But – don’t forget – my ideas are only what’s been written down in history by the great people of the world who’ve gone before. All I’ve done is condense the wisdom of the world into an attitude for athletics. Athletics aren’t just running, it’s a way of life. – Percy Cerutty
Chapter Twenty-One
SAND MAN
Calvin Benlehr hated the sand dunes at first.
On vacation trips he’d run the coastal sand cliffs of Oregon, the dunes on the south shore of Lake Michigan, and at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. In the ten weeks prior to the Trials in Alamosa, he subjected himself to weekly forays into the Great Sand Dunes, but was laboring in less than ten minutes.
Percy Cerutty extolled the virtues of training in sand but Cal could not discover a single one of them. That is, until he moved to Colorado to stay.
“Patty! I just came out of the dunes!” he announced excitedly one morning. As always on their trips to the dunes, they ran their separate ways and rendezvoused at the picnic ground for a late breakfast.
Patty had run the jeep road over Medano Pass. Cal had headed into the dunes.
“O.K.” she said obligingly, “tell me about it.”
“I just haven’t been doing enough,” he gushed. “Always before, you know, I’d run until my thighs were burning and call it good.”
He was drenched in sweat, not an uncommon sight, but also covered with dark sand, his socks drooped below his ankles, water squished from his shoes.
“This time, I got to the High Dune and just kept running. I set my sights on the Star Dune and stayed high as long as possible. I kept running northwest to the third and fourth largest dunes I could see. Then I worked my way down to the stream. I’ve been running up the creek bed for 45 minutes – I just stayed in the water!”
“No kidding,” Patty laughed. “I went ahead and ate. If you hadn’t been here by 10:30, I’d have called the rangers.”
“Honey, the secret is to keep moving. The legs come back. I’ll carry some water next time, but wow – what a workout!”
Now, three years later, the dunes run was a fixture in the training regimen of the HOGs. The course had been pared to a seven-mile loop that challenged the two highest dunes plus the return through the creek. Every Tuesday, high winds or calm, soft sand or firm, Calvin Benlehr led his charges into the dunes.
Diana Bailey appreciated the workout immediately. She skittered across the dunes like the sand-treader camel crickets, frequently summiting the tallest dunes ahead of Madras and Nikolas.
“You’re light as a bug,” Madras rationalized. “You don’t even sink in!”
“Your testosterone can’t stand it, can it, Chuck? Having a woman finish ahead of you in a workout.”
Madras always attacked the dunes via the most direct route, frequently achieving a lead of several hundred feet. Diana would follow Coach Benlehr through the passes and bowls, ignoring Madras and Nikolas, who usually followed his faster stablemate.
On the days Diana didn’t beat the boys, they were looking over their shoulders with apprehension. And about once a month, Calvin Benlehr would beat them all.
“You’re a regular sand man, Coach,” Madras remarked one chill January morning after catching his breath at the top of the Star Dune, four miles out. He shook hands with his weathered mentor in genuine admiration.
“I’m betting there’s no one who has ever run these dunes as good as you. What’s your secret? I can beat you by a minute-thirty when we run mile repeats.”
Benlehr was training with a passion, it was true. He had not competed in almost ten years, but he was completing workouts the equal of anything he’d run thirty years earlier. His efforts set the tone for his charges and they were determined to emulate him.
“The secret, my young friend, is to get tough!”
He laughed. “No, the secret is to quit poking holes in the sand and pick an easier route. We’re at 8,000 feet, so you have to avoid drowning in lactic acid. You spend half your time hiking straight up – Diana and I are trying not to walk by choosing the easiest possible route.”
“You guys are getting a heck of a training stimulus, but we’re covering more ground, enjoying the dunes, and occasionally beating your butts!”
“You the man, Coach,” Nikolas said, then spun around and sprinted toward the next summit. “See if you can beat us to the next one.”
Dune Day was never easy but it was always satisfying. The HOGs had come to appreciate Benlehr’s orchestration of their training, mixing the grueling with the merely tough.
It was Nikolas, whose Olympic Trial came first, who put the idea in Calvin’s head.
“How fast did you run in ’68, Coach?” he asked one evening as the small, weary group slouched in their old chairs in front of the fireplace.
“Out here, in Alamosa? Five fifty-seven pace, 2:36:05.”
“I’ll bet you could beat that time right now, Sand Man,” Nikolas offered.
“Naw. Maybe I could run 2:36 in a downhill, wind-aided marathon. But I’ve lost a lot of zip.”
“That doesn’t sound like the attitude you’ve been preaching to us,” Madras chimed in. “You ought to give it a go.”
“Yeah, Coach,” Diana echoed. “We could pace you, you know, give you drinks. You ought to go for it.”
Calvin was glad that Patty didn’t speak in favor of it. But it was well past midnight before sleep overtook the boy from Kentucky who, on one special day three decades before, was the sixth best marathoner in America.
The Jackson course was a multi-lapper, the first marathon Trials venue to conduct the race in that format since Alamosa. So, Calvin scheduled Chris to time-trial The Loop once a month. Time compensations were allowed for the altitude and his fatigued condition. This particular Sunday, Nikolas was scheduled for three non-stop laps, 15.6 miles.
Madras and Bailey headed to Cole Park for a fartlek recovery workout – their long run had been the day before.
“Good luck, Chris. Have a good one,” Diana yelled.
Nikolas ran a bit too fast, 30:05 on his first lap, and slowed to 32:12 on his second go-round.
Calvin saw the anxious strain on his face as Chris approached for his third lap. Cal slipped his racing flats on.
“I’m going to pace him through his final loop,” he told Patty.
“Are you warmed up enough?” she asked, but her gangly husband had made up his mind, warmup or not.
“O.K., Chris. I’m gonna cruise this lap with you; it will make it easier if you have company.”
Calvin distracted Nikolas with coaching chatter as they ran together around the course.
“Go through your inventory, Chris. Relax your neck. Now, check your shoulders and your arms. Run tall. Run out of your pelvis.”
“Run lightly on the path. Just flow. Now focus on the next turn.”
“Almost done, Chris. Good job. Concentrate on just this mile.”
They approached the completion of the workout and Cal’s stride was long and relaxed. “I’m going to run another lap,” he blurted to Patty, who called out their split.
“30:28.” Her voice revealed her surprise.
“Good work, Chris,” Coach Benlehr shouted over his shoulder. Walk a cooldown mile.”
Cal Benlehr was cruising. High, thin clouds skimmed the tops of the snow-capped Crestones to the north and the Sierra Blanca to the east. Spring weeds were opening their first leaves along the path. The air was still, offering northbound sandhill cranes no tailwind.
“Chris, go get Diana and Chuck. Tell them to get back here fast.” Patty had a feeling.
By the time Cal completed his second loop, his charges were in a line, fifty yards apart, each holding a bottle or a sponge.
“One hour, one minute, forty-eight seconds,” Patty called out. “We’ll send someone to the midway point with some water.”
Calvin Benlehr was going for it. He slid into the third of the five laps with the resolve he had felt all those years before, racing against the clock. Be patient, he urged himself. Make this one as easy as possible.
Madras drove the trio of Olympic hopefuls counter-clockwise around the course and they piled out of the car and arrayed themselves along the path.
“Way to go, Coach,” shouted Diana, extending a squeeze bottle toward him.
“Nice job, Coach,” said Chris. “You look strong.” He handed Cal a water-soaked sponge.
Madras held a cup of water by its top, the bottom hanging free, as Cal always provided it for them in their races. “You’re awesome, Coach.”
Cal sped away from them, now past halfway. So far, he ran in a seamless groove. He knew there would be a time of trial but hoped it would wait a few more miles before introducing itself.
The runners drove back to the finish and cheered heartily as their coach blazed past.
“One-thirty-two, twenty-seven, Honey,” called Patty. “Perfect pace.”
Calvin Benlehr recalled the Trials race as if it had been yesterday.
At this point I was fifteenth. I could see six men ahead and they were coming back.
Forget it all, he reminded himself. Just run this mile. His runners were waiting again at the mid-point of this fourth lap – that would be something around eighteen miles. Still no pain. He snatched the bottle from Diana’s grip and took another sopping sponge.
“You’re going to do it, Coach,” said Madras, without raising his voice. The effort of this man, who had reached him as no coach had ever done, raised goose bumps on his arms.
The crisis hit Cal in the next mile. He was past nineteen, he was sure of that. He leaned slightly into the bridge over the Rio Grande and his right calf seized. At first, it was just a twinge, but the third time, the twinge became a cramp. He lurched into a gallop, his unaffected leg maintaining its full stride while he shortened the right one. The cramp eased and he allowed himself to re-accelerate.
As he approached the final lap, Patty ran alongside to ask him a question. “Where is the finish line?”
It was a good question. No one in attendance had a clue. Calvin smiled. They were projecting to the end, even though more than five miles were left to run. That was what he must do. Envision the finish. The barn was there, waiting, and he could make a run for it.
“Near the fieldhouse,” Cal panted. “The fire plug in front of the fieldhouse.”
Chuck read his split as Cal strode past. Two hours, three minutes, thirteen seconds.”
Diana was bouncing up and down, “Go for it, Coach.” She handed him the squeeze bottle and he drained it.
“Focus, Coach. One mile at a time,” Chris said.
Calvin Benlehr was riveted to his task. He dismissed, a dozen times, the voices that reminded him he was not peaked for this effort; that he had not raced in a decade; that he could not possibly expect to match a performance he had done in 1968. Those voices were the bane of every runner.
“You were born to run this race,” he said aloud. That mantra had served him well before. It was the only message his brain needed.
Cal Benlehr smiled as he passed the three young runners who waited on the back of the loop for him. His demeanor was so positive, so commanding, that none of them spoke. He took only a cup of water and sped down the path. The pain in his calf was ignored. He could run on a wooden leg at this point. The searing dryness in his throat was a minor irritation.
These are the Olympic Trials and you risk everything. There will be no second-guessing your effort. It is do or die.
Calvin Benlehr bounded over the bridge for the final time, glided up Main Street, oblivious to traffic on its way to a dozen churches, and turned onto the finish stretch. Faster, he told his body, and his legs found another gear. Sprint, he said, and he found that he could.
Chuck stood at the end of the fifth lap, at 26 miles, reading the stopwatch aloud – “2:33:45 – 2:33:50 – 2:33:55.”
Calvin didn’t hear. He rushed past Madras and tried to hold his form. His arms stroked at the ground. Run tall or you’ll fall over.
Three figures stood in the street, waving him toward them. He could hear shouts but his gasping breath muted them. He looked down at the pavement – then up toward the finish – then down again. Just a few more seconds . . .
Calvin Benlehr braked to a stop ten yards past the fire hydrant. He planted both feet in the street and was motionless. In seconds, Patty was pouring water over his head. The voices were louder now. Chris was patting him on the back. Diana was laughing and cheering.
“You did it, Honey,” Patty said. “2:35:10.” She kissed him, holding his sweaty face between her hands. Cal smiled sheepishly and walked up the street to cool down.
Two weeks later, in Jackson, Mississippi, Chris Nikolas would face 120 other Olympic hopefuls who had qualified for the Trials. The press would call them America’s first Olympians. For Chris, the first Olympian was his fit and fearless coach. That morning in Alamosa, Chris dedicated himself to duplicate the Sand Man’s effort on the streets of Jackson.
* * * * *
Athletics Gazette–April 4
The first Olympian on the U.S. track and field squad was selected today in Jackson, Mississippi, at the men’s marathon trial. Running a criterium-style course, 106 of the 121 qualifiers battled to the finish line in a race marred by inclement weather and numerous mishaps.
Unheralded Chris Nikolas of Bismarck, North Dakota, sloshed through the puddled streets to snatch victory and the $50,000 winner’s check. His time was a PR for him, 2:14:07, but well shy of the 2:12:00 required to send more than one American to the Games in August.
Cecil Medley, the top American in last year’s Boston Marathon, lost a shoe at the 23-mile aid station and slipped from contention, finishing fourth in 2:16:20. Tom Meadows and Tom Lawson placed second and third, finishing together in 2:15 flat. They each collected $35,000; Medley won $25,000, and Jorge Ochoa departed with $15,000 in fifth place.
The convoluted course, designed for easy TV coverage but a labyrinth for the runners, was so complicated the lead motorcycle went off course twice. Puddles frequently obscured a blue line painted on the street.
“I wish they would get this thing right,” said Armando Animas, distance coach of Team USA.
“They selected this site for television, prize money, and spectators. The athletes, once again, got short-changed. We should be conducting our Trials on established, historically fast courses – like most other countries do – to ensure PR times and three qualifiers. There were 50 turns on this route, 50! Nikolas would have run 2:10 or better at New York City or Boston.”