Marathon Man (27 page)

Huge crowds screamed and yelled on both sides of the narrow strip of road I sliced through. To acknowledge them would have been a dangerous waste of energy. This was no time to be distracted. I needed only to let my mind wander for a moment to invite disaster. I focused my eyes straight ahead. Just because I wouldn't disengage from the battle, not even momentarily, to smile and wave to the cheering crowds didn't mean I wasn't emotionally feeding off them.

When I reached the base of Heartbreak, I caught sight of my shoelace flopping around. I stopped and bent down on one knee to tie it. I glanced up calmly to see Jock Semple barreling toward me like his hair was on fire. “Whatya doin', lad?” he screamed. “Don't stop! Don't stop!”

It looked like Jock's big Scottish head was about to explode. I didn't share his sense of panic. Just the opposite. I felt calm. In control. I knew I had time to stop and tie my shoes. This was as good a place to do it as any. And, of course, this wasn't just any pair of shoes, but “lucky” shoes sent to me by Steve Prefontaine, the magical distance runner who put Nike on the map.

But what if Drayton or Fleming or Ron Hill caught up to me? Okay, first of all, I felt I was far enough ahead of them that stopping for a minute to tie my shoes would not put my lead in jeopardy. But let's assume the worst-case scenario—I look back and there's Drayton charging toward me. Why panic about that? I had plenty left. I could match anybody's pace. If he came up on me then I would put it into another gear. We would have a fun race over the last six miles.

Nobody wants to give up a lead. The point is that stressing about losing your position at the front won't make you run any better; in fact, it will make you run worse and the fear itself may actually cause the thing you fear to happen. On the other hand, if the concern had never entered your mind, it would never have manifested itself in a reality.

Some runners won't stop for anything. They run with blinders on. I remember Amby running with this kind of singular purpose even on our casual training runs together through the trails around Wesleyan campus. He was baffled how I could take in the scenery, how I could stop to pick up items I spotted on the side of the road. But I didn't think there was anything strange about this—observing the world around me was a large part of what made running so fun. There were no rules. You could run faster or slower or stop altogether to examine a strange, glittering object poking out of a babbling brook.

Of course, some will say that's all well and good so long as you're talking about a training run. After all, the stakes are nonexistent. But a serious competition is different; it requires a serious, intense, grit-your-teeth attitude. But running maniacally is a good way to burn yourself out. I think we run best when we are calm and relaxed; at least, that's what I've found. I focus better when I'm calm and relaxed. I have a better idea of what strategy to employ; I can hear what my body is telling me; I can hear what my opponent is telling me. Because marathon racing is so brutally competitive, so physically intense, so mentally challenging, it's imperative to keep your head. You need to maintain a clear picture of what's happening in the here and now.

I'm not sure the leader of the Boston Marathon has ever stopped to tie his shoes, let alone six miles from the finish line. But stopping to tie my shoes gave me a chance to collect myself. Then, a little farther along the ascent, I stopped for water. The crowd lost their mind.

“What are you doing?” they yelled out. “Keep going! Keep going!”

Meanwhile, up ahead on the lead vehicle, Jock Semple was having a small coronary. I didn't see what the big deal was. I hadn't taken a lot of water earlier in the day. Now I needed the water. I stopped because I was never skilled at getting a good swallow while running, and also I recalled my high school track days when I felt great after stopping for a cold drink of water partway through a workout.

I ran a little farther up the hill and then stopped again to drink another cup of water. By now, Jock was pulling out whatever hair he had left. I swear you could hear his near-hysterical voice over the cheers of thousands: “Git goin', lad. Yeev got a chance to break the record!”

Here was Jock giving me the word that I was on pace to break Ron Hill's course record. I just kind of let that go in one ear and out the other. I didn't care. For me it was all about first place. I was fired up. I was racing the lead vehicle. I knew I was running better than I had ever run before in my life. I felt moderately strong when I won the Philadelphia Marathon the previous year, but not like this. I was floating along without any wasted motion, my mind focused on the rhythm of my smooth stride. No hamstring cramps, not even the slightest of muscle twitches. No blisters. No sores. No fatigue. Everything was just—perfect. Nothing would stop me now. That's the way I felt.

The road was narrow and the cheering crowds were up close and personal as I charged up the granddaddy of all the Newton Hills. The fans formed a funnel, guiding me into the heart of downtown Boston. Running through that narrow stretch was very intense—like the Tour de France for marathoners. I loved that! It was frenzied, but that was part of the excitement. I didn't know what was going to happen. I wasn't thinking about what was going to happen. I was just racing.

In the end, I had stopped four times for water and once to secure an untied shoe along the stretch of Newton Hills even though I was leading the Boston Marathon, even though I was on a record pace, even though I had a crazed mob of fans imploring me to keep running, even though I was only six miles away from realizing my dream.

At the end of the day, it didn't matter what Amby thought or Charlie or Jock or all those thousands of people lining the street. I was going to decide when it was time to stop, not anybody else. Because, first of all, you can always stop. You can always decide here is where I need to take in the scenery, here is where I need to take a deep breath, here is where I need a cool sip of water, here is where I need to tie my shoes. And secondly, you know better what you need than all the people in the world combined. Let them call you crazy. They will anyway. Run your own race. I'll repeat that: Run your own race. Trust me, you will find much more success in life if you do. And you'll have a lot more fun along the way.

O
NE
Y
EAR
E
ARLIER

B
OSTON,
M
ASSACHUSETTS

It was the start of 1974. As they had for decades, iron-fisted governing bodies and backward-thinking race organizers controlled the sport of marathoning. Meanwhile, track guys dominated the races themselves. I was not a fast track guy. I was a road runner. More to the point, I was last in a long line of New England road runners. The tradition went all the way back to the early 1900s, to men like Clarence DeMar, Les Pawson, and Tarzan Brown. DeMar, who won seven Boston Marathons from 1911 through 1930, passed the torch to John “the Elder” Kelley, who passed it to Young Johnny Kelley, who passed it to Amby Burfoot. I was hoping to be the next to carry the flame.

How could you not run through the city streets with your head held high, knowing you were a direct descendent of such great men? Throw a million empty beer cans at my head as I run along the road in my gym shorts. Yell out the worst, most obscene words you can think of. Hassle me with your hulking vehicles. Denigrate my passion. This the thing I love more than anything in the world. Tell me it's worthless and idiotic. Tell me I'm wasting my time. Point out that there's no money in it. Tell me I'd be better off looking for a job. Tell me that my focus should be on making enough so that I could afford to buy a nice home, drive a big car, and take a vacation to Club Med once a year. Do all this. I'm still going to run ten miles before work. Better yet, I'm going to run another six miles when I get home.

That spring, I enrolled as a graduate student in special education. I had told my Greater Boston Track Club teammate Don Ricciato, who then worked at Boston College and is now director of the BC College Campus School, about how much I had enjoyed working with the mentally challenged people at the Fernald School. He encouraged me to enroll in the special education program at Boston College and used his contacts to set me up with the right people, for which I thank him. My dad spent his life teaching—it made sense that I would follow in his footsteps.

Even though I was never a great student, I felt like I'd be able to fit in my studies while I aimed for the Boston Marathon. For one thing, I lived close to campus, meaning I could train before and after classes. During school vacation, I was able put in two-hundred-mile weeks. At the tail end of the program, I became a student teacher. Everything was going well. Powerful changes were taking place in my life—on and off the road. I felt a sense of direction; I liked that feeling. I was getting somewhere.

It was the morning of my second Boston Marathon. Charlie, our house guest, and I woke up early, got into my banged-up Volkswagen Beetle, and headed to Hopkinton for the start of the race. For nineteen miles, I ran boldly with the lead pack but once again, Heartbreak Hill ate me up and spit me out. My old demons did me in. I had started out too fast, determined to break away with the front-runners without thinking whether I could sustain that speed for 26.2 miles. I wanted to show my competitors that I meant business, that I had the strength—and the mental will—to go as hard as they wanted. It didn't matter to me that the lead pack was on a smoking 2:11 pace for the first ten miles. If they wanted to run five-minute miles, I was game. I thought nothing of keeping tabs on my pace to make sure I was executing my tactical plan. At that point, my only tactic was outrunning the three guys next to me.

The truth is, I lost the race the moment I lost hold of my emotions, and that was probably the first or second mile. I got too excited, and that opened the door for my opponents to throw me off my game. Neil Cusack was snorting like a buffalo the whole way and it drove me nuts. No way was I going to let him or Tom Fleming drop me. I beat Fleming at the National Championships in Gloucester, I thought, I can beat him here.

Finally, around the eighteen-mile mark, I slowed to a 2:15 marathon pace, or 5:10 per mile. It was too late. I had sealed my fate in the early miles when I exerted more energy than I could afford. At mile 20 I ran out of gas. Dehydration set in. My legs seized up. And here comes Heartbreak Hill. I couldn't have timed it more perfectly.

By the time Charlie caught sight of me coming up Heartbreak Hill, I was in fourth place. But he didn't know the awful truth—I had been hit with a terrific hamstring cramp. I gritted my teeth and tried to push through, but my legs were seizing up on me. I tried massaging out the cramp. I tried walking. Nothing worked. I finally pulled off to the side of the road at the top of Heartbreak Hill. Same spot I dropped out the first time around. I must have stood there alone with my thoughts for two minutes. My mind recalled what this Irish marathoner had said to me, how the race can turn into a “crucifixion.” What do I do now? Should I try to finish? Was that even possible at this point?

Just then John Vitale came up alongside me. He encouraged me to get back into the race. You have no idea how hard is to set off again once you've stopped like that. I decided if there was a chance I could still finish, I had to take it. I started moving again and, mercy, mercy me, the cramps backed off and let go altogether. I finished fourteenth with a time of 2:19:34. In those days, if you could crack 2:20, you were considered to be a national-level marathoner. So I was glad I had stayed in the race until the end. The marathon is hard. You take your achievements where you can get them.

In retrospect, I should have pulled back and run at a more cautious pace. That's how Amby would have done it. Steady and methodical. Calm and composed. That's how you win a marathon. My way spelled certain doom. Reckless. Stubborn.

I had set my personal best time in the marathon, but I knew I could run faster. Runners are very seldom satisfied. They are always looking down the road. 2:19:34. That might win you a set of tires somewhere, but it wasn't going to earn you the laurel wreath at Boston. I vowed to improve, come back next year, and win.

How much faster would I have to run to become Boston Marathon champion? That year's winner, Irishman Neil Cusack, had crossed the finish line in 2:13:39. Tom Fleming, devastated after coming in runner-up for a second straight year, finished in 2:14:25. That meant in the next year I had to bring my time down by at least six minutes. But how? I suppose I could have told Ellen to pack up the cat, we're heading back to California. No, I couldn't blame the heat this time. My strength wasn't the problem, either. I was putting in 130 miles a week, wearing out the path around Jamaica Pond. I needed to make a change. That much I knew.

On a summer night in 1972, Tommy Leonard was working behind the bar of the Brothers Four in Falmouth, Massachusetts, a majestic little seaside village on the southwest of Cape Cod. Tommy all but ignored his patrons, too captivated by the action happening on the TV screen above the bar: Frank Shorter demolishing the field to win the Olympic marathon in Munich. Like every other running fan in the country at that moment, he promptly lost his mind with excitement. He made a promise that he'd host a road race in Falmouth so epic that even Frank Shorter, the newly crowned king of American running, would show up to compete.

Tommy was not your average bartender. He was the eternal optimist. People were eager to be in his presence because he always left you with a smile. He opened the Eliot Lounge within shouting distance from the Boston Marathon finish line. Tommy Leonard stories had you rolling on the floor. He ran his high school track championship, hungover, still wearing his tuxedo pants from the senior prom the night before. One day, while bartending at the Eliot, he served White Russians to a police horse. He also used to always have a beer waiting for Red Sox pitcher “Spaceman” Bill Lee, who would walk over from the ballpark in his cleats during rain delays. He offered free beer to anybody who finished the 1973 Boston Marathon and brought in their bib number.