Some of my old friends don’t even remember running that particular race.

Others remember quite a bit.

Some kept a record.

One set of recollections came across my desk with a note – “do what you will.”

And I cannot remember a serial running novella.

Think of me as Jann Wenner and the role of Tom Wolfe – maybe George Plimpton – will be played by the estimable Robert Hodge. I’ve said it before, like drinking a couple of beers and telling lies that are true.

Hodgie-san did all the writing while I provided some backup humming.

Does that sound gay, I wonder.

A Year In The Life Of A Vagabond Runner

Olympic Bust: Boston 1979–Boston 1980

This memoir is the story of one momentous year in the life of a young runner, starting from the thrill and reward of a third-place finish in the 1979 Boston Marathon and ending with the gut punch of learning the United States would not send me or anyone to the 1980 Summer Olympics, followed by a disappointing “did not finish” in the Boston Marathon just one year after nearly attaining the summit of glory.

It is the story of a crash course in life and elite-level running for a young man, with many lessons learned in both, and in the following pages I will take you along for all of the uphill climbs and downhill runs of my chase to catch the satisfaction and recognition that comes with reaching the ranks of the world’s best long-distance runners.

The running world was a different place then, so many years ago, and it was experiencing rapid growth—especially in road racing and in particular in the Boston Marathon, reverently and concisely referred to as “Boston” in that world. Around New England, when you told someone that you were a distance-running competitor the first question that they would ask was “Have you run Boston?”

As a new runner in high school participating in cross country and in track & field, the first running event that I ever heard of outside of that experience was the Boston Marathon. “Shamateurism” still ruled Olympic sports, but there were cracks in the armor. Athletes were pushing for prize money and open professionalism, and over the next decade it began to happen, even eventually in that bastion of amateurism, Boston.

The “Olympic Boycott” of 1980 that so shaped my life helped to push professionalism along. If athletes could work at something for years and hope to travel and represent their country in international competition only to have the rug pulled out from under them when it was time for the biggest competition of all, the Olympic Games, then remuneration or retirement from athletics became the choices.

I was a good runner until Boston 1979. After that race I found myself to be one of the best in the country. Say that again. One of the best in the country. It was a bit shocking to have my dream come to fruition.

I followed up that Boston Marathon success with a podium finish in the National Cross Country Championships in the fall, and it was clear I was on a roll. Turns out December of 1979 was the pinnacle of the dream – too soon dope slapped out of me, walking out of my head, as I walked off the course during Boston 1980.

It had been a pivotal year in my young life. In 1979 I grew into adulthood as a runner and ascended as a competitor to a near peak of perfection.

Now at age 65 I can look back and comprehend this idea, but back then I had no notion what was in store for me.

I moved from my hometown of Lowell, Massachusetts, to Hanover, Massachusetts, in 1978 to work in a retail running emporium called The Runnery. The owner of this establishment was Sharpless Jones, a raconteur with many hopes and dreams and plans and schemes. I had known him as a friend for some time, and there seemed to be some flexibility with the work hours to allow for training and trips to competitions around the country and abroad. His business partner Stevie Calder looked every bit the part of a runner, and in fact when we began to run together in the winter of 1979, Stevie qualified for Boston and then ran a 2:49 there.

Another running partner and friend of mine, Earle Fucillo, was a truck driver for Hendries’ Ice Cream and was a Runnery regular. Earle, at age 40, who seemed so ancient to me then, also ran in the 2:40s at Boston. Without their support and friendship, well, things just would not have been the same.

Of course, I had been running with the Greater Boston Track Club (GBTC) since 1975, and I would go to Boston at least once per week to run on the track or over the Boston Marathon course with them. The club included Bill Rodgers, Greg Meyer, Randy Thomas, Danny Dillon, Vinnie Fleming, Dickie Mahoney, Scotty Graham, Brad Hurst, Gary Wallace, and Freddy Doyle, just to name a few.

We were competitive with other clubs around the country and among ourselves. I particularly liked to challenge Randy, who had in turn been challenging Bill. When Greg joined us from Michigan, I knew that would be an asset to all of us, but I also wanted to beat him when we raced. Mike Roche also joined us around that time, moving up from New Jersey. They were both sponsored by New Balance and were brought on board by Randy. They both had better resumés than I did and were paid accordingly. Because of this fact, I ran with a bit of a chip on my shoulder.

When I first moved to Hanover I was homeless and did not own a car. I lived a gypsy life, with Sharpless finding me temporary quarters staying with his grandmother in Scituate or with other friends. At some point I set up housekeeping in the basement of the store. Eventually, I found an apartment, located in the upstairs rooms of a house, that I could afford. It was in Hanover and was three miles from the store. My brother Mike helped me to move in.

I didn’t have much, and so it was easy. I loved having my own place, even though it cost me dear. I had recently received a modest contract with New Balance Athletic Shoe, Inc. (thus the above-mentioned chip), and without that to go with my earnings working at the store I would not have been able to manage.

I biked to work and to the grocery store and so on. In the winter I ran to work or had someone pick me up. Earle and Stevie let me borrow their cars now and then so that I could go up to Lowell and visit friends and family without having to take the bus.

One day in March Earle said to me, “Bobby, time for you to get your own wheels.” I replied, “I don’t think I can afford it, I have almost no savings.” But Earle “knew someone” and so we went to the dealership, where I picked out a 1969 Mustang that cost $1,500. I put down $100 and paid $100 per month to pay it off.

Next Earle said, “Bobby, why don’t you have a credit card?” We went to the bank together and filled out the information, and I walked out with a MasterCard with a $400 credit limit.

I was becoming an adult, and I wasn’t sure if I liked that.

My good friend “Stevie from Lowell,” as he was known by my running friends, came down occasionally, and we would meet up at Boston’s Eliot Lounge. At other times, the Eliot was our runners’ clubhouse, where we were welcomed by Tommy Leonard, our friend and supporter. I was on a roll and enjoying the support of this running network that surrounded me.

In February I traveled to Atlanta, Georgia, with the GBTC to run the International Cross Country Trials race. The first nine finishers would make the team headed for Limerick, Ireland. I finished 16th while Danny and Randy were 5th and 7th, respectively. I felt strong but had no leg turnover when I needed it. It was a real disappointment. I had run two indoor races at 5,000 meters in January, with mediocre results, and I was doing some decent track workouts, but I didn’t feel I was where I needed to be.

Next up on 4 March was the National 20-Kilometer (20K) Road Race Championship in Holliston, Massachusetts. On a frigid day with snow banks lining the roads, I ran in shorts and a singlet and painters’ gloves. I finished a close second to Randy in 60:44, with Jon Flora close behind me in third place. This was a promising result that gave me confidence in my training.

The following week I experienced pain and stiffness in my right knee that became more acute the farther I ran. I backed off for a few days, which led to some dread and despair with Boston looming. I went back to my normal running routine, but for a while I ran alone and very slowly, so as not to aggravate the injury.

Ice, rest, aspirin, and prayers were my sports medicine before that became a thing.

I gave up running on the indoor track as the turns bothered my knee. Instead, I traveled up to Boston on Wednesdays and ran from Boston College (BC), doing a 10–12-mile run in which I would pick up the Marathon course near Newton-Wellesley hospital; when I made the right-hand turn at the fire station in Newton to go back to BC I would drop down to 5-minute pace and basically “race the hills” or, as they say today, do a tempo run or threshold or what have you.

No heart-rate monitors or gadgets, not even a stopwatch, just my old Timex watch with a second hand. I just metered out the effort. I did this on five occasions, once  incorporating it into a Sunday 20-miler.

I had one more race, a 20K race on 1 April in Atlanta set up by the Nike shoe company as a “club challenge.” I decided beforehand that this would be a measured effort. I finished 12.4274238 miles in 63:00.

Everything now was about BOSTON!