Marathon Man (2 page)

Through the twisting stretch of hills, where so many runners have hit the wall and so many dreams have been trampled, I poured it on. But I wasn't only trying to burn out Seko, I was trying to catch the leader, Garry Bjorklund. That made me run harder and faster. I didn't feel fatigue when I was in pursuit of another runner. I didn't think about Seko breathing down my neck as long as I had Bjorklund to chase down. I charged forward, all my focus on the one man in front of me.

I finally caught Bjorklund at the base of the second Newton hill. As I overtook him, he glanced over to me and said, “Go for two-oh-eight.” But I was concerned with the win, not the world record. I glanced behind me. Seko was still there, still dogging me every step of the way. I had to shake him off. Up the hills I pushed, even harder now. But Seko wouldn't go away.

We reached Heartbreak Hill—the single most significant hill in all of road racing. I knew this would be my last chance to drop my rival. I thought back to the story of 1936—would this be where I'd have my heart broken? Would I watch victory slip through my fingers like John “the Elder” Kelley or soar ahead to victory like Tarzan Brown?

I summoned my strength and roared up the hill. As I crested the top of the mighty hill, I looked over my shoulder. For the first time, Seko had dropped back a few yards. I couldn't believe it. He was fading. That last climb had done him in. This was his first Boston Marathon. He didn't know these hills, but I did. I trained on them sometimes twice a day. I knew why Coach Squires called this stretch the Killer Chain. Not because of their severity, but because of where they began—at mile 16, when legs start tightening and spirits begin to break—and how they culminated. On Heartbreak Hill. Welcome to my home turf.

Up until that point, I had been running scared. But now, I had a little lead on Seko and a straight shot downhill all the way to the finish line. I felt gung-ho. Maybe I can win this thing, I thought to myself. I exploded down the hill, flanked by hordes of wild, screaming fans, the corridor between them barely wide enough for me to pass through. Ahead of me, an escort of three police motorcycles fought to keep the surging crowd back. In the madness, a policeman's horse reared up, taking out one of my motorcycle escorts. I kept running, light as a breeze. I didn't look back.

An ear-splitting roar went up as I passed a huge party of friends and family, gathered outside the running store I had opened with my brother, Charlie, and wife, Ellen, two years earlier. In that moment, I tried to fathom how our little basement store had become the epicenter of the late-1970s Boston running boom, and how a skinny, wide-eyed misfit like me had become a big part of the sport's explosion in popularity across the country.

As I soared past the Eliot Lounge, where for years I'd shared many a good time with my runner pals, I caught a glimpse of Seko. He was about two hundred yards behind. I could taste victory. All along the course the multitudes chanted my name, “Go, Billy, Go!” I lifted my soaked wool Snoopy cap from my flowing blond hair and waved it to the cheering fans. It lifted me up to know this was my city, my streets, my people. They were on my side. The wave of my cap was my way of saying “thank you.”

Over the last thirty yards, I sprinted with all my effort, my arms pumping, legs churning, sweat flying off me. The announcer shouted over the PA system: “Ladies and gentlemen, the greatest runner in Massachusetts, the greatest runner in the United States, the greatest runner in the world and the history of the world!” But all I could hear was the roar of the crowd.

As I broke through the finish line tape, I gritted my teeth in a triumphant snarl, still holding my Snoopy cap tightly in my hand. Newspapers were snapping my photo. People were chanting my name. I had captured my third laurel wreath at Boston, broken the course record, and, after four years and many hard races run, set a new personal best time in the marathon—2:09:28.

Moments later, I was packing up my clothes in the chilly, dank confines of the Sheraton Hotel garage. I grabbed a traditional bowl of beef stew, all the while signing autographs for as many people as I could. After a while, Ellen tried to tell everybody that I had to go home, warm up, and rest. “That's okay,” I told her. “I can sign a few more.”

The rain continued to pelt the streets as Ellen and I slowly made our way up Chestnut Hill Avenue toward my store. Despite the steady hum of raindrops falling on our heads, I didn't exactly feel like sprinting. We reached Cleveland Circle, and walked unnoticed through the meandering crowd. But, all of a sudden, a few people spotted me. More and more heads began to turn. All at once, people started shouting out, “Way to go, Boston Billy!” By now, even runners were pausing in the middle of the course to applaud me on my journey home. Embarrassed by the attention, I hurried to the entrance of the basement store. Up above in a balcony, a bunch of young revelers with beer bottles hand saluted me with cheers of “Boston Billy.” I quickly ducked inside and locked the door behind us. Standing there with Ellen, soaking wet and exhausted, I could still hear the people chanting for me outside. I thought to myself, How in the world did I end up here? But what happened next would really blow my mind.

It was the next morning. April 17, 1979. I listened to the rain patter outside the store while I drew a warm bath, where I'd soak my sore muscles. I was already half naked when I heard the phone ring. Ellen picked it up. Ellen always answered the phone. She was my gatekeeper, standing between me and the constant stream of requests from race directors wanting me to come to their races, people asking me to speak at their event, reporters and television producers seeking interviews. I heard her voice rising in annoyance, “Who's calling? The president? The president of what?”

There was a long silence. Then, Ellen called out to me, “Bill, you need to come out here.”

I threw on a robe and came out of the bathroom. “It's the president,” Ellen said in a shell-shocked kind of daze. “Of the United States.”

When I picked up the phone, a presidential aide was on the other end. He asked me my name, and if I was somewhere I could talk. I replied “yes.” The phone suddenly went silent. I turned to Ellen, eyes wide, mouth agape.

A minute or two later, a voice came on the phone. It was President Carter. He congratulated me on my third victory at Boston, and then we started chatting about the marathon. He told me he read lots of running magazines.

“I grind out five miles a day,” President Carter said to me. “So I really admire what you marathoners do.”

I told him to keep it up. He was doing a good job. As a runner. And a president.

He ended the conversation by asking me if I was doing anything May second.

Ellen rushed over and flipped open my appointment book. She gave me the thumbs-up.

“Looks good,” I said.

“Great. We're having a state dinner for Japanese Prime Minister Masayoshi Ohira and I'd love for you to come.”

“The woman who won the race. Joan Benoit. She's a senior at Bowdoin College in Maine. She set the American record.”

“Yes, yes. I'll make sure she also receives an invite.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

The next day, we received the engraved invitation in the mail. It was black tie. I only owned one suit. Most of the time I wore race giveaway T-shirts and sweatpants. I would have to go and rent a tux.

Future presidential candidate Paul Tsongas, then a Massachusetts senator, invited Joan Benoit Samuelson and me down for a luncheon the day before our dinner at the White House. At lunch, we put on a “running clinic” for the large group of senators that were there, including Senator Strom Thurmond, who was then in his seventies. He boasted that he had recently run six miles, and then asked me if I ate the white or yellow part of eggs. After lunch, the press corps took pictures of us shaking hands with the senators. They also snapped photographs of Joanie and me pretending we were jogging on the Capitol steps with Senator Tsongas.

When venerable House Speaker Tip O'Neill, from my home state, heard we planned to take a cab to the White House, he gave us use of his chauffeur and limousine. On the ride over to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, I sat in the back of the limo next to Ellen, fidgeting in my tuxedo. I was looking out the window when I saw a big sign that read
FIREWORKS.
I told the chauffeur to pull over. Moments later, I came out of the store in my tux, carrying a giant box of fireworks. I gave Ellen a big smile. She sighed and quietly shook her head. I knew how excited my dad would be when I showed him the bounty. He was a bit of a fireworks fanatic. So was I. In retrospect, bringing a stockpile of highly explosive fireworks to the White House might not have been the brightest idea.

We were greeted at the entrance by a team of aides in military dress uniforms. They ushered us into a reception room. One of the aides briefed me on the strict protocols. He then told me a story about how he was strolling up to the White House one day when he spotted all these men leaping into bushes and ducking behind trees. He had no clue what was happening. In an instant, he caught sight of President Carter running by on his daily run. The Secret Service agents were leaping from tree to tree and bush to bush on the White House lawn, secretly keeping an eye on Carter while he was running.

I was nervous as hell as I waited to go through the receiving line. I kept grabbing flutes of champagne off the passing silver trays and quickly downing them. Ellen was like me—she came from a regular, middle-class family—and I could see this was all a little nerve-racking for her, too. Finally, we were escorted to the receiving line. A second later, I was shaking hands with the president. He was very friendly. He kissed Ellen. He asked the photographer to come over and take a picture of the first lady, himself, Ellen, and me. He introduced us to Prime Minister Ohira, who spoke excellent English, and I told him what an honor it had been to race in his country, and that Japan produced some of the toughest marathoners in the world. He smiled.

The dinner was being held on the west terrace of the White House, for the first time ever, and it was a beautiful night. When we sat down at our assigned table, the only other person there was Joan Benoit. A moment later, the President and Mrs. Carter and Prime Minister Ohira and his wife walked up to the table. Joanie and I kind of sunk down in our seats, the light sound of violins wafting in the air. I realized this was probably bad form, so I popped up nervously out of my seat. This was mind-boggling. What were Ellen and I doing sitting with the president?

Fireworks were going off now—only they were exploding inside my stomach. Here was the president of the free world sitting directly across from me. I was frozen with nerves. I've always been one of those people who doesn't say anything at parties unless someone says something to them. I listened to the President tell Peter Falk of
Columbo
fame that I ran a marathon at a sub-5:00 pace and that Joanie ran at a sub-6:00-per-mile pace. Peter Falk was nodding with a smile while smoking a Kool cigarette. He asked if I cared for one of his Kools. I said, “No, thanks, only Winstons.” Of course, the last Winston I puffed had been over six years ago. Back when I was riding around on my motorcycle, drinking in bars with my pal Jason, and working a menial job at the hospital. I wasn't running at all. I was a society dropout. No money, no life, no future.

Now here I was, answering questions about running from the president. He asked me if he should be breathing through his nose or his mouth.

I said, “Just relax.”

“But how many breaths per stride is it normal to take?” he asked. “I start off taking maybe three breaths per stride, but it gets up to four when I'm tired.”

“Don't worry about all that. Keep a steady pace. Breathe naturally.”

Which was something I was having a seriously hard time doing at that moment. As the courses flowed—avocado with a seafood salad, suckling pig from Georgia—I started to relax more. It helped that the president was so down-to-earth. I was having fun. After dinner, we were escorted back inside to a grand room where pianist Bobby Short entertained us. I could see from the big smile on President Carter's face that he was having a good time. It was a happy occasion. I smiled back.

I never in a million years imagined I'd be standing where I was, the president's honored guest, or that I'd be giving him running advice. Just as I never imagined that in six years time, I'd win four Boston Marathons, four New York City Marathons, and three number-one world rankings. Never imagined I'd end up Boston's golden hometown boy, and the most popular marathoner in the world. Never imagined I'd wind up twice on the cover of
Sports Illustrated,
or that Ellen and I would be profiled in
People
magazine. Never imagined my rivalry with Olympic champion Frank Shorter would capture the world's attention, or that I'd carry on America's reign of marathon domination that Shorter began at the Munich Games in 1972. Never imagined my lasting success in the Boston and New York City marathons would launch road racing into the brave new world of professionalism. Never imagined I'd become a symbol of the running boom that seized the country in the late seventies, inspiring a lot of people, for the first time in this country, to make running a normal part of their day.

It all just kind of happened, but for the life of me, I don't know how. I was just a guy who liked to run. Same as my brother, Charlie, and my lifelong best friend Jason Kehoe.

It's true. The marathon will humble you. But sometimes it will do more than humble you. Sometimes it can change your destiny.

Here's the story of how it changed mine.

 

ONE

The Teachings of Amby Burfoot

A
PRIL 21, 1975

H
OPKINTON,
M
ASSACHUSETTS