I thought about how many preconceived notions would crumble when I trotted along for 26 miles. – Bobbi Gibb
My Personal Boston history
A woman got me started. 1972, 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.
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.
1977. Would you believe me, you probably would, if I told you there is a missing diary which doubtlessly covers many exciting tales and boring wet Oregon miles and I just can’t find it. Which is a damn shame, because I cannot remember anything about 1977. Not just this race, but the whole year.
The top song that Patriots’ Day was – appropriately enough – “Don’t Give Up On Us” by David Soul. From Starsky & Hutch.
There’s a part of me thinking something 2:52ish with a good effort. The race and the year.
Can’t ever remember Billy looking that bad at another finish line.
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 bug-eyed man says and – this is true – “Jack D., can I have your autograph?”
We all laughed.
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.
“What’s the best part of being famous?,” I asked him. “Being picked up at the airport,” he quickly replied.
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, my quadriceps 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.
It’s all coming back to me now.
Don was on assignment for my old magazine Running.
And I was covering the event for “The Bible Of The Sport,” Track & Field News.
As part of my pre-race research, I was at a party with beautiful women and 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 classic Thirty Phone Booths To Boston.
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 changed the event ’til the end of time. The city, too.
I may have forgotten races run, but this is one race never to be forgotten by any of us.
We remember. Boston Strong.
2023. The Golden Anniversary Celebration. Unknown legend or legendarily unknown?
To Be Continued…