14 Minutes by Alberto Salazar

Author:Alberto Salazar
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rodale
Published: 2012-04-06T04:00:00+00:00

At the 17-mile mark—the beginning of the hills—the lead pack had dwindled to two: Beardsley and me. Dick stepped to the lead and the racing began. He would surge for a quarter-mile or half-mile, then back off, trying to gap me. I just stayed right on his shoulder. Then I would offer a similar ante, surging for 30 or 40 seconds. It was an idea I’d gotten from watching the Australian marathoner Derek Clayton, whose marathon WR I had bettered: Go hard for 200 meters, then ease up; a little later, surge again, but this time for 400 meters, catching your opponent off guard. But Beardsley always kept a step ahead of me. We blasted along at a sub-2:10 pace. Due to the heat, this probably wouldn’t be a world-record day, but our time would likely be world class. The sun was at our backs, and he could watch my shadow move on the pavement.

All I knew of Beardsley at the time was that he was from Minnesota and had a background in dairy farming. He was under contract with New Balance, making his living as a journeyman road racer, competing almost every weekend, and running frequent marathons. Now, as the late miles unreeled, as Heartbreak Hill came and went, as the crowds grew thicker and louder as we approached downtown Boston, and as Dick stubbornly hung on a half step ahead of me, I saw that I’d underestimated him. He showed no signs of breaking. He still ran with a light, fluid stride; a more efficient stride than mine. The crowd roared, and even though most of the cheers were for me, the hometown boy, I could tell that Beardsley also drew strength from the din. Everybody in Boston that day realized they were witnessing something special: two men going at each other with the intensity and ferocity of heavyweight fighters.

Dick ran the race of a lifetime, pushing the world record holder, whom he’d been keying on all winter. Meanwhile, I drew my strength from an opposite source: from my conviction that today was just one of many in my career; that it was my destiny to win; that it was impossible for me to lose. The numbers didn’t lie—they couldn’t lie. I was still the fastest man in the race. In my mind, I was toying with Beardsley—testing him. When the time came to put him away, I had no doubt I was up to it.

As it turned out, Beardsley hung on like a bulldog until the end, until we took the course’s final turn and I finally broke in front of him. There was a lot of confusion on the course, way too many cops on motorcycles, and later people would say that the motorcycles inadvertently cut off Beardsley and blocked him from catching up with me. That may be so, but I’d plotted my finishing move well before the motorcycles closed in, and even if Dick had rallied to catch me, I’m convinced there was no way he could have stayed with me.

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