Leading the Boston Marathon
RUNNING SCARED
There's only one thing more powerful than the desire to win the Boston Marathon: The fear of losing it.
PUBLISHED 03/24/2008
Eighteen miles into the 1968 Boston Marathon, I looked up and didn't see another runner on the road ahead. Not one. I had dreamed every night for years about winning Boston. And now I was almost there. I had just turned the corner at the Newton fire station and begun the run eastward on hilly, serpentine Commonwealth Avenue. Ahead, thick crowds edged onto the road--grandparents and their children and their children's children--shading their eyes and peering at the colorful stream of runners, all 890 of us. Three motorcycle policemen led the moving spectacle, and a photo truck, and a yellow school bus containing the Boston press.
For five years, I had set myself the singular goal of winning Boston. I ran up to 175 miles a week, entered every road race I could find, broke down on occasion, as all runners do, but then resurrected myself and trained even harder. Always with Boston as the focal point. If I could hold on, my name would go into the record book with the likes of Clarence DeMar, Les Pawson, Tarzan Brown, Gerard Cote, "Old John" A. Kelley, and my coach-mentor, "Young John" J. Kelley, the 1957 winner.
Only one thing stood between me and a Boston victory--the shadowy specter that was stalking me. I couldn't hear him, only my own desperate breathing. Couldn't see him, for he was a stride back. But when I glanced down at my feet, I saw two dark shapes--my own, tall and angular. And my pursuer's--shorter, more compact, with arms that pumped more vigorously than mine.
I had come so far. I was so close. I had given so much. I was a 21-year-old senior at Wesleyan University in Middletown, Connecticut, who in four years of college had set new records for dullness. Hit a Saturday night keg party? No way. I detested beer and, more importantly, had to rouse myself at 6:30 for the ritual Sunday morning 20-miler. A weekend skiing trip? Not a chance. Skiers twisted their knees and broke their ankles and risked countless other injuries. Go on a simple dinner or movie date? Not those either. I had no time for flirtations or anything that might muck up my marathon ambitions.
As we reached the first of the three hills on Commonwealth, I drove myself harder. Sweat flew from my forehead. My throat was dry and scratchy, the sun having targeted us from the start, producing a perilous dehydration. Like other marathons in those days, Boston offered no water stops. I reached the top in a near swoon, but the extra shadow was still there. Moments later we started up the second hill, and I dug deeper, gritting my teeth with each stride. Nothing changed. The haunt stuck with me--silent, apparently effortless, mocking my furious exertions.
That left only the third and last hill--the storied Heartbreak Hill. It was longer, steeper, and deadlier than the others, peaking at the 21-mile mark--beyond The Wall, beyond the marathoner's last reserves, deep in the zone of zombie running.
In my youthful racing career, I had already lost scores of races at the end, outkicked by others with superior speed. Every time I ran the mile, I led for three laps, then the field sprinted around me. Same thing in the two-mile, only it was worse because I would lead for seven laps before the floodgates opened. I found some solace in road racing with its longer distances--10 miles, 20-K, and beyond. But I lost even those races when another runner tailed me to the final yards before blowing past. This Boston Marathon was feeling far too familiar.
Worse still, I knew my shadowy rival's name, Bill Clark, and he knew mine, and we both knew he would beat me. Clark, 24, was one of those distance runners I envied for their speed. He could run a 4:06 mile--much faster than my best--and had marathon endurance as well. I was in deep trouble.
My day hadn't begun well either. After passing the "physical exam" in the Hopkinton High School gym and picking up my race number (17), I headed for the locker room patrolled by de facto race director Jock Semple. I had changed there the year before, thanks to my friendship with John J. Kelley, Semple's prot&eactue;gé. The year before was when Semple gained worldwide infamy for attempting to bulldoze Kathrine Switzer off the course.
That was the very same Semple I encountered as I swung open the locker-room door. With head down, he charged me: "Oh, fer Chrissakes, will you git the hell outta my locker rhume." At the last second, he looked up. "Oh, Ammmby, Ammmby. It's okay, Ammmby. C'mon in."
Get free training tips and advice delivered right to your inbox!
