Opening lines to my 1981 Boston Marathon Diary.
Thursday, April 16. As Northwestern’s Flight 46 entered its approach pattern over Boston’s Logan Airport, the pilot’s voice crackled – in the obligatory Texan accent – “The temperature in Boston is currently fifty-five degrees, with winds from the west gusting to thirty miles per hour.”
Does Rodgers really think this weather will hold until 2:15 p.m. Monday? Does Seko care? (Seko must care, as he is said to be considering withdrawal if the temperature is higher than 68.)
Friday, April 17. The area around the Prudential Center begins to fill with Midwestern attorneys wearing polyester suits and running shoes. Overpriced magazines, published especially for this race, discuss the fact Grete Waitz “almost certainly won’t even run [Boston] this year.”
Another magazine confides that Alberto Salazar “is not expected to run because of a prior commitment to compete in the USC-UCLA-Stanford track & field meet on the West Coast.” Something about that doesn’t seem right.
Lines are already forming outside Dunkin’ Donuts and The Spaghetti House as carbohydrate-deprived runners embark on a vein-clogged rationale for all those winter miles.
A favorite watering hole has become a gay bar since last year’s race and a male runner is on his second beer before he notices there are no women to fantasize about.
The weather is still great for marathon racing.
Decades later. Early January. A cold front blows down from the north. About global warming, the old man wasn’t certain but he was convinced climate change was real. Snow storms didn’t used to have names.
The young redhead tee-peed his bikes with yellow crime scene tape after she heard about his herniated unit. Heal quick, honey, she’d said with a wink.
Didn’t do quick much any more. But what a glorious day. He headed into the wind, uphill, feeling fresh, like the breeze washing him clean. At the crest, looking down a long empty straightaway, two words came to mind: RACE DAY.
What he would give to run a marathon personal best just once more. Make an excellent old television drama. Probably explode at the finish line. Oh, wait, this is better. There is no finish line, so you can’t set a PR. You just keep running off into The Twilight Zone.
The old man walked, face lifted to the sun.
There are days, his mother had said, when, if you don’t look in the mirror, you would have no idea how old you are.
Cold. Overcast. Good day for a runner to explore. The old man leaned into the wind and remembered another race day. 10th Annual Trail’s End Marathon. Seaside, Oregon. February 24, 1979.
He was tall and he was lean and he was fit. Needed a qualifying time for Boston. At his age, needed a sub-3:00-hour marathon. Sorta out and back, sorta real flat, he’d run the race before. 2:59:59 shouldn’t be much of a problem.
Remember waking. Dark stinging darts, sheets of lateral rain and strong, strong, gusty winds from the south. Race heads north and everybody takes off like a bat out of hell from the gun. Oh, yeah. Sweet tailwind. Remember thinking, those poor bastards have never run that fast before. You’re gonna have to turn around halfway. Save some energy.
Nobody listened. He ran negative splits, faster into the headwinds. Felt like Prefontaine, racing through a crowd of stumbling zombies. 2:59:44. Good for 214th. Okay, he had to push some the last ten kilometers. Didn’t leave himself much cushion.
He remembered sitting in a hotel room, next to the finish line. Beer in hand, showered and dressed in full-length red nylon by Frank Shorter Sports, he scanned out the big picture window. Which rattled. His initial wife chose this race day to run her first marathon. She made it. One of the slower zombies. He was so proud of her. They divorced shortly thereafter.
The old man was listening to Brave New World. Remembered enjoying the book in college. What’s not to like about ubiquitous sex and drugs and STABILITY.
“Ending is better than mending…. The more stitches, the less riches.”
All the book meant now was a prescient warning, apt and current.
He walked on.