“I knew I could race the hills, ’cause we had run them very hard regularly in training. I just decided to hang tough.”
I had been dreaming of a top-ten finish in this race. I also visualized beating my teammate and friend Billy Rodgers, sneaking up on him from behind like the Reverend Jeff Wells did in 1978. Only I would sweep past him for the victory.
“Stevie from Lowell” and I had a plan for race weekend. I would meet him in Boston on Sunday, parking my car near the Eliot and leaving it overnight. I met Stevie at the Prudential Building where I needed to pick up my race number. When I had entered the race, I had personally delivered my entry to Jock Semple, who was then the race director, at his office in the old Boston Garden. He said in his Scottish brogue, “Don’cha worry, Bobby, I’ll make sure you have a low number, even though you have the slow qualifier.” He then proceeded to toss my entry on his desk with hundreds of others.
Now, at the “Pru,” I scoured the entry list taped to the wall: top 100, no…; top 200, no…, and so on. “Holy shit, Stevie, he lost my entry,” I exclaimed. After a minute he replied, “Here you are, Hodgie, number 1066.” Since runners allowed to start from the head of the pack were always given low numbers, I could only hope I would be permitted to start up with them. I was worried. Spot some of the best runners in the world a hundred or two hundred yards? Why even bother running then?
Stevie and I met some friends for dinner at the Newbury Steak House, a favorite haunt of ours. Afterward, we headed to Hanover, and in the morning Stevie drove me to Hopkinton, as he had in my first Boston attempt in 1977. He then headed to Boston, where we would meet up at the Sheraton Hotel. Sharpless had booked a room, so we could go there and shower and relax after the race.
I went to the start area, and sure enough Jock saw my number and grabbed me by the arm. “Jock,” I said, “It’s Bob Hodge; you promised me a lower number.” Just then a few of my fellow competitors stepped in to intervene on my behalf, and Jock relented and left me alone, so I could start at the front.
In a nutshell, I ran the “race of my life,” at least according to my old hometown newspaper in Lowell, coming in third place with a time of 2:12:30, which was a personal record for me by over 16 minutes. I made the front page of the Lowell Sun the next day.
When I turned the last corner onto Hereford Street, Sharpless, who was sitting with race announcer Tom Grilk, excitedly announced “Holy shit, it’s Hodgie!” to the crowd.
I knew I was capable. When GBTC coach Bill Squires saw me at Lake Street, twenty-one miles in, he told me I could get third place and challenged me to go for it and not be content or overly cautious. He talks fast.“Go after it Bobby” were his motivational words as I passed by. Buoyed by his confidence in me, I did just that. Boston Globe sportswriter Joe Concannon had picked me in his top ten, and it felt good to somewhat exceed the experts’ expectations. The GBTC had four runners in the top ten.
I hung around in the Prudential Garage for a while, talking with Boston 1968 winner and Runner’s World journalist Amby Burfoot and some other media types. Once I got my warm gear on, I was anxious to get to the Sheraton and celebrate with my friends.
I missed the awards ceremony completely, and race director Will Cloney, who lived close to me in Scituate, had my trophy in the trunk of his car for months. One day he pulled up in his car beside me while I was running, and I asked him to please drop it at the RUNNERY for me. The trophy’s odyssey ended when my wife and I moved to Clinton, Massachusetts, thirty years ago. Since then it has resided on a ledge in my basement, the runner broken off by the leg and lying beside the base, covered in cobwebs.
A night of debauchery followed at the Eliot Lounge. The next morning, I was back to work at the RUNNERY, resoling shoes. But not for long. My friend Franny Coffey came by and talked with Sharpless, and the next thing I knew we were on our way back to Boston for lunch at Jimmie’s Harborside and another evening at the Eliot.
Later in the week my GBTC teammates Randy and Dickie and I were included in Bill Rodgers Day in Boston with a ceremony at Faneuil Hall and a Mayor’s proclamation read by Tommy Leonard. This was heady stuff for this young Lowellian expatriate. I was 23-years-old, and my grand plan was working.
Overnight, instead of my neighbors looking at me with pity and horror, having watched me run twice per day, year after year, they were now asking me to give talks at their schools. Chambers of Commerce, of all places for a vagabond runner to speak. Of course, they never offered me any remuneration. It wasn’t as if I played for the Red Sox.
In the aftermath of my BAA Marathon success, I was also invited to many races. Fortunately or unfortunately, my life became more complicated. It was a watershed moment.