DISPATCH FROM THE ROLLING STONED SPORTS DESK
Wallow with the eagles, soar with the pigs. – Dr. Hunter S. Thompson
Started this life of running by accident. Few weeks later I saw that Nina Kuscsik became the first official women’s winner of the Boston Marathon. Figured if this “shapely” mother, older than me, could do it, then so could I.
First ran the Boston Marathon the next year. 1973. I am that old.
This year’s race, my Golden Anniversary, at the last minute, fifty years later, I decided I had to be there. Now, how to get press credentials? Maybe that sexy Dutch magazine, Mystical Miles. No idea what the words mean, but the art is superlative. Even the paper feels good. Worth a try.
Wrote the editor, Hans Koeleman.
If you are willing, send me something official on MM letterhead, assigning me the 2023 BAA Marathon. I will take a shot at a press pass. If I can add a credential to my guile and notoriety, I’ll be dangerous.
An alacritous response was my reward.
Jack D.,
Good to hear from you.
Hope all well in Florida. I trust you do not have any naked Michelangelo statues in your backyard.
How does this sound for a Boston story: a stream-of-consciousness kind of tale, shreds of images and anecdotes (like overhearing multiple conversations in a crowded bar…), all talking about the magic of Boston..? Throw in a few tales about the early days, your own experiences on the route…, etc.
As I said before, anything written by your hand we’ll put in print.
He may have said it before, but it never gets old. Europe has a history of accepting your weirder American artists before they gain acceptance back home. Like Bukowski and Jerry Lewis. Sha Na Na.
“How does this sound?” Me, in a crowded bar, stream-of-overhearing, shreds of consciousness, on the route of magical anecdotes? I can do that. Gonna be in Dutch anyway.
Missed the application deadline. Not atypical. But I know a guy who knows a guy. Ditto.
“We might be able to get you into the press conference.”
Yeah, but will you be able to get me out?
Welcome to the 127th Boston Marathon Media Credential Application
Chris Lotsbom, B.A.A. Director of Race Communications & Media
Before applying, please note that media credential allocations and workspaces within media areas are limited at this year’s Boston Marathon. We will do our best to grant as many media credentials as possible, though are unable to guarantee credentials to those who have received media credentials in the past. All applicants must be working on assignment for a media outlet, and must agree to abide by the B.A.A.’s News & Media Access Guidelines.
For media whose applications are unable to be accepted, or for those planning to cover the event remotely, a media resources webpage will be established where all can access transcripts of interviews, results, splits, and other pertinent race information.
We appreciate your cooperation and hope to see you at April’s 127th Boston Marathon.
Easiest forms I’ve filled out since my third marriage license.
If my second marriage license had come with the following warning, I’d have more money today.
And my house back. With the pool.
MEDIA CREDENTIAL TERMS AND CONDITIONS
In consideration of accepting any credential, you hereby for yourself, your heirs, executors and
administrators waive and release any and all rights and claims for damage you may have against the
Boston Athletic Association, its employees and vendors, USA Track and Field, the sponsors (including,
but not limited to John Hancock), the volunteers, the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, or the Cities
and Towns in which the race is contested, their representatives, successors and assigns for any and all
injuries suffered by you with respect to the Boston Marathon.Thank you for submitting your application for accreditation at the 127th Boston Marathon.
You will receive email notification when your application status has been determined; credential pickup location and dates will be included if your application is approved.
Please reach out to accreditation@baa.org with any questions.
No word yet from the press office. It’s been almost twenty-four hours. Like so many things, the wait is part of the fun.
Sent Patti (Catalano) Dillon a belated birthday missive. In 1980, Dillon became the first American woman to break 2:30 in the marathon. She is a three-time Boston Marathon runner-up. She was happy to hear from me.
Heeyy. Youu. . Wow! Thank you so much!!! How are you !?
Please come Copley Saturday 3ish to…ish. lol Oak bar Copley Fairmount.
Billy Rodgers Toni Reavis Bobby Hodge Danny Me Ron Wayne Jon Anderson Russ Pate Jackie Hansen Bobbi Gibb. Please come!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And you can add Frank Shorter’s name to the roster. Billy already invited me. Bill and I actually “talk” often, mostly about how we wish running’s ethical level was higher.
You would be one of the few Real journalists there! Are you in touch with BAA media guy, Chris Lotsbom? I’ll write him on your behalf. Let me know.
Let me see if I get rejected first, I told Bill. Told Mr. Lotsbom I had references – didn’t tell him who – and I cannily included my renowned report of Bill’s scintillating ’79 run.
Good deal; let me know if Chris responds.
Remember a half century ago, longer even, getting one of those infrequent issues of a slim running magazine, black & white even, and there’d be exciting pictures and motivating stories about these people eating entire loaves of bread while running hundreds of miles and they were beautiful somehow and you would go, oh, my god, how can I do that, can I do that, I wanna do that, I’m gonna try.
And you didn’t even get close. Except for maybe the beautiful part. Ha!
Anyway, I tried so hard, they let me join the club. Like being Sonny and everybody else is Cher. Waiting to hear about the press credentials, still six days to go, I looked into this Oak Bar everybody’s talking about.
Nope. My first twenty-five-dollar bacon-cheeseburger will NOT be happening.
No bibb lettuce is that good, aioli or not.
But – wait! – What’s this?
Dear Jack D.,
We are pleased to confirm that you have been granted media credential access for the 127th Boston Marathon, to be run on Monday, April 17, 2023.
You have been approved for the following access: General Media AccessMedia credential pick-up will occur within the Fairmont Copley Plaza Hotel’s State Suite. Media credentials will be available for pickup from Thursday, April 13 through Sunday, April 16 within the State Suite Media Center during the following hours:
Thursday, April 13: 11:00 a.m. – 5:00 p.m.Friday, April 14: 9:00 a.m. – 5:00 p.m.
Saturday, April 15: 9:00 a.m. – 5:00 p.m.
Sunday, April 16: 11:00 a.m. – 5:00 p.m. *Hours subject to change
Additional information will be sent to all media members in the coming weeks, and we look forward to seeing you in Boston.The Boston Athletic Association
Sincerely,
Will they throw me out if I ask about doping and drug testing and why so much damn cheating?!
My Personal Boston history
No idea how I got to Boston in 1973. The BAA’s 77th. I am thinking a large luxury sedan driven by a middle-aged attorney who I hoped would pull me to a personal record. The best-selling book was Jonathan Livingston Seagull. Came to run my second marathon, having qualified (3:22:03) five or six weeks earlier.
My training partner was a Connecticut State Senator, so the Senate President greased our way into a couple of rooms at the Parker House. Nice place. The Senator and I started a tradition of going to a nearby movie theatre the night before racing. Last Tango In Paris gave a young husband an entirely new perspective on butter.
That was probably the year Howard Cosell came into the Hopkinton High School gym where we were awaiting the start. “No autographs,” he announced, “No autographs.” Which we thought was odd, nobody was asking him for his signature. Mr. Cosell seemed needy.
Record number of entrants – 1574, including a record number of women. Twelve. Jon Anderson and Jackie Hansen won the race. In her post-race interview, the future world-record holder said, “My hope is that someday we’ll have a women’s marathon in the Olympics.”
My training diary. Volume 2, page 28. Monday. April 16. Patriot’s Day. Wgt. 162 PR 43
Well, today’s the day. Don’t feel bad, don’t feel good. Still feel fat and haven’t taken a decent shit in two days. Which may explain the feeling.
7 a.m. Temp is 50 degrees with southwesterly winds 15-20 mph. Temp expected to near 70 during marathon. Now that’s really something to look forward to. Today was the hottest April 16th in Boston this century. 79 degrees. Seemed hotter. The heat was unbelievable as this was probably the first time I’ve run in temps over 55 since last October. Finished 498th out of 1398 registered starters. (Many started who were not registered.) With bandits, probably 1600 runners toed the line. Which took almost two minutes for me to reach.
I passed 10 miles in 69:45, but began to lose it soon after. Walked part way up Heartbreak Hill, which I reached about 2 1/2 hours out (approx.); just didn’t see any percentage in trying to run up that thing just then. Started to pick up the pace a little at 22m (BIG MISTAKE!) and ran completely out of gas at 24 miles. Struggled in with some walking – quite destroyed. Took me 14 hours to recover from nausea, headache, chills, diarrhea, stomach pain & some other stuff.
Bottom line: I ran a 3:19:43 PR on a scorching day, the first day of a hot summer after a winter’s worth of cold training. And I did it at Boston. Bill Rodgers dropped out and I like to claim victory.
My diary says I attended the marathon in 1978, but I did not enter. Always had too much respect for Boston to jog it. Not much parading by anybody in the 1970s.
Oh, I almost forgot this. Parker House. I have the famous Runner’s World editor Joe Henderson on one side of me and best-selling author of The Complete Book Of Running Jim Fixx on the other. It’s a long fancy-carpeted hallway and we see this skinny guy come headed straight at us. He’s got Crazed Celebrity Stalker written all over him and I feel the celebrity on each side of me begin to cringe instinctively. Just then the guy says and – this is true – “Jack D., can I have your autograph?”
That must’ve been the same trip where Jim told me the truth about being a rich and famous writer, which of course used to be my goal. When you get back home, he said, your wife still makes you take out the trash.
I don’t remember racing Boston again until 1979. I still have the bib number: 2566. There was not an African runner anywhere to be seen. A 2:25 flat time was only good for 130th place.
On a day you really wanted to see what you were capable of, a good start would’ve been nice.
About the biggest field anybody had ever seen stood wet and chilled at the starting line in Hopkinton. I was among the legions who jogged in place – took 48 seconds just to get to the starting line.
Then, still no room to run. My official time was 2:53:16, which I noted in my diary had to be worth no worse than 2:50.
Much faster than years earlier, finishing much further back as the running boom was in full swing. I can still hear the roar as I strode through the estrogen cloud of the Wellesley gauntlet.
A few runners fell into a pile when they slipped on a pile of horse shit. Mounted police did an otherwise admirable job of controlling the huge crowds.
For the next few hours, I walked up stairs backwards, as my quadriceps were too pounded to lift my legs.
In 1981, I arrived Thursday on Northwestern’s Flight 146. Friday, I went to a favorite watering hole and was on my second beer before I realized the joint had become a gay bar.
Saturday, went for a walk and saw seven different “official” Boston Marathon t-shirts. I bumped into Bill Rodgers as I was leaving the Expo. Warned him not to go in there – it was a three-ring circus. He didn’t heed my advice.
Sunday. More madness, more commercialism, more pastry, more sugar, more pasta. More sun. Less sleep.
Monday. The disgruntled Boston police department had threatened a blockade and the mayor of Newton had denied the proper permit. But the race would happen The Boston Globe printed the names and numbers of all 6845 official entrants. Some 14 helicopters gave Hopkinton an Apocalypse Now ambiance.
I watched most of the race in Room 1256 of the Sheraton. Two other journalists sat in that plastic room, switching between three television stations and one radio. Both of the other writers were actually somewhat famous. But none of us could get on the press vehicle. Which was okay because this was the first year you couldn’t actually see the race from the press vehicle.
Guessing those two other guys were Olympians Jeff Galloway and Don Kardong.
This from the forward of When Running Was Young & So Were We
We watched the end of that Boston marathon from a fire-escape overlooking the final stages of the race. After watching George Sheehan and Jim Fixx finish, Jack began announcing the winners of various divisions that he invented on the spot.
“There’s the first finisher in black high-tops!” Jack yelled. “There’s the first sweater finisher! There’s the first finisher in fluorescent shoes! There’s the first hoodlum! The first illegal alien! The first Halloween finisher!
Did I mention there may have been beer involved.
Later, we yelled for people whose names were on their shirts – Paul, Tricia, Barbara, Super Sue, Carol, Harold, Pat, Martha, Rocky and the Havliceks (Muriel and Ed).
And finally we yelled for whatever was on the runners’ T-shirts: No Nukes! Small Is Beautiful! Save the Whales! Oregon! Free the Shah! Spam!
Maybe you had to be there.
Don Kardong
I was there. Even better, I remember.
Don was on assignment for my old magazine Running.
It’s all coming back to me now.
And I was covering the event for “The Bible Of The Sport,” Track & Field News.
As part of my in-depth pre-race research, eve of the race, I partied with beautiful young women and copious free alcohol. Don was there, too. It was late, but I thought he was leaving early. He had to do some research of his own and asked me if I wanted to go along with him.
I used to be weak, real weak. Didn’t go with him.
Didn’t go with Don Kardong as he made many stops on his way back to our hotel, collecting numbers for the instant Dingy classic Thirty Phone Booths To Boston. If you can find it, buy it. My name is mentioned.
When it was all over, when we were watching those last few bandits finishing their twenty-six miles below, I realized what a great day it had been. Excellent conditions, excellent racing, and the joy of screaming our inebriated head’s off from Ray’s fire escape in raucous encouragement for the vast parade of Boston Marathon finishers. It was the most fun I ever had at a Boston race.
p. 140, Don Kardong, Thirty Phone Booths To Boston.
1983. “A ridiculous time,” that’s what a race announcer said when Joan Benoit crossed the finish in a world record 2:22:43. How ridiculous? Well, since WWII, Boston’s men’s race had been won ten times with slower times than Joanie’s. Heck, Amby Burfoot’s winning time in 1968 was only 25 seconds faster.
You may hear some discussion of the salubrious conditions which accompanied Benoit’s accomplishment – cloudy skies with temperatures in the forties, a fifteen mile per hour tailwind most of the way. Okay, optimal weather, but Benoit still had to move her legs 26 miles 385 yards. And she prepared for her Boston effort by standing in the same chill Saturday afternoon coaching her Boston University squad through a track meet. The kids still came first.
A decade after his win in 1973, Jon Anderson ran only 16 seconds slower than the 2:16:03 that brought him the laurel wreath in ’73. This time, he finished 34th. You’ll recall, ’73s weather sucked big time.
I had dinner a couple nights earlier with Greg Meyer, who won the men’s race. I don’t remember that dinner, but I do remember Greg picked up the tab.
2013. I wasn’t there, but many, many of my friends were. Some had just left the finish line area moments before the bombs’ blasts tore apart dozens and dozens of innocent bystanders.
I may have forgotten races run, but this is one race not to be forgotten by any of us.
We remember. Boston strong.
2023. The Golden Anniversary Celebration. Unknown legend or legendarily unknown?
To Be Continued…
2023 Boston Marathon Mementoes
It might be the greatest victory of this city and the world running community that the marathon bombings a decade ago had far from an overwhelming presence in Monday’s race. – New York Times
IF Mementoes Could Talk…
Well, They Do, Don’t They?
I flew Jet Blue, one of the best flights of my life. Because it was one of the shortest.
Which is a good thing, because you don’t want to be stuck aboard Jet Blue at meal time.
For you non-mini-hard-salted-pretzel people, there’s the SIT ‘N’ RELAX CINNAMON MAPLE SEED + OAT THIN BAR.
I kept the wrapper.
Nut-Free Vegan Gluten-Free. Net Wt. 0.8 oz. (22g)
Ingredients: Oats, Pumpkin Seeds, Sunflower Seeds, Brown Rice Syrup, Maple Syrup, Ground Flax Seeds, Cinnamon, Sea Salt.
100 Calories
A dozen of these and bucket of cold water, you’d have yourself a real feed.
But a matched set of slender wafers, even when paired with a Pepsi Zero, which I didn’t know was a thing? Not so much.
The cabby was from Belarus and looked it. You know, like all the bad guys on BBC mysteries. Told him my destination, he looked disappointed. I could imagine him trying to snap my neck.
Safely delivered to the Moxy, where all the Death Metal fans typically stay, I tipped him excessively and then he LUNGED!!! and gave me a quick gentle hug.
Sitting alone in a crowd at the Copley Plaza’s Oak Bar, I heard a voice to my left say, “Can I give you a free t-shirt?” Reminds me of the time Nelson Farris asked, “Do you like wildly-colored shoes?”
In the photo at top, I am wearing a Mizuno-branded 2023 OSAKA MARATHON shirt, size Large, because the lady at his side reminded – ‘Japanese sizing.’ Made in Thailand, it must be noted.
The color is perfect for dodging heavily-medicated seniors wearing cataract glasses, racing their souped-up golf carts because they’re late for the book burning.
But the slogan could be dangerous in these parts – MAKING A RAINBOW TOGETHER.
The location of the press room is always somewhere I can’t find it. This has to be intentional. Nobody who works at the Copley seems to know either. Unless they’ve specifically been told not to tell me.
Eventually. The lanyard and the outstanding adidas windbreaker almost made me cry. And then when I saw the price tag on the jacket, I thought, these people are trying to buy my affections and it’s working. Thank you, Chris Lotsbom, B.A.A. Director of Race Communications & Media.
The savvy press relations professional knows, when the going gets weird, the real pros keep going.
At the Rock Bottom – actual name – deep into my third post-race party, the bartender just seemed to think I needed a memento.
I no longer have my Samuel Adams “BOSTON MARATHON” bottle opener.
A couple years late for a house-warming and my buddy already had everything else. Figure if TSA will confiscate my water bottle, the Gatorade bottle and the container of that new Cinnabon-flavored Boost – an elderly man’s attempt to stay hydrated – they would surely snag a big metal souvenir kitchen utensil.
A charity runner already has a 2023 edition on eBay for $24.99. Look for it under “Breweriana.” The last item from her swag bag left to sell.
Back at the Oak Room, I bump into Patti Catalano Dillon and Dan Dillon. Like distant relatives who rarely ever get together. So, when we do, it’s so exciting. Dan buys beers, everybody talks too loud, mostly about our dogs and I say, that reminds me, I have to remember to get my wife a gift.
Think what reminded me, Patti asked, ‘Where’s your wife?’
Ha. I am finally old enough to travel by myself.
That might’ve been the same night the DeSantis administration decided to dial every Floridian’s cellphone at 4:45 a.m. My wife, startled awake, this is true, her first thought was, “Oh, my God, what has he gone and done now?”
Anyway, Mrs. Dillon suddenly pulls out a little white box (left hand in top photo): ‘Here, give her these.’
Would you believe… designed by an erstwhile World Record holder, created by indigenous artisans, in a limited edition and presented with love? Yup. BAA colors, complete with unicorn. And, just like that, I was done shopping for my bride.
Would’ve kept them for myself, but my lifelong fear of drooping ear lobes continues unabated.
Eventually. Found the Ball Room where every working reporter in town seemed to have arrived much earlier. On assignment first time in years, writing for a foreign quarterly, I was surprised to discover NO open bar. Obviously, the suits in charge care nothing about art.
There was food. I’d have another memento but I ate it. Free cookies. The same chocolate chip cookies available in the Oak Room for only $14. “Pairs nicely with a chocolate martini. $19.” I just bet it does.
Everybody seems to be watching me suspiciously or completely unaware of my existence – I get this a lot. A misfit out of place.
So, when I see a familiar face, not nearly as hirsute as I remember, I saunter up to Coach Tom Derderian and say, ‘Boo.’ Words to that effect.
Tommy D. is the sage from whom the oldest old timers seek Boston marathon lore. I was standing right there when one wondering scribe burst through the crowd and asked Tom for some random arcane historical trivia.
“I don’t really have the book memorized,” he said. Yeah, well, Tom Derderian WROTE the book.
It was all I could do not to stare, so I stared anyway. Look at who penned forewords for this guy. My, goodness.
And Tom noticed. “Do you have this?”
I do now.
Tom said, when he signs a volume, he likes to ask about a reader’s interests, to get a sense of what to write. But he didn’t ask me. My book is inscribed, ‘For Jack D. – I know too much about you.’
Wasn’t the updated edition, barely over 800 pages, but it was the only copy the renowned Boston historian had with him. I am the man who will take your last copy.
Unless it really is.
Later, the runner/coach/author led me to Clery’s concrete-walled basement for a raucous Greater Boston Track Club post-race blow-out. Beer was consumed. Think I stayed longer than Tom did.
A neighborhood favourite located in the historic South End, Clerys is one of the most dynamic venues in the Back Bay.OpenTable.com
I am in Boston to celebrate my Golden Anniversary, so I had to see what he’d written about the 1973 race. Ten whole pages. My Top 500 finish is not noted.
My actual Boston Marathon hero at the time was the defending women’s champion, the first official women’s winner, Nina Kuscsik. She’s got all the female explorer titles. First official woman finisher. First Course Record Holder.
Could’ve tripped Cosell in the high school gym, but I don’t remember being close enough to see the starting line in 1973. Tommy D. – no relation – tells what the scene looked like:
At the starting line of the second year of women-officially-in-the-marathon, the notorious Katherine Switzer moved to her position on the starting line. Celebrated sportscaster Howard Cosell worked from atop a large platform 100 feet in front of the runners. Spectators gazed up at him. Jock Semple focused his critical eye on Switzer. It had been agreed that one woman would start with her toe on the line and the others would file in behind her. The honor of being the woman to toe the line would go to last year’s winner, Nina Kuscsik. Semple approached Switzer. She wore a number. The cameramen were ready. She thought he was going to yell at her, to tell her to get back. He was yelling at everyone else, chasing the high-numbered runners away from the starting line. But instead of yelling at Switzer, he smiled and said, “Come on, lass, let’s get a wee bit o’ notoriety.” In front of the clicking cameras he gave her a giant kiss. With that symbolic act, women racers in the Boston Marathon were at last celebrated in spirit as well as in the letter of the law.
p. 354, ‘Kuscsik Back to Defend Title’, Boston Marathon, Tom Derderian.
I was going to tell you this long story all imagined about how I came to be in possession of an adidas aluminum blanket awarded to official race finishers. My wife said, “Don’t.” She is way smarter than I am. Way. A charity runner was overheard to say, “CHARITY RUNNERS ARE THE HEART OF THE BOSTON MARATHON.”
You’ll just have to guess the rest yourself.
The Banshees Of Boylston Street Boston ’23
In old age one writes, if at all, what one can. – Larry McMurtry, Literary Life.
If you have no idea what happened at the 2023 Boston Marathon, then this will all be new to you. If you are wondering what has taken me so long, all I can say is, I was overwhelmed by the entire event. Three-ring circus doesn’t begin to cover it.
Where to start? Early. From the Moxy, where I never did learn to operate the elevator, I walked up to Boston Commons, hung a left onto Boylston Street, and there they were. Coming straight at me. Surprisingly silent. Thousands of them. Thousands upon thousands of them. Glazed bright eyes, like drugged sacrificial virgins happy to climb on a crowded bus, ride twenty-seven or so miles to Hopkinton and jump off a steep cliff into what.
A new life. An adventure. A fun party on foot at glacial paces. Personal bests. A good time. Prove a point. Fame and glory. Find themselves. Charity. Does it even matter.
I envied them all.
Meanwhile, as a foreign correspondent and international running expert, not to mention older than space travel, it’s all I can do – watch on television. That’s what you’d think. But you’d be wrong.
I am in the lead pack. The back of the pack, because I can better tell what’s going on.
“Virtual Kardonging” (Trademarked).
That’s what I call it. Picture yourself right there. Inside the race. I imagine myself studying these elite athletes as they try to pull away but they never do. As the expert announcer – no matter who’s talking, he always sounds like Toni Reavis – offers his expert advice, I imagine myself not only in the fray, but above the fray. Always taller than my diminutive competitors. Like to think I cast a menacing shadow.
I know, I know, we’re running east into the sun and I’m in the back of the pack.
You can hear the breathing. The whispering rustle of miracle moisture-wicking materials. Hear the super shoes springing.
Back in my day, it was mostly pitter-patter, the occasional clump-clump. Now, it’s all boing-boing.
Here’s how the race went from my perspective. Always looming fray adjacent.
Soggy. Damp. Wet. Dreary. Misty. Overcast. Grey. Raining. Even drizzly. Fifty degrees. About perfect.
Early pace never seems hard. It’s downhill and you’re excited. Initial mile like falling off a cliff. Among the lead lemmings.
Four minutes, thirty-seven seconds. 4:37 per mile. That’s what we averaged starting out.
Kipchoge is the point of the spear as the elite men chase history. Just along for the ride, this is course record pace and the GOAT never lets up.
Decided I’d stay right on Kipchoge’s shoulder until Wellesley. The world record holder has never run Boston before. I defy any man to come upon The Screaming Tunnel Of Estrogen Love for the first time and not lose focus.
And when that happens, which you know it must, that’s when I plan to pounce. Take off. That’s when I’d go. Make my move. Snap!
Lost my focus. I’m just weak that way.
Came to my senses, got $42 worth of chocolate chip cookies, and watched the rest of the race on four different feeds on four different big screens. No commercials. You don’t really have to pay attention because your DVR is fired up and Hodgie says you can have the Boston papers when he’s done with them.
Been seething since the starter’s gun fired – the trigger so ably squeezed by 1973 champ Jon Anderson – Eliud took point and we all drafted behind. That was just normal for him, but it was stupid, too. Meaning no disrespect. He’s The Boss. But he was wrong.
Would never take the lead myself. That’s not Virtual Kardonging. Why do that to yourself? Being in the lead means everybody’s after you. Completely different game. Only fun if nobody ever catches up.
Somebody always catches up.
For a while there, Connor Mantz looked like he was having the time of his life. And I guess he was, for a while there.
Suddenly, the space between the boings grow longer. Then the boings themselves.
The defending champion caught up. And then he went by. Bye bye.
Boing.
The mood in the press room took a turn when Kipchoge dropped off the pace. Stunned silence, followed by a growing buzz. I wanted to cry myself.
He missed his water bottle at 29K, but that wouldn’t explain an instant fade. Somebody suggested his Nike footwear was taking on water and he could hardly lift his feet. Me, I think he cracked under the strain.
Decided to focus on the women’s race. I never Virtually Kardong with the ladies, just doesn’t feel right somehow. There were 27 non-binary entrants in this year’s event but that’s different. That’s real.
I have a new hero and her name is Emma Bates.
In the sports journalism racket, I’m what’s known as a “homer.” I will root for my family first, my friends, my hometown, my alma mater – go Lumberjacks! – my state, my new state, my country. Casual acquaintances. When I see a bevy of African stars being pulled by an young American, all I can do not to stand up and belt out a chorus of “Glory, Glory, Hallelujah.”
And she just stayed in the lead like she belonged there.
“Yeah, that wasn’t the plan at all. My coach really wanted me to focus on that second pack and let the top girls battle it out and then pounce in the end. But I just felt so good the whole time and I got to mile 20 and was still in the lead. I was looking at my coach who was at mile 20 and I was just like ‘I don’t know; I guess I’m in front’ and he was like ‘just go for it, just go for it’ and so my instincts kicked in and that’s where I was. It just felt right today. So, I went with my gut and that’s what it told me to do.’Emma Bates
I was getting messages from a similar location.
If nothing else, the media credential gets you free food and non-alcoholic beverages. Something to do while you are watching and waiting. So, I am eating an excellent sandwich, when a lean handsome African, wearing a crown of golden leaves on his head, passes by.
I can guess exactly what you are wondering – it was chicken breast on a chewy roll with avocado and a piquant white sauce.
Immediately, I am surrounded by feverish press. I keep eating. Took my first phone selfie ever. With the winner of the 2023 Boston marathon.
He might not know it.
Evans Chebet pulled away on Heartbreak Hill and won his second straight Boston Marathon, beating out fellow Kenyan Benson Kipruto and Gabriel Geay of Tanzania over the final stretch of the men’s race.
Eliud Kipchoge took his own sweet time, crossing the finish in sixth place. Still, he was ahead of the first American, Scott Fauble. Two men who might try the other’s tactics next time.
I would have loved to have gone out with that pack, but they were too fast. Most of them blew up, even Eliud Kipchoge. I almost caught him. I had a positive split for the race. I don’t know if I was that patient. I just knew that going out in the 62’s – I think they went out in the 62’s – I think was going to be a bad decision. I still went out the fastest I’ve ever gone out in a marathon and I was slowing down to that…. I would love to not be considered, but I can’t go out in 62 minutes in the marathon.
I have to make good decisions for me on a race day and that was being in the second pack and really trying to hunt that last half marathon and having faith I was going to be able to run people down. It took a lot longer than it usually does. I didn’t start catching people really until the last mile.
I want to be able to go out with the front pack. I really do. I promise you I know that’s the only way to win this race. The only way to be on the podium, you can’t back door it. At the same time, going out in 62 minutes is over my head.Scott Fauble
Evans Chebet, Benson Kipruto and Gabriel Geay nudge past me to take the stage. I really am in the fray now. Where I am reminded many reporters are scheming jackals, no, rabid hyenas, as the questions come like accusations. How great is it to beat the GOAT? How much do you love Kipchoge losing? Basically, asking gotcha questions in a foreign language. Can we please get one of you Kenyans to shit-talk the Great One? Puhleeeezzze.
Chebet is the kind of competitor who, first of all, thanks God. With his talent, I’d thank Her, too. “God heard our prayers,” the translator interprets. “Thank God, we are the top three.”
The top three finishers are from foreign lands and I don’t hear so good anyway. But the two Kenyans are training partners who run for Adidas and think the world of Kipchoge, a fellow Kenyan but a Nike athlete.
When Gaey made his move, Kipchoge simply couldn’t cover it. “The pace was a bit slow,” Kipruto noted.
I read in the papers, Kipchoge said, “I live for the moments where I get to challenge the limits. It’s never guaranteed. It’s never easy. Today was a tough day for me.”
Also saw somewhere he said, “I pushed myself as hard as I could, but sometimes we must accept that today wasn’t the day to push to a great height.”
His tactics were suspect, for starters. First time on the course. Leading into a cold wet breeze at record pace – remember I was Virtual Kardonging right at the back of the pack – was not smart. I don’t care how much they are paying you for a CR. Win – let the time take care of itself.
Might’ve shouted a question myself. Race day is mostly mental. What the hell were you thinking?
I also read Kipchoge said, “In sports you win and you lose. And there is always tomorrow to set a new challenge.”
Waiting, television feeds still play, as some of the thirty thousand entrants splash to the finish line on Boylston Street. Scene has a certain Woodstock feel. Across the Boston screen WCV8-TV, a crawl reports finishers’ surnames and times.
Jotted down some easy to spell names. McIntosh 2:57:06, Evans 2:56:31, Orta Ortiz 2:57:20, Battista 3:00:14 – you know he could’ve gone sub-three, if the road wasn’t full from curb to curb. Warden 3:06:57, Coffman 3:08:53, Odom 3:07:15. Took me a moment to realize the report is not chronological. Grewal 3:08:30, Rodriguez 3:11:58, Toscano 3:09:28.
I waited an hour for The GOAT.
When I was young, I wouldn’t wait that long for a sure thing. Yeah, right.
But – let’s be fair here – after all that hype and you don’t close the deal, would you show up?
Gotcha.
Eliud Kipchoge is still the greatest.
Maybe he just takes longer to pee than some folks.
Thought this happy man symbolized the entire weekend. That smile and a pile of chocolate chip cookies.
On The Road With Bob Hodge
Wamble (verb): to twist and turn; to wriggle; to roll over. To wobble, to totter, to waver; to walk with an unsteady gait. To move unsteadily.
Not all who wamble are lost.
We are rolling top-speed along the Currier & Ives Scenic By-Way.
Frankly, this adventure was something of a fantasy come true. Or as close as possible with prevailing conditions. On the road with Bob Hodge. He’s a Kerouac fan, as am I. He’s the kind of guy who would circumnavigate the Lower Forty-Eight in a campervan and has.
Me, too.
Bob is a fixture in the New England running scene and I am a fan of his excellent memoir, Tales of the Times.
I had this idea. Meet up after the Boston marathon and drive north to spend a couple of days with an old friend of mine – Employee #1. Bob and I, we’d talk non-stop for two or three hours and the piece would practically write itself. Like on a 120-foot single scroll of paper with continuous non-stop wit, wisdom and philosophy, tinctured with intermittent drivel. But drug-free.
Okay, just the occasional doobie.
I could be like his Neal Cassady.
Bob Hodge drives Nellie, a stylishly green 2007 Ford Fiesta with 256,000 miles on it. His compact automobile is a damn endurance athlete. Makes sense certainly.
Hard to talk over the engine noise because the transmission is too loud. Had hoped to chat about the race. Don’t remember bomb-sniffing dogs in 1973. What else is different?
Heard the elite athletes are using chicken broth for rehydration.
My bad ear is toward the driver.
I can’t remember what we talked about. Turns out, in the late 1930s, Jack Kerouac was a teammate of John Lang, Bob’s track coach at Lowell High School. Kerouac had written a bit about Coach Lang in his largely autobiographical Lowell-based novel, “Maggie Cassidy.”
Mr. Hodge has written about the proto-beatific pull of the 1950’s prophet.
I did not picture myself getting married, buying a house, having 2.3 children. For some reason it seemed impossible to believe that this would happen for me. Who would want to marry me?
When the pattern that many people fall into – high school, college, work, marriage, house, etc. – is broken, there is a kind of fear and excitement. You can live your life some other way, many people do, but you still want to be accepted. Can you have it both ways?
If we’d had that conversation over the four-cylinder racket, I might have answered, ‘Sure, but not at the same time.’ I know, I tried. Didn’t have what it takes. Like I didn’t have what it takes to be a 2:10 marathoner. Bob could average five minute miles for the marathon; I couldn’t run one mile that fast.
And I could never sustain a pattern I fell into.
Even in a whisper-quiet electric vehicle, I would have no advice to offer. I wambled almost all my life. Rarely ever found my balance. Much like Kerouac. We both moved in with our mothers, as middle-aged men, but that’s a whole ‘nother story. Jack’s stay with his Mom ended in an early death; my stay is titled ‘The Ten Worse Years Of My Life.’
10:18 a.m. Across state lines, way ahead of schedule. Stopped at the Everyday Cafe & Pub at 14 Maple Street. There’s a sign nearby: ORGANIC TICK SOLUTIONS.
Incorporated in 1765, the Town of Hopkinton, New Hampshire, was once the state capital and a popular stop on the passenger rail line between Boston and Montreal. Hopkinton and its business district of Contoocook Village offer small town ambiance through a blend of well-preserved history and natural beauty. In addition to working farms and the oldest covered railroad bridge in the United States, both villages host a variety of eclectic shops and services.
Didn’t see the bridge, but you can be sure I used the restroom.
Asked Bob what he thought Eliud Kipchoge got paid to run the Boston marathon. Who the hell knows? is my own answer.
Bob doesn’t. Here’s what he wrote before the race on his excellent website, The Bob Hodge Running Page. Sub-titled “Hodgie-San Through Miles of Years.” He’s something of a big deal in Japan, the Land of the Rising Sun.
Project Eagle
Eliud Kipchoge will run Boston in 2023 and as a fan of pro running I am very happy to see it happen.
Some seem to think he needed to run and win here in the hub but his legacy is surely secured with two Olympic victories and a world record.
I’m sure he had entertained the thought of running here but what did it actually take resource ($$$) wise and why is it that no one is inquiring and is leaving this out of their reportage ?
A Red Sox ball player just hit the road for another team for an 11 year $280 million dollar contract. While I think that is insane and obscene you know at least in pro baseball what is at stake. Excitement for one thing.
In pro running it’s all hidden and I believe that is wrong and is killing and damaging the sport from an integrity and marketing perspective.
The entities that produce marathon events especially the non profits like the BAA owe it to the public to reveal the details and should be eager to do so.
It might explain also the paltry amount of prize money offered compared to most any other pro sport.
I have much respect for Kipchoge, an intelligent philosophical man and I welcome him to Bean Town, where I hope we will see a very competitive race and coverage worthy of it.
“I have spoken, all depart.”http://bobhodge.us/project-eagle/
While I am attempting to provide worthy coverage, I just saw where Jaylen Brown may be looking at a five-year contract worth $295 million. Imagine if he’d played a winning Game Seven.
What other sport keeps the money secret? Besides dark money politics and the Supreme Court.
Got to the right place precisely on time. Maybe long enough to stretch out auto rigor. Tucker’s in New London is apparently the noontime choice of normal-enough looking people. Who all likely shop at L.L. Bean.
I went with the MEAT LOVERS skillet. Made with three local scrambled eggs. Served with choice of toast.
Hardwood smoked bacon, sausage, Canadian bacon, sautéed onions & peppers, and American cheese over house potatoes. 13.71. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, whenever you eat it.
Back in the car, we follow Employee #1 through a series of tiny New England villages to his new house. New to me. Deep in the woods, I nervously watch for bear. Bob’s eyes are glued to the road, as we follow the twists and turns. Gas pedal to the floor, we are doing 75 mph, our top speed. Nellie working like an asthmatic during burn season in the Willamette Valley.
We get there. She’s a good girl.
Jeff Johnson and I go so far back, we can’t remember when. (I can hear him now, “or why.”) He was as excited as ever about the idea of me spending a couple of days with him. Here’s a note when I gave him the good news.
We’re looking forward to your visit. We hope you are planning some long walks through the neighborhood.The Eastman Bears
He’s trying to scare me, but I live in Florida. We’ve fought off Sequined Drag Queens, Sex-Crazed Children’s Books, Mickey Mouse’s Mermaids and Advanced Placement Black History Classes. Don’t even get me started on Woke Boa Constrictors. Like the lady said, you are known by your enemies.
I am trying to reconstruct our conversations in the home of the man who named Nike. Based solely on my memory, apparently we were completely mute for two days. That is our typical style; he’s always thinking, I’m always spaced out. You can build a long-lasting solid relationship that way.
Subconsciously, think I invited Hodgie-san along, figuring he’d add – I don’t know – something else, “more” maybe. Imagined we’d be a team. Like Jeff could think it up, Bob could do it and I could write about it.
Whatever it was, we kept it quiet. Thinking we are probably a geezer or two short of starting our own old folk’s home. Naps might’ve been involved.
Guess I’ll just have to make shit up.
There was a time when Bob would run a great race and Jeff would take his photo and we’d all appear in my road racing column in The Bible of The Sport, Track & Field News. That could easily be true.
Bob, tuning up for Falmouth or Mt. Washington, went for a jog, while I, tuning up for tomorrow, went for a walk. My knees are so bad and the driveway so steep, I had to walk down laterally, switchback-fashion. And, of course, there’s the constant fear of bears.
I try never to be with famous people in life-threatening situations. The whole ride up here, I could almost see the Boston headlines –
Bob Hodge and Passenger…
Originally, I was worried about vehicular mayhem, then Bob mentioned he’d just purchased a brand-new Subaru with All-Wheel Drive. But Bob doesn’t drive that car. What Bob drives is a completely different vehicle.
Running Legend Bob Hodge, Companion Found Frozen To Death In New Hampshire.
Why is Project Eagle so secret anyway? How much did Kipchoge get paid and does he have to give any money back after his losing performance? Why did he lose?
You hear things over fifty years. I remember Bill Rodgers might’ve been paid $3000 to run the 1976 New York City marathon. That’s $16,000 today. Guessing Fred Lebow thought it was worth every penny.
Good guess, Kipchoge’s fee began at a half million. But like Sgt. Schultz, I know nothing. I am willing to stand by that. It’s the bonuses that worry me. Again, I ask, why lead the race at course record pace?
Oh, I remember now. Every time we asked Bob anything about his illustrious career, he’d say, “It’s in the book.”
Which I recommend.
Damn, it’s chilly here. Between the bears and the driveway, my walks are too tense.
Marathoner Bob Hodge, Another Hiker Eaten By Bears.
Wednesday night, the three of us – the Olympian coach, the member of multiple Halls of Fame and me, who never earned a varsity letter – headed for the Farmer’s Table at Rum Brook Place, 249 Route 10 North, Grantham.
Where the locals hang out. I swear I overheard one say, “Look, fresh bear bait.”
Don’t even remember what I had to eat. Looking at the menu now, that usually sparks the memory. Nothing.
Thursday morning.
Back at Tucker’s, this time actual breakfast-time.
FROM THE GRIDDLE. BLUEBERRY FRENCH TOAST. Three pieces of blueberry tea bread dipped in French toast batter. Topped with house blueberry compote, powdered sugar, and a lemon drizzle. Served with pure NH maple syrup. 12.95.
Add pure New Hampshire maple syrup from Fuller’s Sugarhouse. +2.00. I don’t think so.
Bob and Jeff flipped a coin, loser gets to drive me to the bus station, maybe half an hour away. Seem to remember Kerouac dumping Cassady by the side of a blonde. Been an honor and a pleasure and a fun time, I told Bob before he and Nellie headed home. With a wave and a transmission whine.
Whisper quiet in Jeff’s Subaru. New Englanders believe in climate change. Got to thinking about Kipchoge. Media just jonesing for controversy. Build him up, sell him, shoot him down if he loses. Repeat the cycle if he wins, build him up higher, so you can sell him for more the next time. Eventually, you write about him fading. Is he fading? Is he over the hill?
Look at me. Yeah, you. Kipchoge got to the top of the mountain and that is where he will always reside. The acme, the apogee. He is not a star, he’s a celestial being around whom many – especially his countrymen – bask in the glow of his excellence.
Never actually saw the man myself.
Turns out Bob Hodge fit the pattern just about perfectly.
I met his truly dear longtime first wife, the lovely Miss Frannie. She drives the new car.
Then there’s this.
