Bob Hodge has written Tales Of The Times: A Runner’s Story.
Here’s a chunk I picked out at random. The book’s a treasure, feels like you’re just having a beer or two and telling lies that are true. – JDW
1973
“Bob, what was the toughest race for you? Probably Mt. Washington, right? Or Boston?”
Every race is tough, preparation is the key but sometimes circumstances conspire to make a race extraordinarily difficult.
My senior year of high school, everything seemed to fall into place for me relative to my first three years. I felt a lot more comfortable in my own skin, grown up or what have you. My class schedule was a breeze and I had a scholarship offer to a Junior College in Providence, though I was not one hundred percent certain I would go or look for a job in the Lowell area. At least I would be done with high school.
During the Outdoor Track Season, I was running very well. On the night before the Essex Conference Meet where I would run the two mile I went out to dinner with my parents at a local Restaurant in Dracut called The Haven. It was an old timey place where it looked like nothing had changed since 1920. I ordered the fisherman’s platter for some reason; normally I would have had a burger or some pasta. We had a nice evening but as it went I felt some heaviness in my stomach like a bloated feeling and remember thinking it would pass. I went off to bed early, only to wake up hyperventilating, with an itchy rash and sweat pouring out of me.
I went to the bathroom and hugged the toilet bowl. It makes me queasy just remembering. I suffered all night but finally slept a bit and then woke up nauseous and dizzy unsteady on my feet. The rash was gone, and my breathing was easier. I left my parents sleeping and headed to Cawley Stadium to catch the bus to the meet. On the bus ride I felt real queasy and car sick, but I said nothing. Everyone was pensive, so nothing seemed too unusual to my friends and teammates.
When we got to the meet I approached my coach Mr. Lang to tell him I was not feeling well but still planned to run. “Were you out drinking last night knucklehead?” “No, Coach, I would never do that before a big meet, I had dinner with my parents and got sick.”
He looked pissed. You see, just a week before, my friend Emo and I went to The Old Worthen Tavern in Lowell and were served our first ever beers. We were 17 and the legal age then was 18. While we were there, Mr. Lang came in and we tried to avoid him seeing us, but I think he did and just never said anything to us at least not yet. My main competitor I was concerned about was Sully from St. John’s Prep. He had not previously beaten me, but we had a few close battles. On my warm-up I went through the motions.
I sat down to put on my spikes, red suede Puma’s with white Velcro straps. This process always put me into my racing mindset, holy mindset, off to war, mindset, but today, nothing. I tried a few strides on the track and found that my spike length was too long for this track. My spikes were sticking into it to the extent that I had to pull my foot out. I kept tripping and had to make adjustments to my stride, just to stay on my feet. We lined up and the gun blasted us on our way.
It was a rare day when I did not go straight to the front and push the pace but today the pace was modest, and I was just hanging on. Coach Lang not one to have demonstrative outburst was in his accustomed position at the finish line area but had his back to the track not watching at all. I hated the idea of letting him down when he thought I had done something stupid and something began to come over me.
Perhaps it just took a few laps to shake out, I pulled wide and made a play for the lead. It hurt, a lot. Nothing felt right, I was working way too hard. I pushed onward and soon only Sully was with me. On the last lap I was wambling, expecting the field to blow by me but Sully’s footfalls grew fainter as I flailed my arms willing myself ahead to the finish.
I won, 9:34, decent considering my condition. Coach Lang reminded me of my lost opportunity to run a fast time. “Bobby, you could have run 9:20 you puddinhead.” Two weeks later, I ran 9:17 and it was easy in comparison. This was a school best until 2016 when Chris Polanco ran 9:16 indoors. Toughest race I ever ran, a 9:34, and very satisfying going that deep in the well to do it.
Cinder Track
I began as a high school runner part way through the cross-country season in 1969. In track I ran the 1,000 yards all throughthe indoor season. Outdoors I ran the half and sometimes a leg on the mile relay. With my minimal knowledge of running to this point I had garnered a few wisdoms one of which is that it was a big deal if you could go under 5:00 minutes for the mile asa freshman.
When the outdoor season was over at the end of June I had not had the opportunity to race the mile. I would have never thought to ask Coach Lang if I could, I just did whatever the coaches told us to do. After the season my friend and teammate Tom and I discussed my desire to break five. “Why don’t you just go out to Cawley and do a time trial? I will cheer you on and hold the watch.”
We figured out a day when the stadium would be closed, and the track would be free and clear of activity and we road our bikes out to Cawley.I approached this as a very solemn event. Ever since I had begun as a runner I was captivated and wanted to know everything and everyone in Track & Field. I wanted to learn all the nuances.
For gifts at Christmas I had received a stopwatch, hand-held, spikes, and a Track Suit which was made of polyester was green and was really meant for a swimmer. I wore it for ten years. It was loose fitting and light weight unlike what we were issued by the school athletic department. It had a picture of a swimmer on the neck tag.
My family had recently obtained a Polaroid Camera the instant development sort and I brought that along as well for my friend to document my run-in photos.
Cawley was locked up when we arrived and had a high barbed wire at the top fence all around it but at the locked gate there was a sizeable gap at the bottom just big enough for a 110-pounder to squeeze under. My friend Tom climbed over the fence, but it wasn’t easy. It was a bit eerie in the empty stadium. The track was in rough shape, so I decided against wearing my spikes. I warmed up quickly and Tom took a few pictures. I had some confidence I would break five and I assured myself with a reminder that I was the Lowell Junior High 880-yard Champion with a best time of 2:13 to my credit.
It had been a few weeks since I had raced, and I felt a bit rusty especially my breathing. After the first 220 I began to relax and find my pace. 72 for the first 440, a bit quick, and I felt it. I slowed and hit 2:27 at the half. The next lap was crucial, and I nearly lost my concentration and resolve. As I neared the finish strait I saw someone out of the corner of my eye, standing at the edge of the track. “Was that Rourkey?”
The groundskeeper at Cawley Stadium in Lowell MA was Hank Rourke but we knew him as Rourkey. The cinders at Cawley where we competed and ran workouts for Lowell High, changed composition frequently depending mainly on the weather conditions and current usage. The rough base filling of the track seemed to have worked its way through the softer finer layers near the top. This would leave chunks of cinder here and there and if you caught one wearing half inch spikes, whoa you could turn your ankle and possibly go sprawling onto the track which was not uncommon.
Rourkey kept it in shape with a steamroller pulverizing the chunks, and then he would dampen it. It did not get this treatment often and the football team would mess it up quickly by where the benches were.I missed my split for the third lap as I was more concerned with what Rourkey was gonna do to us for breaking in to the stadium.I ran by Tom and shouted, “it’s Rourkey.”I finished strong and collapsed on the infield. “You did it Bobby, 4:58! I think I got a good picture.”
“Did you see Rourkey?”
Just then he came up behind us. He was short wore bib overalls and a summer fedora hat, had keys about a hundred hanging from his belt and construction work boots that looked enormously big for his body.
“How did you boys get in?”
We explained what we were up to and he mellowed a little. “You boys will get me in trouble. Why didn’t you run at the Shedd Park Track? If you are gonna break in here, which I know you will, let me show you where so you don’t get hurt.”
He then proceeded to show us a place where kids often snuck in for football games so that they would not have to pay. He then escorted us out and urged us not to break in. He also told us he would be there on some certain times and days and we could come in and use the track if we kept our mouths shut about it.
In future years as my running progressed Rourkey would take care of those inside lanes of the track at the request of Coach Lang whenever I was shooting for a good time against a strong opponent. Over my four years running cross country and track at Lowell High I spent a lot of time at Cawley and at Shedd Park just up the street. It was where I grew to appreciate what Athletics at its best is worth.
Thanksgiving 1973 An RSE Thanksgiving Tale
I was just finishing my first semester at Johnson & Wales JC in Providence a C student who excelled in typing class. I wish I still had the keyboard skills I had then. Cross Country running was prominent that Fall as it was for many years and I had a solid season finishing 14th in the JC Nationals in Tallahassee FLorida. Also my first time flying.
I remember we flew Pan American and they were using” real” silverware. My roommate decided to pocket the silverware for our dorm room collection where we made some meals on a hotplate. He got nailed by airport security.After the season wound down a teammate from Connecticut asked me if I wanted go home with him and run the Manchester Thanksgiving Day Road Race. I called my family to tell them that I would not be home for Thanksgiving.
In 1973 this was already a historic race begun in 1927. The final stretch is a parade route lined with thousands of spectators for the race. I was in good fitness sharp from the Cross-Country Campaign and I went right out with the leaders some of the best runners in New England.The course is a bit short of five miles and the early miles are more challenging combined with going out hard to separate from the pack. At approximately half way I lost some ground on the leaders but was still running strong. On the final stretch with the enthusiastic crowds I was running neck & neck, back & forth with someone I did not recognize. Turned out it was future teammate Bill Rodgers. We finished 5th and 6th.
The local newspaper, a sponsor, provided plenty of race coverage with photos of the top ten men. My teammate as I remember didn’t run so well and seemed irritated as we went for a short jog after the race.When we arrived back at his house he immediately began doing yard work with his dad and some other kind of home improvement projects. I suppose I should have offered to help but I just went and showered.
“Bobby, my dad does this every time I come home; he makes me work with him. Sorry, buddy.”
“Yeah, me too. By the way, when are you heading home? I can give you a ride to the bus station”
Going home? I thought, I guess no turkey for me today. He gave me a ride to the bus station but there were no busses heading anywhere near Lowell, Massachusetts, that afternoon. I hardly had any money anyway. “Can you drop me by the highway” and there I landed mid-afternoon on Thanksgiving Day, nary a car in sight.
Well, I stood there and then I sat there, Arlo Guthrie’s “Alice’s Restaurant” playing in my head, when a muscle car convertible with the top down and a young couple in it pulled over. “Hop in. Where you heading?”
“Eventually, Lowell, but if I can get to Providence tonight, I’ve got a place to stay hopefully.” They smirked and looked me over and laughed and peeled out of there. They were high as kites and blasting Led Zeppelin. I crouched down trying to keep warm in the back seat and said my prayers.
It was dark when we arrived outside Providence. They dumped me off by the side of the highway and I wasn’t even sure where I was. I walked for about an hour until I got to my dorm building on Weybosset Street. It was dark inside, and the building was locked up tight. I contemplated calling home for a ride, but I did not want to ruin their Thanksgiving. I had no idea what I was gonna do.
Then the door opened, and it was the custodian. “What are you doing out here?” I told him my sob story and he let me in. “I could get in trouble letting you in here so keep your mouth shut about it. Stay in your room and I will be back in the morning to let you out.”
I was pretty freaked out alone in the building and I went to bed hungry! The custodian came back early, and I went out for a run and bought some donuts and coffee. After that I headed to the highway and a truck came along immediately and gave me a ride all the way to the Lowell Connector. I walked home from there and devoured some leftover turkey.