Track & Field News, September, 1982
Jon Sinclair. Jon Sinclair. Jon Sinclair. Sinclair, Jon. No matter how you say it, the name doesn’t exactly jump in your face and demand attention. Even the ‘h” has deserted. What do you expect? This is clearly a case of Beaver Cleaver meets Rodney Dangerfield.
Looking like Huckleberry Finn’s younger brother, Sinclair has been known best – if known at all – for running really well to finish in second place. All of that is changing now. Jon Sinclair is a winner.
Independence Day set Sinclair free, as the Peachtree 10K, with its cast of thousands was the site of Jon’s biggest win. His 28:17 was an equal 4th fastest ever by an American, earned him $5000 and served eloquently to notify the world the former Colorado Stater is now a major force on the road circuit.
Sinclair’s performances no longer beg for attention, they demand it. The 25-year-old Sinclair himself is less willing to seek notoriety. “I know I don’t look like America’s idea of a great athlete,” admit the 5-7/127 lbs. pavement pounder.
“I get carded everywhere I go. I have to practically carry my birth certificate if I want a glass of wine with dinner” he admits. “When my wife and I go out on the town, we look like we’re on our way to the senior prom.” We should all be so youthful and speedy.
“Hey, I’m not a big star,” he disclaims. “I’m just a guy who can move his feet quicker than most people.” Ain’t that the truth.
Sinclair’s epic duel with Mike Musyoki at the Cascade RunOff a week before Peachtree might have been another bridesmaid placing, but it was also a 15-kilometer personal record of 43:14. Jon pocketed $6000 there, which is eleven grand eight days for a guy who can still appreciate the value of a dollar.
In a world of under-the-table appearance fees, an unknown, regardless of his ability, doesn’t exactly spend all his leisure time managing investments. And above-the-table paychecks haven’t yet proved that lucrative. “I finally got some of my money back from [the national federation],” Sinclair says. “Of course, they also sent a bill saying I owed them more.”
Sinclair first achieved a modicum of national attention when he won the USA Cross Country Championships in 1980. The victory – wouldn’t you know it? – was somewhat tainted because it occurred at altitude over mushy terrain. The diminutive Sinclair, who lives at altitude in Fort Collins, Colorado, won in a slow time. Everyone left Pocatello and promptly forgot about the event. “I didn’t expect a lot from my victory,” he confirms, “but I said before the race I thought I could win. I say to this day that I could have won it at sea level, anywhere. I was fit and everything clicked.”
Everything seems to be clicking currently, because even when Jon fails to finish first, he still finishes strongly. One reason for his consistency is coach Damien Koch, a former Oregon distance runner.
“He’s really been a big help,” Sinclair explains. “A big reason for my recent success is that Damien’s given me direction. I have always done intervals, for example, but always aimlessly. There was never any plan, no real purpose. Now we know what we did last week and what we need to do next.”
One thing Sinclair needed was rest, and he took it in August. Oh, he still lifted weights, particularly to ameliorate a chronic problem with chondromalacia. And he daily swam up to a half-mile. And he still ran, averaging 90 miles weekly. “If I go over 100, it’s only accidental,” he points out. “I do make most of it as intense as possible.”
But he did rest, particularly from the competitive rewards that accompany any race for first place. “I had a good enough spring to last me for a while,” he notes, almost with a sigh. “I nearly went into hyper-warp back then, so I thought I’d better take a break.”
Such respite allows him to rekindle the bright flame of greatness which glows in an athlete of his caliber. The rest allows him to go for the win at the upcoming Maple Leaf Half-Marathon and Virginia 10-Miler. Both are scheduled. And the New York City Marathon?
“Uh, well,” he begins, measuring each word carefully, as if Salazar, Dixon and Beardsley might overhear. “I don’t want to run unless I am fit enough to win. My 2:13:29 [to win Bank One in 1981, in his serious debut at the distance] was run on no training, so I’m sure I can run faster. I would plan on going under 2:10,” he continues, still allowing dozing marathoners to lie undisturbed. “I think I can run with anybody. No one intimidates me.”
He means it, fully realizing the truly top guys don’t lose a great deal of sleep worrying about him either. But that’s the way it has always been for Jon Sinclair, and it doesn’t bother him anymore. He knows he is a superior athlete, he knows his peers recognize his ability. That is enough.
And if he does run New York and places, say, third in 2:09:19, in front of a million spectators and a national television audience… his parrot will still screech in his ear and his wife will still ask him to take out the trash.
When Opie leaves Mayberry and meets reality.
Some thirteen years later. Jon Sinclair, identity secure, was still getting it done at age thirty-eight and I was along for the ride.