrator in charge of the escort messengers, who he viewed as nothing more than a pool of low-cost labor. He would speak down to me and the other six long-haired young men because we were conscientious objectors. One look at his face, at the contempt in his eyes that shone through his horn-rimmed glasses, and I knew what he thought of my refusal to go to war. But I wouldn't accept the prevailing mentality—fight at all costs. I preferred that other saying: Make love, not war.

Now that I had an actual girlfriend, I felt it my duty to put my belief into practice. This meant spending all my free time with Ellen on our distant cloud. I was happy to have a girlfriend and not be alone in the big city. I think Ellen felt the same way. My lack of ambition was not a pressing issue. Between spending all my time with Ellen, rushing around the hospital as an escort messenger, and running around the YMCA track, who had time? Not to mention, I was now helping Howard set up a union.

Howard was a fellow escort messenger. One day, he pulled me aside and told me serious efforts were under way to start a union at the hospital. “Would you like to participate?” he asked. My first thought was, Why not? The hospital's supporting staff, like the receptionists and nurses, were paid poorly, worked under miserable conditions, and had no benefits. Who could be against trying to make things a little better?

As I said, I'd always been more of a follower than a leader, so I let Howard take the reins. In retrospect, that might have been a mistake.

Howard told me that if we got enough people to vote to unionize, the hospital would have no choice but to accept the outcome. It was our job to convince our fellow workers that it was in their interest to unite in struggle, and so for the next couple of months, Howard and I went around to the different groups—the receptionists, the nurses, the aides—and tried to convince them to take a formal vote to join Local 1199. All the while, I was wondering why I was the only one other than Howard to participate in this effort.

It was a winter day in 1972. I walked out to the hospital parking lot after my shift to get on my bike and ride home. I bent down and picked up the broken chain lying on the snow. Somebody had stolen the one possession I owned in the world. It wasn't the money I was out that hurt so much, but the freedom that had been taken from me.

Jason walked over to where I'd parked my bike and saw me standing there like a guy who'd been sucker punched in the gut. He told me he'd help me find my bike, knowing I couldn't afford to replace it. That's how we were. We were always in it together.

The next couple of days we spent going around town, trying to find my bike. Jason and I scoured the city. No luck. Jason said the bike had likely been stripped for parts. I was always looking on the bright side, but it wasn't easy between no money, my dead-end job, and my lack of wheels. This was bad—not rock bottom, but bad. Finally, I broke down and purchased a ten-speed bicycle. A few days later that got stolen, too.

That was rock bottom.

Early the next morning, I rolled out of the bed. I threw on some gray sweatpants, dug out my old sneakers, and put them on. After lacing up my shoes, I walked out the front door, down the paint-chipped steps of the Victorian house, and over to Arlington Avenue.

I paused a moment on the side of the road and stared out at the horizon. All at once, I started running down the road. I moved at a slow, steady pace. I could hear my breath as I glided over the hardtop. I passed by the grass front yards and storeowners unlocking their front doors and people washing off their sidewalks. By then, I'd lost track of how many days I'd gone without running outdoors. Had it really been four years since I soared through the countryside with Amby? Had it really been that long since my running shoes had been caked in mud?

As I blasted down the road, I could feel the blood slowly returning to my veins. I was running again. My muscles were loosening with each step. I sailed along, giddy as a newborn pup.

I had no idea how long I'd been running by the time I saw Peter Bent Brigham Hospital come into view. I passed Jason on my way up the front entrance. He didn't react surprised at the sight of me arriving to work on foot. He just glanced over at me as I passed him in my ragged sweatpants with my hair sweaty and looking unkempt. He gave me a small nod and grin.

I was still about to walk inside the hospital to carry out another day at my dead-end job, but the seeds of change had been planted inside me. Small events were pushing me to take action. Each one was propelling me closer to the keys to my salvation, which looked a lot like waffle-soled training flats. And yet, I still wasn't ready to commit myself. Something was still holding me back.

 

SIX

The Writing on the Hospital Wall

A
PRIL 21, 1975

N
ATICK
C
ENTER,
M
ASSACHUSETTS

As we ran toward downtown Natick, a foot apart from each other, I did know this: Drayton could duke it out. How did I know this? He was built right. What does that mean? He was thin but strong. Real strong-looking. I could hear the easy rise and fall of his breathing. I knew that under his maple leaf singlet his heart was not thumping against his chest but, as Edgar Allan Poe wrote, “beating calmly as that of one who slumbers in innocence.” On top of that, he was running sub-five-minute miles like it was a piece of cake. Not too many people in the world can do that. Not in 1975. Not if you haven't trained your whole life at high altitude. At that pace, you're cracking 2:11. That's roaring.

At no point did Drayton talk to me. That was fine. I liked that. It told me he was a serious runner. That's what I want. I didn't care that other runners found Drayton aloof and standoffish. I liked that Drayton was a different breed of cat. In a way, you want the challenge of going toe-to-toe with a guy like Drayton—fit and sharp, cunning and ruthless—because it heightened your own senses and got your blood going. It forced you to react and think at a faster rate than you normally would, and demanded your body and mind adapt to the challenge thrust before you.

I liked Tom Fleming, too, but he was the exact opposite of Drayton. He liked to mix it up with other runners—he could be brash and talkative on the course. I didn't mind that, either, because I knew Tom was a serious runner. I knew the miles he put in. I knew the punishment he inflicted on his body in training. I knew that he didn't lack for want. Unfortunately for Tom, sometimes his outsize personality got the best of him. It cost him. He used up too much energy. He'd go out too hard in these big races. He wouldn't be able to finish strong.

The more experienced marathoners will take advantage of a day like this—cool with a tailwind. It's only the inexperienced runners that don't. Or the runners who have no competitive fire. They're running the same course, but they're not running the same race. They're solving crossword puzzles in their head or thinking about their grandma or talking to people along the way or visually embracing spectators. They're in a world of heartwarming delight where smiling children hand out orange slices to runners, where friendly faces show up in all directions, where a sea of people move alongside them in runner solidarity.

In my world, I was running beside Jerome Drayton and he was as light and cheery as the Terminator—his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, reinforcing the sense that he was a cold-blooded killer. But Drayton didn't intimidate me. Not for a moment. I had to deal with him but, at the same time, he had to deal with me. And I was determined to stand my ground. You have to be like this. You can't let anybody throw you off. You have to be feisty. Respect your opponent, as I respected Drayton, but never fear them. This is a duel. I'm there to beat him. He's there to beat me. I can't think of anything more fun.

Now we were ten miles into the race, passing along the shores of Lake Cochituate, where Tarzan Brown, the orphaned Narragansett Indian who'd won the race in 1936 and 1939, suddenly waved on the other runners, jumped the guard rail, and plunged into the cool waters during a scorching hot race day. I breezed past the spot where Tarzan took his famous dip, without breaking stride. The first time the brash youth had entered the race in 1935, he threw his shoes into the crowd and ran the last thirteen miles barefoot. As I battled Drayton through the midreaches of the race, my Prefontaine racing shoes flicked swiftly over the road. My feet felt great in my new shoes. I could skip going barefoot like Tarzan.

Ten miles into the race, I felt my confidence rising. I was making headway and my body was telling me it was all systems go. If you're working real hard ten miles into the marathon, then it doesn't bode well for the next sixteen. It's not as if you're going to make a miraculous recovery and suddenly feel great. We've all seen that pitcher who struggles in the early innings and almost gets stronger as the game goes on. Not in the marathon. This is the great weakening of your physical and psychological strength. That's the challenge. Most people are just trying to run the distance. “Can I finish the twenty-six miles?” Some people set limits like four or five hours. It's hard to get it down to the 2:10 to 2:15 range, but that's what people like Drayton and Fleming and myself were trying to do. Not so we could set a personal record, but because we knew that's how fast we'd need to run to win the race.