I first visited the Boston Marathon in 1973. The BAA’s 77th. The best-selling book was Jonathan Livingston Seagull. I came to run my second marathon, having qualified (3:22:03) five or six weeks earlier. My training partner was a Connecticut State Senator, so the Senate President greased our way into a couple of rooms at the Parker House. Nice place.
The Senator and I started a tradition of going to a nearby movie theatre the night before racing. Last Tango In Paris gave a young husband an entirely new perspective on butter.
That was probably the year Howard Cosell came into the Hopkinton High School gym where we were awaiting the start. “No autographs,” he announced, “No autographs.” Which we thought was odd, because nobody was asking him for his signature. Mr. Cosell seemed needy.
Record number of entrants – 1574, including a record number of women. Twelve.
Jon Anderson and Jackie Hansen won the race.
In her post-race interview, the future world-record holder said, “My hope is that someday we’ll have a women’s marathon in the Olympics.”
Page 28, Volume II of my training diary.
Monday. April 16. Patriot’s Day. Wgt. 162 PR 43
Well, today’s the day. Don’t feel bad, don’t feel good. Still feel fat and haven’t taken a decent shit in two days. Which may explain the feeling.
7 a.m. Temp is 50 degrees with southwesterly winds 15-20 mph. Temp expected to near 70 during marathon.
Now that’s really something to look forward to.
Today was the hottest April 16th in Boston this century. 79 degrees.
Seemed hotter. The heat was unbelievable as this was probably the first time I’ve run in temps over 55 since last October.
Finished 498th out of 1398 registered starters. (Many started who were not registered.) With bandits, probably 1600 runners toed the line.
Which took almost two minutes for me to reach.
I passed 10 miles in 69:45, but began to lose it soon after.
Walked part way up Heartbreak Hill, which I reached about 2 1/2 hours out (approx.); just didn’t see any percentage in trying to run up that thing just then.
Started to pick up the pace a little at 22m (BIG MISTAKE!) and ran completely out of gas at 24 miles. Struggled in with some walking – quite destroyed.
Took me 14 hours to recover from nausea, headache, chills, diarrhea, stomach pain & some other stuff.
Bottom line: I ran a 3:19:43 PR on a scorching day, the first day of a hot summer after a winter’s worth of cold training. And I did it at Boston.
As many of you might by now be aware, I have major memory problems. I don’t remember returning to Boston again until 1979. I still have the bib number: 2566.
There was not an African runner anywhere to be seen. A 2:25 flat time was only good for 130th place.
Race results have me finishing in 2:53:16. Much faster than years earlier, finishing much further back as the running boom was in full swing. I can still hear the roar as I strode through the estrogen cloud of the Wellesley gauntlet.
A few runners fell into a pile when they slipped on a pile of horse shit. Mounted police did an otherwise admirable job of controlling the huge crowds.
For the next few hours, I walked up stairs backwards, as my quadriceps were too pounded to lift my legs.
In 1981, I arrived Thursday on Northwestern’s Flight 146. Friday, I went to a favorite watering hole and was on my second beer before I realized the joint had become a gay bar.
Saturday, I went for a walk and saw seven different “official” Boston Marathon t-shirts. I bumped into Bill Rodgers as I was leaving the Expo. Warned him not to go in there – it was a three-ring circus. He didn’t heed my advice.
Sunday. More madness, more commercialism, more pastry, more sugar, more pasta. More sun. Less sleep.
Monday. The disgruntled Boston police department had threatened a blockade and the mayor of Newton had denied the proper permit. But the race would happen The Boston Globe printed the names and numbers of all 6845 official entrants. Some 14 helicopters gave Hopkinton an Apocalypse Now ambiance.
I watched most of the race in Room 1256 of the Sheraton. Two other journalists sat in that plastic room, switching between three television stations and one radio. Both of the other writers were actually somewhat famous. But none of us could get on the press vehicle. Which was okay because this was the first year you couldn’t actually see the race from the press vehicle.
1983. “A ridiculous time,” that’s what a race announcer said when Joan Benoit crossed the finish in a world record 2:22:43. How ridiculous? Well, since WWII, Boston’s men’s race had been won ten times with slower times than Joanie’s. Heck, Amby Burfoot’s winning time in 1968 was only 25 seconds faster.
I had dinner a couple nights earlier with Greg Meyer, who won the men’s race. I don’t remember that dinner, but I do remember Greg picked up the tab for me.
2013. I wasn’t there, but many, many of my friends were. Some had just left the finish line area moments before the bombs’ blasts tore apart dozens and dozens of innocent bystanders. I may have forgotten races run, but this is one race which will never be forgotten by any of us.
As 8-year-old Martin Richard told us after the Newtown massacre, we must “stop hurting people. Peace.”
Some years I was just visiting