Marathon Man (19 page)

The scene at the Silver Lake Dodge was typical for a local road race. This was strictly for hardcore runners. No bells. No whistles. No officials. No fans. It was as close to pure competition as you could get. And, believe me, the racers relished these bare-bones, do-or-die affairs.

I was still warming up near the start line when I spotted a tall, lanky figure coming toward me. That stiff, almost robotic gait was unmistakable. It was my old roommate Amby Burfoot. I hadn't seen him since he graduated Wesleyan in '68. I was excited to see him.

“Bill, I hardly recognized you,” said Amby.

“It's been a while,” I said. “How have you been?”

“I've been good. Got a job teaching little rugrats down in Connecticut.”

“That sounds like a good job.”

“I also got married.”

“Wow,” I said. “That's great news!”

“I heard you were up in Boston,” Amby said. “Doing your service.” I was sure Amby'd heard stories of me riding around town on my motorcycle, smoking a lot of cigarettes, hitting bars, but he was far too polite to bring up my wastrel activities. Besides, I knew Amby's position when it came to telling other people what they should do: It's not up to him to get people to change, it's up to them. I hoped that he would see from the fact that I was racing in the Silver Lake that I was at least trying to change. Then again, from the slightly quizzical look on his face, he might have just been wondering about my running attire: ragged blue jeans and a tattered sweatshirt full of holes.

“You look…” Amby started. He paused a moment, as if trying to find the right word and then continued: “Kind of homeless.”

We both burst out laughing.

“Bill, this is great! It's so wonderful to see you! I'm glad you've decided to do some jogging,” said Amby in a gentle fashion. “I think I heard you had started smoking.”

“I was,” I said. “But I'm done with that now.”

“You're trying to get back into shape. That's a good thing, Bill.”

Amby had always encouraged me to stay fit in college—I can still hear him telling me to run five miles every day in the summer. Ha!—so I wasn't surprised that he'd expressed his support of my attempt to return to running. It was a bit odd, however, that he was talking to me like some overweight, middle-age guy who was new to the concept of exercise.

“Do you have a team to run for?” asked Amby.

“No,” I said, surprised. “Do I need one?”

“Don't worry,” Amby said. “Just put ‘BAA' down on your entry form.”

As I lined up beside the one hundred runners, I felt a rush of excitement. To be back at the start line of an actual race got the juices flowing. And to be going up against Amby Burfoot. My roommate, my teammate, my friend, my mentor. I hadn't expected that. Amby Burfoot. Boston Marathon champion. Undefeated for four years at Wesleyan. Fifth in the Fukuoka Marathon, missing the American marathon record by one second. He would be the highest-level runner I had ever raced against.

As I stood there waiting for the gun to sound, my raggedy sweatshirt and jeans offered little protection against the cold. I kept thinking about the distance I was about to run. Twenty miles. That was a long haul. Road races are almost never that long anymore.

The race was under way. I saw Amby vault to the front of the pack. Instinctually, I did what I'd done so many times before on training runs in college—I followed him.

In Ashland, a clear lead group emerged—Amby, myself, and two guys I didn't know. After we broke free from the rest of the field, we settled into a fast but steady pace. Although we were covering the same course used in the Boston Marathon, this had a very different feel to it. For one, it was February, not April. The cold was brutal. Also, there were no spectators, no ropes, no cops on motorcycles, no media trucks, no water stations.

Cars and trucks drove past us and they had no idea a race was going on. We were just a bunch of wackos running down the street in the damn cold.

It was a four-man race as we ran through Ashland and into Framingham. The pace was quick. Maybe too quick. But racing was different back then. Nobody was too concerned with his splits. Nobody was checking his digital watch. Most of us didn't even wear watches. Beating the competition was the be-all, end-all. Everybody wanted to win those tires, and we were willing to thrash one another on the roads to get them.

I knew from my training that I was in good shape, but I had no idea that I'd be able to do what I was doing now, running neck and neck with Amby in the lead. It gave me a powerful psychological boost, and the energy to stay with him mile after mile.

It was an advantage to be in a two-man duel at the front because all I had to do was concentrate on staying with Amby. I didn't have to think about the other runners. Whatever extended a few feet beyond us and a few feet behind us didn't exist to me. Sometimes a training run evolves into a race, and other times a race evolves into a personal battle of wills. That's what was happening here. I respected Amby. I respected what he'd accomplished. But in the heat of battle, all I could think about was trying to outlast him.

I was in my first high-mileage road race and loved that it demanded an intense, rough-and-tumble style of running. I wasn't like some of the runners today. They run solely for time. I could care less about my time. For me, it was always about the competition. It was about being in the hunt. Racing in the lead pack. That's tremendously exciting. Any runner who races will experience an incredible surge of adrenaline and exhilaration, but to be in the hunt for the win is a different deal. It's a totally different deal.

In the cold weather my feet froze, my face froze, and nothing worked at full capacity—my heart, my lungs, my muscles, my joints—and yet never in my life had I felt a high like I had at that very moment. My whole being was engaged in the task before me. Matching Amby stride for stride. I had been catapulted through a portal. In this new universe, all my senses were fully engaged in the here and now. I was connected to the road and to my breath and to my adversary—he was no longer my friend Amby—moving in perfect harmony beside me. An electrical current flowed from my mind to my heart to my fingers. This feeling was different than the running high I got from training hours in the park; it was more than a release of endorphins. I had tapped into a primeval fight-or-flight impulse. I was energized as hell.

Ten miles into the race and I was still attached to Amby's hip pocket. Amby glanced over at me in disbelief. He had not expected to see me bouncing alongside him with what he called my “goofy stride.”

Here's what you need to understand: To all of a sudden be holding my own against Amby was an epiphany. I had never duked it out with him like this before. I could never stay with him back in college. We ran the two mile back then. I could have trained day and night and I'd never have been able to beat him at that distance. Even when I got my time under nine minutes in my senior year, I still would have been no match for Amby. I didn't have his speed. I didn't have his finishing kick. I didn't have the psychological wiring to run short distances. It wasn't what I was born to do. I knew I'd never be anything but ordinary at short distances. It's a big reason I quit running. It was like my mom always said: If the point isn't to be the best, why do it?

By now, I was relying on adrenaline—or whatever you want to call it—to maintain my position up at the front with Amby. I glanced over at him. He was running exactly like he had fifteen miles back—steady and methodical.

That's when things got weird. With each step I took, the gap between us steadily grew larger. First Amby was only a couple of yards ahead of me. I told myself, Stay in striking distance. But no matter how hard I ran, I kept falling farther and farther behind. Before I knew it, he was twenty yards ahead of me. Then thirty yards ahead. All at once, the invisible rope that connected us snapped and Amby took off into the distance.

What had just happened?

I'll tell you what: Amby had increased his pace, but in such a subtle fashion that I hadn't picked up on it at first. Didn't matter. There was nothing I could do at that point to save myself. I couldn't go any faster. I was maxed out. Amby still had another gear. He had marathon strength. He was fitter than I was. He had the edge and he knew it. I was done for.

It suddenly became clear to me. From the very start, Amby had been analyzing his progress, keeping close tabs on his exertion level, making sure he was maintaining the correct pace. I should have been doing the same, but instead my entire focus was on keeping stride for stride with Amby. Not the most sophisticated strategy in the world.

Meanwhile, Amby had been patiently watching me all those miles. Judging me. Measuring how he was feeling against how I was feeling. Assessing how long he could keep this pace up versus how long I could. Waiting for the right time to make his move. How had he gotten it so right? Could he tell by how hard I was breathing? Could he perceive the muscles in my neck straining slightly more? Could he have sensed a minuscule change in my gait?

Once I had dropped a couple of yards behind him, he knew he had me. I couldn't see what was happening as clearly. I thought I could hang on. But it didn't matter how hard I ran, he kept opening the gap farther and farther. There's something about being overtaken by a physically superior runner that can only be understood by experiencing it—the sense of inexorable doom, the overwhelming helplessness, the dreamlike state where you can't move any faster, you're doing your best, but it's not enough. I had simply run out of bullets. The worst part was Amby knew it before I did. He knew I was toast. I was his good friend, but he did what he was supposed to do. He left me behind. He went for the win.

Luckily, after losing sight of Amby, I had another runner come up on me, so we commenced to race. What was I going to do, walk off the course? My legs cramped over the last few miles. I gritted my teeth and fought on. Having somebody to race against helped me get to the finish. One of the weird dualities of the sport is that sometimes your fellow runner is a competitor, other times he's your helper.

In the end, the unknown runner beat me by seconds. The moment I crossed the finish line, we shook hands. The code of conduct among runners is powerful; it's what makes it a true gentlemen's sport.

Once inside the warm confines of the dealership showroom, I began to thaw out. My body was freezing cold and tired from running so hard. I was also cramping badly. I looked around for bagels, bananas, and hot chocolate. All I found was a small pitcher of water. I would've loved to slip off my iced-over blue jeans and throw on a pair of warm Gore-Tex pants. Unfortunately, the fabric wouldn't be invented for another three years. In my ratty jeans and sneakers, I was not exactly ready for my Nike ad.

Moments later, the owner of the Silver Lake Dodge dealership congratulated Amby on his victory and awarded him his grand prize: a set of four tires. This was the essence of New England road racing. You didn't run to become rich or famous. You ran to test your mettle. You ran to see if you had what it took. You ran to compete. Nothing more, nothing less.

Amby didn't have a car, so he offered the tires to the second-place winner. He also didn't have a car, so he offered them to the next guy in line, which was me. What was I going to do with four tires? Build an obstacle course? In the end, who knows how many broken-down runners they had to go through before they found somebody with a set of wheels.

Amby came over and I congratulated him on his victory. Over the last few miles, he had built a three-minute lead over the rest of us, and was still running at a five-minute-per-mile pace. His win was decisive. He had run a great race and I wanted him to know it. I wasn't surprised that he'd beaten me. He'd always beaten me in college. Besides, I was sky high, just knowing I had hung with Amby for as long as I had. Coming in third place in my first race back was more than I could have ever expected. Frankly, I was stunned. From the look on Amby's face, I could tell he was, too.

“Have you been doing much speed work?” he asked.

“No, I've just been running easy around the park,” I said.

“That's amazing, Bill,” he said. “Where you got the ability to run that fast for that long is a miracle.” He looked me right in the eye. “You have a great gift.”

Receiving such a compliment from Amby, who I respected more than anybody in this world, made my heart swell.

I had discovered I could run at longer distances. And not just run—I could be in the mix. After all, I had just stayed with Amby Burfoot for twenty miles. Just then, an older man approached us.

“Who are ya?” he said to me in a thick Scottish accent.

“This is Bill Rodgers,” Amby interjected. “My roommate from college.”

“Some guy just told me ‘my guy from the BAA' took third place,” said Jock in a calm—too calm—tone. “I take it you're my guy.”

I looked back at him, slightly nervous.

“Well, in that case, nice job out there, young lad.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“I take it you plan to race in the Boston Marathon?”

I liked how he'd said that. Not “run in the Boston Marathon”—“race in the Boston Marathon.”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Well, how would you like to run for the BAA,” he said with a glint of excitement in his eyes.

I looked over at Amby as if to confirm that the moment was real. “Absolutely,” I said.

“That's what I like to hear!” said Jock, his face breaking into a big grin as he slapped me heartily on the back. “Come by my clinic over at the Boston Garden and we'll talk.”

A few weeks later, I went over to the Garden. I got lost for an hour wandering through a labyrinth of dark hallways until I finally reached the door of Jock's clinic. I expected to be knocked out by some fancy place with carpet and enamel sinks. Instead, I found Jock in the bowels of the Garden, bustling around the tiny room in an old T-shirt, white duck trousers, and sneakers. One moment, he'd be taking a Bruins player from the rubdown table to the whirlpool, the next pulling a couple of brokers out of the steambath, all the while rushing back and forth to a constantly ringing phone to answer inquiries about the marathon. Some runner called, asking for a bib number. Jock suspected he was some kind of clown, and not a “real runner.” He slammed the phone down.