Marathon Man (42 page)

Although Ellen and I owned sixty percent of the company's stock, I wasn't very hands-on. I was focused on running and winning races. My head-to-head battles with Shorter generated huge amounts of national press coverage. While the media often overstated the personal nature of our rivalry, I was thrilled that our sport was finally getting the attention it deserved. With everybody from newscasters to race directors billing us as the Ali/Frazier of running, a record number of people were brought into the sport, and many themselves started competing in road races, and local running clubs sprung up overnight.

Amby said of Shorter: “He was the Olympic champion, a little more distant and imperial than Bill, but Bill was the champion of races that the people themselves ran in—Boston and New York and Falmouth. He literally reached out and touched people, like God on Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel, and that was a big part of the spark that created the running boom.” In 1976, an estimated 25,000 people finished a marathon in the United States. In 1980, that number ballooned to 143,000. By 2009, that number had jumped to 467,000, an increase of 1,768 percent.

After I beat Shorter at the New York City Marathon in 1976, the scales started to tip in my favor. At that point, he had done three more years of hard racing than I had. That's because he kept running after college, whereas I retired to fully enjoy the Boston nightlife with Jason. I think some of the wear and tear from those extra years started to take their toll. He suffered some injuries that slowed him down. He still remained a force, but I don't know if he ever beat me again. I don't think he did.

We didn't really know each other as people, and I think that kind of enhanced the rivalry. Later we both had stores and clothing lines and that bolstered our competition. I think the nature of our sport also stoked the flames. The marathon is a “tremendous glory or complete destruction” event. In the Olympic 10K, you never see people collapsing five times in the final lap and getting dragged across the finish line by officials, which is what happened to Italy's Dorando Pietri in the 1908 London games. Also, there was a certain amount of bombast and ego floating around with the marathoners. This is like heavyweight boxing a little bit, boxing without touching each other. Mental exertion without fisticuffs.

We might have been bitter rivals in the eyes of the world, but in the end, we joined together to fight for better treatment for American runners—that meant prize money, so that a runner could train full-time and compete with the rest of the world. The governing bodies of the time fought us tooth and nail but in 1981, at the Cascade Run Off, America's best distance runners came together to openly revolt against the Olympic Federation, racing for prize money. History had been made. We had finally come out of the Dark Ages and into the light.

In 1976, I had trained hard for the Olympic trials and came close to knocking off the Olympic champion there—seven seconds back. How could I
not
get a medal at the Olympics? Finishing in fortieth place was a wake-up call: I couldn't count on anything in this sport. Nobody could. I had to strike while the iron was hot, make my mark while I was in my physical prime.

New York was the beginning of a five-year stretch of big victories, during which time I finally dethroned Shorter at the top. I traveled to Japan to race at Fukuoka, the race I had always dreamed of winning. Frank Shorter had won the race an incredible four times while this was only my second time I'd gotten an invitation. I knew the challenge wouldn't be coming from Shorter that day, but rather from the USSR's Leonid Moseyev and Massimo Magnani of Italy. Both men had beaten me soundly in the Olympics. Japan's best hope was a pair of twin brothers—Shigeru and Takeshi So. The Japanese put a lot of pressure on them to win Fukuoka and their pictures were in all the newspapers. The other top American was my pal Tom Fleming.

Fleming and I broke away to an early lead. Around six miles in, I turned to Fleming and said, “I'm going to pick it up a little. Do you want to come with me?” He shot back, “Are you crazy, Rodgers?” I made the surge, but failed to shake the lead pack.

Mile after mile, the competition was breathing down my neck. I was running a scorching 2:08:40 pace as I hit the halfway point. The pressure of being in the lead was wearing me down. I peered over my shoulder and saw Moseyev and Takeshi So stalking me. It irritated me.

When Takeshi fell back, the Japanese spectators standing along the route went dead silent. But as they watched me give it everything I got, the chorus of cheers for me gradually grew louder and louder. Then an incredible thing happened. The crowds that lined the streets erupted into cheers of “Rodgers-san! Go hard, Rodgers-san!” I practically had tears in my eyes as I roared along the ancient coastline.

I saw Moseyev wearing his little hat. It was the same hat he had worn on that day in Montréal when he'd beaten me. Flashing back in my mind to Montréal spurred a feeling of extreme feistiness. Here we are again. But this time, the results would be different. The cries of “Rodgers-san” continued to ring out from the crowd as I flew past.

When I reached Heiwadai Stadium, I stopped for water. The crowd of Japanese spectators looked stunned. But I felt the same way I did at Boston in 1975 when I stopped three times for water on my way to victory. It was my way of celebrating and saying, “I worked hard to get to this point. I had to use a lot of energy to break this far away from the pack. It's time to take a drink.”

As I stood there calmly drinking the cup of water, I could hear firecrackers going off inside the stadium. I entered the stadium, did a lap around the track, and crossed the finish line in a time of 2:10:56. Sometimes you get great days in the marathon and everything comes together. This was one of them.

To win Fukuoka was a great honor. I valued it as much as winning either Boston or New York, and winning it made me the first and only runner to win all three. Fukuoka is a prestige race. It is a Mecca for serious runners. In those days, it was the race that top marathoners dreamed most of winning, other than the Olympic marathon. Frank Shorter's ability to win Fukuoka four consecutive times perhaps speaks more of his greatness than even his gold medal at Munich. The best used to always compete in Fukuoka, but not anymore. This saddens me.

To celebrate my victory, Ellen and I attended a party at the Nishitetsu Grand Hotel that evening. We'd all thrown a party to raise money to send Tommy Leonard, the spiritual leader of our running club, to Fukuoka along with me. Tommy, who had probably had a few beers by then, bounded toward the stage and started singing “You Are My Sunshine.” One by one, we all started joining in. After that, it became a tradition for runners to sing songs from their homeland. I remember watching Leonid Moseyev and his coach singing a depressing Russian folk song and seeing Lasse Virén howling with laughter. Leave it to Tommy to start a new tradition halfway across the world.

We spent a night in Tokyo, flew to Honolulu, and spent a week relaxing in the warm sunshine. I even tried surfing at Waikiki. I needed to learn how to ride those big waves.

That April I won my second Boston, finishing eighteen seconds off my American record, and the second-fastest Boston time. In six months time, I had won the three major marathons—Boston, New York, and Fukuoka. Nobody had ever achieved this Triple Crown.

Amby pointed out that to make it an official sweep I had to do it all in the same calendar year. The media made a big deal over the quest to win Boston, New York, and Fukuoka all in the same year. While that never happened, over the next year or so I won forty-five of the fifty serious road races I entered, stringing together a streak of twenty-two consecutive victories on the roads in 1978. On the track in Boston that August, I also set the American records for fifteen kilometers (43:39.8), twenty kilometers (58:15), and for the one-hour run, a world record (1:14:12).

I slaked my thirst—my Olympic thirst—at Boston and New York. Between 1977 and 1980, I won four straight times in New York, three more times at Boston, and three times was ranked the world's top marathoner. In all, I won eighteen of the twenty-nine marathons I entered, and ran nine sub-2:12 marathons.

I felt like a pioneer, trying to take marathoning to a place where it hadn't been before, particularly in terms of the large number of high-quality international races that I ran. I probably overraced, to the chagrin of my de facto manager, Ellen. I didn't rest my body much in those days, and didn't start getting massages two times a week until the eighties. But I felt the true measure of a marathoner was continued success racing on a global scale. Perhaps what I admired most about Frank Shorter was that he proved his greatness, not that one time in Munich, but sustained a level of excellence over years. I won significant marathons on five continents; Frank on at least four. I had less respect for somebody, perhaps from the track side of the sport, who entered the marathon to see if he could win it once. For me, consistency was the ultimate mark of a marathon champion.

Does winning marathons on five different continents mean as much for today's marathon runners? I don't think so. The dynamics have changed. The money is bigger. The big five—New York, Boston, London, Chicago, and Berlin—will always draw runners back because of the big purses. But I think it would be worth it for some of our top American runners, like Ryan Hall, Deena Kastor, or Shalane Flanagan, to go to places like Fukuoka, Japan. Alberto went. I take my hat off to Alberto for doing that. Alberto knew what the sixty-seven-year-old race stood for—long before marathons began popping up in every big city around the world, there was Boston and Fukuoka. To this day, Shorter and I are the only Americans who've won it, but I'd love to see others race Fukuoka because it's a great, historical race that reflects Japan's long love affair with the marathon. I don't care what anyone says, Fukuoka is the equal of any marathon in the world.

I think about all the failures in my life. Each one set me up for an even greater success. I was destroyed after dropping out of my first Boston Marathon in 1973; I returned two years later and broke the American record. I was torn apart by my fortieth-place finish at Montréal; I rebounded and beat Frank Shorter at the New York City Marathon in 1976. I suffered another painful dropout in Boston in 1977; I erased that bad memory by climbing the winner's podium the next three years in a row, breaking my own American record in 1979. My career as a marathoner taught me much—but perhaps nothing more important than to never surrender. Never quit. Always keep moving forward. But if resilience was the one trait that ensured my success as a marathoner, it was also the one quality I would need most in the months ahead.

After my Boston Marathon victory in 1979, I was off and running toward my next big goal: the 1980 Moscow Olympics. I knew it would be my last chance to set things right after bombing out so badly in Montréal—my last opportunity for redemption. I was thirty-one years old and determined to make the most out of the physical strength I possessed, and resolved to make the most of my remaining days at the top.

When I didn't have a race to travel to, I woke up early each morning, had a cup of coffee, drove down to the store, and from there went out on a ten-mile run. Most days a couple of the guys from the store would go with me. Even Ellen joined me for three or four miles. I'd still run around my old stomping grounds, Jamaica Pond. Other times I'd run along the Charles River or the crowded sidewalks of Beacon Hill. As I glided through the city streets, my shoes striking the ground, my hair bouncing with each stride, people would shout out to me, “Win gold in Moscow, Billy!” Their calls of support pushed me to run harder and faster.

I kept a journal with information on my main Olympic contenders—Drayton, Shorter, Cierpinski, Moseyev, and Bjorklund. Over the past two years, I had raced and beat them all. This gave me great confidence. Of course, I knew Seko would be my main challenger. He had won Fukuoka; I had won Boston. The stage was set for an Olympic showdown. I couldn't wait.

Then I heard the news: President Carter announced we would be boycotting the Summer Games as a protest of the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. I thought back to my trip to the White House; I had hit it off with President Carter. I left that night with a positive impression of him; I admired his sincerity, his straightforwardness and honesty. But I didn't see what he was hoping to gain with his decision.

On April 12, 1980, the U.S Olympic Committee voted by secret ballot to endorse President Carter's boycott, effectively killing my dream of winning an Olympic medal. All I ever wanted was a chance to come home with a medal. It was the only thing I felt was missing. I thought, If I get that medal, I'll retire. Happily. I was devastated. My heart was broken. Only this time I couldn't blame a hill in Newton.

Through my life, I've been branded a radical, but I only ever did what I thought was right. I spoke out against the Vietnam War because I felt it was immoral, unjust, and not good for the country. I tried to organize a union among the hospital orderlies because of the cruel labor practices I witnessed. I protested on behalf of the mentally disabled patients of the Fernald school, and later, the Hale School in Everett, because I felt they deserved to be treated with understanding; I brought them outdoors because I thought they should taste the joy of freedom. I fought against the AAU because, like Prefontaine, I felt runners should be treated equal to athletes in all other sports. And now I spoke out against the boycott because I felt the Olympics should transcend politics and unite in friendship all the people of the world, in spite of their cultural, religious, or political differences. I didn't think it was right for athletes to be used as pawns in a political chess match between nations. Maybe I was radical.

I loved to run and compete. I was driven to be the best distance runner on the planet. That, and the allure of bigger appearance fees, pushed me to run more and more races. My busy schedule was taking me to marathons in Europe and Asia. By now, I was squeezing in training runs during layovers, whisking back and forth on airport access roads for two hours. One time I ran around the six hundred-meter loop of a Vietnamese zoo. I had no choice. I had to keep to my usual twenty-mile-per-day training schedule, which had become increasingly hard, between the escalating demands of TV and magazine interviews, running clinics, speaking engagements, and charitable visits to local hospitals. The clothing line kept growing more popular, and dealers who carried my running gear wanted me to make appearances at their stores.