Marathon Man by Bill Rodgers

Author:Bill Rodgers
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

ELEVEN

San Blas

APRIL 21, 1975

NEWTON HILLS, MASSACHUSETTS

I had reached the Newton Hills, which I’ve called the most significant stretch of course in the racing world. The Fukuoka course in Japan had some major spots, but to me, nothing identified the challenge and beauty of marathoning more than this section of the Boston Marathon. When I said that I was thinking about Johnny Kelley and Tarzan Brown battling through the hills in 1936 with Brown shockingly surging past Kelley on the final climb, “breaking his heart.” Boston wouldn’t be Boston without the hills.

I charged up the first ascent in the Killer Chain. I was about to discover whether or not I had run smart up until now. Had I done a good job of pacing myself and reserved enough energy for the tough inclines looming before me? Or had I failed to keep my stride in check over the first eighteen miles, started out too fast, overextended my muscles, underhydrated my body?

Twice before, I had run out of gas on the steeps. Twice before, I had dropped out on the side of the road. Twice before, I had run with reckless abandon, thumbing my nose at the heat. Twice before, Mother Nature got the last laugh. Twice before, I thought I had the training under my belt to finish strong. Twice before, I was dead wrong.

Here’s the thing: Both times I didn’t realize I was in trouble until it was too late. All the little mistakes you make—not just during the early part of the race, but sometimes before ever walking out the door (you didn’t eat a big enough breakfast), or the night before (nerves kept you from getting much sleep), or weeks earlier (you decided to taper down your training miles too early; you didn’t prepare for running in the heat; you brushed off that minor discomfort in your big toe)—accumulate out of sight into one giant ball of hurt.

It’s only when you are at your most vulnerable, when your body is running low on fuel, perhaps at mile twenty, just where Heartbreak Hill begins, this giant ball of hurt strikes as hard and as swift as a meteor. (As Olympic marathoner John Farrington once said: “Marathoning is like cutting yourself unexpectedly. You dip into the pain so gradually that the damage is done before you are aware of it. Unfortunately, when awareness comes, it is excruciating.”) Suddenly, three miles from the finish line, your body is wracked with cramps, your legs are locked up, and you’re mumbling to yourself, can I make it to the finish line?

I climbed the second of the Newton Hills—it felt much like the first hill, just closer to the finish line. As I churned along with nineteen miles already on my legs, the ever-enlarging crowds pressed into the road. A sub five-minute pace won’t set any NASCAR records, but I was moving.

For a long time, my eyes bore down on the back of the lead vehicle, always ten feet ahead of me. If I was a stalking tiger, the big heavy vehicle was my prey.

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