Orlando Marathon Trials A Family Affair

The Olympic Trials are the most beautiful heart pumping heart breaking race. 6 peoples’ dreams come true. Everyone else: Proud, defeated, motivated, hungry, questioning. And so WE LINE UP again. Keep paying attention to our sport, all years, all races, tons of stories. It’s good! – Stephanie Bruce

Some men in their old age look to religion or skydiving, maybe family, for succor. I look to running.

Never had any children of my own. Came home from Orlando’s 2024 USA Olympic Marathon Trials feeling like I’d been to a family reunion. Like to think these are my people. Makes me happy just look at them.

Saw a guy who looked exactly like Phil Stewart, still erudite, only forty-years older than the last time I’d seen him. And it was. Stood right next to Michelle LeBrun and asked Bob Fitzgerald – the two from New England Runner – if his wife with him.

And so it went.

Incredibly, Betsy and Jon Hughes’ Track Shack is TWO (2) left turns from my house sixty-five miles away. Like running a 220. I am here for the memorabilia and – Oh, My Taylor – there’s a mock turtleneck in black with a swoosh, looks like I designed the damn thing myself. Only $64. Hope it fits. Lean as I am, always worry ’bout looking like Phil Mickelson in these New Age fabrics.

When I booked a room at the Crowne Plaza, I was under the impression many famous friends would be similarly lodged. But no. The good news, I am upgraded to a King suite. Room 1319. On the thirteenth floor. Never gave Triskaidekaphobia much thought, until Kevin Harper, like a cousin since the ’70s, gasped in horror.

When I booked a room a mile away from the action, I hadn’t yet gone lame. Had to postpone my last two Rehab sessions to make the trip. Can’t see to drive at night; nowhere to park anyway. Besides, I am an old marathoner and it’s only a mile.

Gasp. Arrrghh. Just kiddin.’

Worst part of the trek was homeless buttcrack – great name for a rock band – and interminable “Don’t Walk” signs.

Would you believe a miracle? Two maybe. Got to town Thursday because I didn’t want to miss dinner with Steve Starr, running aficionado of some renown, and Melissa Long Gray, his better 60%. The lovely duo offered to give me a most desirous lift back to the hotel. Never thinking, I’m maybe not the only one who can’t see to drive at night.

Except for not seeing anybody actually famous, the day really couldn’t have gone much better.

Friday, February 2nd, Groundhog’s Day, I pop up in the media credentials room like a rascally rodent looking for springtime. After another longer-than-seemed-really-necessary perambulation with barriers turning most shortcuts into dead ends. Like burrowing on the streets.

Finally got my picture took with Staten Island’s Jeff Benjamin; Bill Rodgers has suggested Jeff is the top running journalist in the business. A capstone to my long career.

Like a virus with an All-Access Pass, I can go everywhere now. Before you can say “Free Beer Tomorrow,” I am behind the press tent, next to the Athletes Holding Area. All seem calm except a young man in a tres chic unstructured ensemble and formally casual loafers with red piping and maybe a Louis Vuitton handbag, twirling somehow. That must be what an agent looks like these days, I thought.

The press tent was too small. Too crowded. A grotesque dearth of adequate seating for seniors. Audio terrible, questions inane. Hard to hear the answers.

Last thing I did hear was something along the lines of ‘This year the big story is the mothers, all the women who interrupted their careers to give birth.’ My own mother would be the first to tell you, that’s always been true.

Joan Benoit Samuelson looked me in the eye and said, “Nice to see you” and I believed her. She’s family.

Max Siegel, clad in an expensive suit, makes a brief appearance. Cannot see what brand of expensive watch. Try to think of Max as part of the family, but it’s hard. I chase after him in my WHERE’S DON’S BRONZE??? shirt but am denied proximity by a real tough middle-aged woman. That last part possibly redundant.

Trudging all the way back to my King Suite, I hear ‘Oh, look, it’s Jack Dog.’ Thinking this is the wrong time for the Federal Marshalls to finally show up, I am pleasantly surprised to see it’s Dave Ross and he’s driving my newest relative Wendy Shulik to the same hotel.

If only my Mom was still alive to hear I turned down a half-dozen invites and went to bed early. Twenty-one thousand (21,000) steps in the first twenty-four hours all I can manage safely.

Actually, I stopped by the hotel restaurant, where Spanish is the first language and the televisions over the bar are playing Fox News. “Media Doesn’t Want Fani’s Affair To Delay Trials.”

I order shrimp tacos, because my King Suite on the Thirteenth floor has a full kitchen but no plates nor utensils. “D.C. Swamp Sabotaging Our Border.” No beer today – stick to water. Big day tomorrow.

And it gets bigger. Message last minute from Employee #2, with tickets to the extravagant Nike shindig. Had a sorta low number myself once.

I haven’t been to a USA Olympic Marathon Trials since 1984. Olympia, Washington.

As I then wrote for Track & Field News, “The Bible of the Sport,”

When I first started running, I was so embarrassed I’d walk when cars passed me. I’d pretend I was looking at the flowers. – Joan Benoit Samuelson.

There was the grey of the overcast skies and the hair of 54-year-old Sister Marion Irvine. There was the evergreen of Douglas fir and 16-year-old Cathy Schiro. There was the gold of the Scotch broom and the dreams of the top three finishers. There was the mystery and misery and mastery of Joan Benoit. There was the control and confidence of Julie Brown. There were the hopes of 238 starters. There was no tomorrow and there will never again be another first Women’s Olympic Marathon Trials.

May 12, 1984

There will never be another 2024 Olympic Marathon Trials. This was a family affair.

First song I hear on race day is Elton John’s “Yellow Brick Road.”

And here I’d like to give a shout out to the valet crew at the Plaza. Jay and C.J. and Derek. It was C.J. at 0900 on Race Day, who personally drove me – alone – in the otherwise empty hotel shuttle bus to the base of the Swoosh Festival. A festival, that’s what it seemed like.

Only person I recognize is Max Siegel. I am not wearing my WHERE’S DON’S BRONZE??? shirt. No Uncle Phil. The stars and super stars and celebrities all showed up later, of course, but by then I was learning how to use the little yellow GPS guy on my phone to find Eola View.

The sophisticated reader of my work may notice I never actually say anything actually bad about Max while sagacious insiders will suspect I’d like the USATF communications staff to include me in updates about the availability of rooms at the host hotel. You would think there’d be a special alert to any running journalist who’s been in the business a half century or more or is over seventy-five years of age. I’ll get a note from my doctor, if that’s what it takes. Not always easy being a grandpa. I have made arrangements with my attorney, if I should die – due to excessive hiking – to seek posthumous remuneration from the National Body. That means you, Max.

Like I wasn’t saying, I didn’t have a back-up plan, what I had was a contiguous schedule.

PUMA Olympic Trials Watch Party

Join PUMA for the Olympic Trials Watch Party on February 3 from 9:00 AM -1:30 PM to cheer on the PUMA athletes and enjoy food and beverages

Saturday, February 3 · 9am – 1:30pm EST

Eola View, East Central Boulevard, Orlando, FL, USA

150 East Central Boulevard Orlando, FL 32801

PUMA Olympic Trials Watch Party

Join us for an exciting in-person watch party as we cheer on the athletes. This event will be held at Eola View, 150 East Central Boulevard, Orlando, FL, USA. Get ready to experience the thrill of the Olympic Trials and enjoy great food and an open bar.

**We are 600 feet from the finish line; the location is right past miles 2, 10, 18, and 26!

PUMA Athletes: Molly Seidel, Sara Vaughn, Dakotah Lindwurm, Jenny Simpson, Annie Frisbie, Jessa Hanson, Natosha Rogers, Fionna O’Keefe, Shadrack Kipchirchir, Isai Rodriguez.

Well, I could not stay away. They had me at ‘open bar.’ Back in the 1970s when the father of the Marketing Director for Running – Puma North America and I were racing Boston, I could hold my own with Walt Stack but not today. Today, ‘open bar’ meant a virgin screwdriver which perplexed the first server, but I got my glass and headed to the balcony.

Yes, the balcony. That insane screaming in the concrete canyons of downtown? That was us. And we had every reason to scream. Did you see the race, when the three Puma girls were pushing the action? Exciting, wasn’t it? Even better when you are with all their parents and aunts and uncles and siblings and partners and sponsors and an endless breakfast buffet.

There’s a sniper on a rooftop. I can see him looking at me. Hope he’s one of ours. Last place woman goes by, and somebody says, she’s seven months pregnant. Not to mention the kinesio-tape holding her left leg together.

Grab another OJ and go inside to find a seat in front of one of the big televisions and say hello to Craig Virgin. The loquacious all-time great is providing a stride by stride analysis of the event unfolding on the streets below. He critiques the form of all the Top 10 women.

Probably should’ve taken notes. Better yet, turned on my phone recorder. Anybody else remember Science Fiction Theater? The two-time WORLD Cross-Country Champion does know what he’s talking about. Can’t forget Craig in his yellow Front Runner kit, plastic straw dangling from his neck, chasing Seko down Boylston Street.

A big topic of conversation was Fiona O’Keefe, the youngster who had never even run a marathon before. She was a big topic because her mother was standing over my shoulder, listening intently as Craig briefed her on the action. History suggests a debutante is not going to beat a field of this quality on this one particular day. Craig doesn’t like a neophyte’s chances, but we are talking to her mother. And her father. Her aunt, too.

And of course right about then the men’s race is sweeping past under the balcony. Pretty soon the women again. Dakotah “From Minnesota” Lindwurm’s supporters seem stoically confident. The aged experts shortly decide there’s no reason, none at all, why our dear Fiona can’t keep this up.

I don’t hear so good, so I’ll just paraphrase. “Now, Mrs. O’Keefe, my mother was in Montreal in ’76, when I was racing the 10K, and you should probably visit the Ladies’ Lounge. Mom said the last two miles were so exciting she almost peed her pants.”

The big story of the race may have been the mothers, but it was the children who captured the podium. And I’ll tell you straight skippy, the cheers and huzzahs ring different when you are in the company of the victors’ families and loved ones.

The Awards ceremony another love fest. It was one big family.

Saturday night. I took a cab to an AirBnB just 3.5 miles away. Valets are only responsible for a three-mile radius. I pop in the door in time to wake Julie Francis from a nap and simultaneously protect my crotch from a large chocolate Lab, Tom Raynor’s aptly named Miles. Also awakened Dave Reinhart.

Refused all the other invites, so I could hang with my hero, Roy Benson. Coach OG. Hope to grow up to be just like him. Only taller.

After dinner, best food in three days, Tom was nice enough to call an Uber, pay the fare and leave a good review. Huge black man driving a crew-cab pickup the size of the street disappears with me into the darkness. Beats walking.

His love life is in shambles. His girlfriend looked at him and asked if he’d be willing to transition for her. She loves his personality but not his gender. How’s he supposed to respond to that?

Mulled this over. My advice, I told him, get a new girlfriend.

February 4, 2024. Sunday morning, racing toward a woman who likes me just the way I am, I took two lefts and a right, getting home as planned for a lunch of cottage cheese, fruit and nuts.

Followed by an overdue nap. And my wife’s screaming.

I manage to be childless, but I do claim five grandchildren. As is my style, I skipped the hard part.

Our second-oldest grandchild – the certified genius – was found dead by his mother when she returned home from church. His body still warm. Three empty pill bottles on the night stand.

Hank had been battling depression for a few years and the disease took its final toll.

I share this tragedy with you because I don’t want the LOVE & FRIENDSHIP I felt in Orlando, in the sport, in our community, to ever leave us.

This weekend will live with me. It has to.

Funeral services will be held on Valentine’s Day.