Hi Jack,
Just learned that you will be in Boston for the marathon. I’ll be there along with Jacqueline Hansen and others celebrating the 50th anniversary of our wins. You may have heard but I’m making sure … current plan is to have a gathering of old runners (and others?) at the Copley Plaza bar on Saturday the 15th starting around 3. Be there!
See you soon!
Jon
The random hallway scene at the Copley Plaza, Boston marathon weekend.
Friday. April 14, 2023.
0800 My occasional aide-de-camp Donnie picked me up. I tell people, I have no friends. None. Lived here nearly twenty years and there is no one remotely like me. Well, young Don is remotely like me. Even better, he’s competent on many levels. Want my house painted, Donnie. Want my web site designed, Donnie. My giant killer dog Hagrid Hippocrates Little Bear told me about Donnie years ago, when he selected his sitter. First stranger Haggy would let in the house.
Hour drive to the airport. My wife’s car, at one time the world’s most expensive Malibu. Donnie says, traffic’s not bad. Me, feel like I’m on the Ron DeSantos ride at Disney World, vehicles shooting ’round me in all directions. Jabbered the whole way, so excited I was. I don’t get out much these days.
Toting a silver suitcase, a sexy black shoulder bag and an aluminum walking cane. Apparently, my boarding pass is on my phone which I only use for listening to books when I walk the dog. Feckin’ phone.
Airport stormtroopers waved me through after confiscating an old man’s water bottle, his Gatorade and his can of Boost. Nothing liquid more than 3.4 oz. Sounds like something Dr. Fauci made up. Didn’t get to walk the dog this morning. Irregularity, here I come. Might get grouchy. If I have a choice, I guess, constipation is the better option.
I am not against being other places, but rarely a fan of what it takes to get there. Especially these days.
11:40 Jet Blue 192 Gate A11. “Fly in good spirits. Mosaic members enjoy free drinks all flight long.” No, thanks, I haven’t yet had breakfast. Besides, Bud Light available $8 a can. Hahahaha.
Boarded with the handicapped. Told the clerk I wasn’t disabled, just real, real slow. No questions here, she said. So I took off way before the plane did. Some of the overhead bins are broken, we are told. $25 credit to check a bag. I can’t help wondering what broken bins says about their maintenance program. I sit in the D seat, so I can straighten my left leg into the aisle. That’s the leg with the three blood clots.
Have to look past a lovely young mother’s lovely young cleavage to see out the window.
Watching “8 Mile.” Thought it was a running movie. At the right angle, Eminem is Bill Rodgers’ doppelganger. His street name is even ‘Bunny Rabbit.’ Decided it WAS about the legendary marathoner, with rap as his side hustle. Like it’s 1975 and Billy’s trying to break out into the bigtime. The guy runs like no mileage whatsoever, but you can tell he has what it takes. Even though he’s white.
Sent my first ever phone email. To Employee #1, which is somehow fitting. Look out the window.
And now my left ear, looks fine doesn’t hear so good, is stuffed by the tiny tip of the ear plug. No way to reach it, not with these crookedy fingers in this tiny seat where I am wedged on a jet plane.
Went into Mr. Miyagi mode. Deep breath. And convinced myself I would live until I got somewhere private and stationary. Calm. Life is just quieter now. Deal with it. Later.
Look out the window.
4 p.m. Friday. April 14.
Managed to get the plastic plug out of my left ear with a pair of tweezers at my hotel. Just another hurdle in the journey. Staying at The Moxy. Ditto. WHERE BEER IS LOVE.
Left my cane in the room and raced as much as I can these days o’er cobblestoned streets to get to the 50th Anniversary panel with Jon Anderson and Jacqueline Hansen. My heroes of ’73 are friends a half century later and I was anxious to see them present. Nobody knows where the champions are speaking. Uniformed ushers inside the building itself have no idea. Makes you wonder.
Way in the back. You knew it would be.
“The only key to success is consistent training.” Only note I took; don’t know which one said it. Doesn’t matter. You could call it a positive addiction, Jon said. Some people might say, compulsion, Jackie added.
No magic, Jon said. Have a plan. Then do what Bowerman taught – continually adapt the plan. Jon and I became friends in the mid-70s when he noticed, seemed every time I popped up at an event, Boston, Eugene, Honolulu, he’d win the race. Guessing he wishes I’d traveled more. Know I do.
Strolled through the crowds with Jon to his next get-together. He not only had a plan but he had a schedule with an escort to keep him to it.. Chatted about walking as a poor substitute for running, but happy we are able still to trudge along vertically. There are worse addictions.
I decide to investigate the Samuel Adams’ Runners’ Village beer tent. A cold can of Wicked Easy Light & Hazy Lager is ten dollars. $10!!! And only 4.7% alcohol. There are worse compulsions.
Best-selling author Des Linden walked by, looking deadly serious. There’s Geoff Smith. Legendary type – won Boston twice – we’ve never met. I am inside the tent and he’s outside, so I point at him and call him over to introduce myself. And he comes over. Lovely smile, passed the test, seemed a genuine nice guy. And then he came back a few minutes and asked me for directions. Funny part, I knew the answer.
Nobody knows where anything is in this town. “Just GPS it on your phone.” Whatever the hell that means.
All I’d had all day to eat was a couple slender oat wafers and that Light & Hazy Lager, so when I looked across some bricks, got excited, maybe hallucinating, and saw a guy who was NOT an old buddy of mine. But he is now.
His name is Tim and he was completely unprepared for who sat down next to him. Everybody’s heard of a therapy dog. Tim is what I call a therapy stranger. Tim was my first. Sure, imagine there’s been others before, many many others, okay, but I never put a name to it.
Tim’s here to support his grown son and I think that’s just great. Solid fathering. He asks me why I’m in town and I’m off! Celebrating my Golden Anniversary where I finished in the Top 500. Sounds pretty impressive, I know.
Finally met Meb. He finished first the year after the bombing and Boston needed that. We all did. Shook my hand twice, looked me in the eyes both times. One half century brings about the next half century.
Like searching for a marijuana dispensary. Need to get the dog his medicine. A wander it was, but Newberry is a nicer neighborhood than where you had to look in years past. Trendy shops, co-eds, trip hazards. All I had to eat all day was that oat bar. Total 15,267 steps.
Didn’t fall.
Saturday April 15.
Local Weather Babe predicts “a soggy marathon.” Met Legendary Bob Hodge for a morning walk. Bob also once finished in the Top 500. Think third place in 1979. He took off. He can still do that. Only slower.
A long and winding road led me to my press credentials at the Copley Plaza. Said hello to Joan Benoit. Had to wait. She was talking to Jane Richard. This young woman lost a leg and a big brother at the tragic bombing ten years ago. Almost got chills to observe Ms. Benoit inspirationally telling the inspirational young woman how inspirational she was.
Introduced myself to Joanie actually, because it’s been a while. I’ve aged, whereas Mrs. Samuelson, eternally golden, is exactly the same, only silver. Chat, chat, briefly. How long has it been? she asked. Ten years? More like thirty, I say, although we have exchanged emails last decade. At goodbye, she smiles and says, “I’m Joanie, by the way.” Of course, she knew who I was, she wanted me to know she knew.
3 p.m. A Gathering of Eagles, which I think began as the Golden Anniversary celebration of the 1973 Boston marathon, meshed with The Bill Squires Invitational Memorial. What a party. Like fantasy camp. These athletes were on the covers of big magazines when magazines were big. Small room, many greats, their loved ones and me. Hey, I was invited.
Giant GBTC Get-Together was among Coach Squires’ final requests. “He pinched pennies all his life and his kids blew the wad at the Copley.” Open bar. Thank you.
Larry Rawson manages to be older and taller in person. Same with George Hirsch. Bill Rodgers and Joan Benoit and Amby Burfoot and Ron Wayne and Jackie Hansen. The estimable Jack Fultz and the Dillons. Green Mountain legend John Dimick. Randy Thomas. Bobbi Gibb and I staggered into a hug, held up by Jon Anderson. Mike Roche was there and Bob Hodge. Ric Rojas and daughter Nell, greatness across generations.
Saw Frank Shorter across the room across the crowd and let him be. These people – told Frank this just last January in Gainesville – you and the rest of these old heroes, just to look at you, to see you in the flesh, makes me feel better. Like there’s a symbiotic relationship between what they did and what I tried to do. What I couldn’t even dream of doing. But I tried.
On the street, old guy, steely buzzcut, talking into a cellphone his wife holds up like a microphone. “My stamina is way down,” he hollers against the wind and traffic noise. “I’m not expecting very much.”
That’s just the wrong attitude, I holler back.
Speaking of attitude, while I am taking a huge piss, I decide to interview the guy at the next urinal.
“So, Steve, remind me, you won Chicago in 2:07, what?”
“Thirteen,” the Welshman said.
You are not accustomed to a joint like this. All the more reason to be here. At your age, you are just a chemical equation. How will a pint of Samuel Adams affect the Ph level?
Happened upon Greg Meyer, who looked to be just finishing up an interview. Said hello and blurted out a question of my own. What is the BAA doing to celebrate your 40th anniversary?
“Nothing,” he said. I was surprised, but he was fine with it.
Well, I know they’ll treat you right in another decade. May have to miss the actual affair myself. And can you imagine what the hotel rooms will cost by then?
Checked out some subterranean dungeon with many notebook computers, nine pale men hunched over their keyboards and free bottled water. Backed out slowly.
Nobody knows where anything is. I am INSIDE the building and you are wearing a UNIFORM – help me out here. Donde esta el banyo?
A week before the race, we were talking fifty degree Fahrenheit temperatures. With a prevailing wind. Really, I looked it up. A man has to know what clothes to pack, right? Pardon the name drop, but I even told Boston Billy about this weather forecast.
We were excited. Plus Kipchoge. Now looks like rain in the face.
Two-thirds of the 1973 winning team – Oregon Track Club’s Ron Wayne and Jon Anderson. Yo, Russ Pate!
Internationally Unknown Running Journalist Hangs Out At The Bar At Copley Plaza’s Oak Room
Speaking of which, Therapy Stranger #2 was a young man, a member of the timing crew. Will Hasse travels all over making sure the runners who pay the big bucks and train the long miles and race their hearts out and their legs off get the right time for their performances.
Told him about the days when you grabbed a popsicle stick with your finishing place numbered on it as you crossed the finish line. And simultaneously turned off your wrist chronometer, where you got your own time.
David “Big Papi” Ortiz is the race’s Grand Marshal. How did this happen, you ask. Don’t ask. Cynics say the race is just an excuse for all the marketing. Too much money. Too many people. Too big. Some purists convinced themselves the beloved baseball celebrity could only help to grow the sport, reach out to a broader audience. I’m gonna go with that.
Too funny, I was writing articles in Track & Field News, The Bible of the Sport – late 1970s, saying the same thing. Too many people. Too big. Fifteen hundred entrants fifty years ago – can you imagine? Never seemed too expensive back then. Something else to ponder.
“What are you drinking there?”, he asked her.
“The blood of Christ,” she replied. Looked like a merlot to me, but I’m nobody’s sommelier.
If I was thirty years younger, I could get picked up here by a highly-toned lightly-tanned marathoner, all depressed because she can’t run Monday with this bad foot, looking for a shoulder to lean on. Okay, forty years younger.
Toni Reavis, Larry Eder and Jeff Benjamin all skipped Boston the one year I show up. You don’t have to spell out ‘conspiracy theory’ for me.
Hungry. Eyed the grilled octopus. Love me some toasty cephalopods. Fava beans, green garlic, Marcona almonds and olives. What’s chermoula? If you guessed a mysterious Moroccan marinade, you’d be right.
Didn’t get it. Had to pee. Lost my seat.
Headed to the men’s room, I bump into somebody famous I know and a couple they know. The joy, the surprise. What are you doing here? We decided at the last minute to come. Last minute room, surprisingly affordable.
The Moxy is a mile away. I’m paying more for four nights than I paid for my first new car off the showroom floor. Can’t help myself. I lean towards the wife and and say quietly, whisper in my ear.
“Less than $500 a night.”
Security stud Dave Nolastname taught me how to use the GPS on my phone. All you have to do is type in “Directions to..” Oriental massage parlor. Bingo. For “nearest strip club.” Badabingo.
I kid. My doctor says my testosterone level is ‘appropriate for my age.’ Which is great when you’re twenty, not so good when you’re pushing eighty.
Brought maybe nine pill bottles with me – no Viagra – and I’m not even sick.
If you are betting, take the field. At dinner, jammed-packed and quite classy, I took the field. Somebody – would you believe a drug-test escort, who must remain anonymous – predicted 2:06:12.
And somebody else picked up the bill. Praise the Lord and thank you. Mean it.
Wedge Salad
https://www.grill23.com/menus
blue cheese ranch, backyard farms tomatoes, north country bacon, shallots, fourme d’ambert cheese 22
I ordered the meat loaf. Could have fed a throuple.
Sunday. April 16.
Amby Burfoot told me he’d be doing some serious napping. Might have napped myself.
To be honest, I am drawing a complete blank on the day before the actual race. Worse, so too is my notebook. That can only mean three things. I didn’t take any notes and I didn’t do anything merited remembrance.
Or I was having so much fun doing something I’ve forgot, I didn’t take notes. Or I did and they’re lost.
Four things.
TO BE CONTINUED….
Imagine you are at the press conference waiting for Kipchoge to show up, your pockets stuffed with $14 chocolate chip cookies.
