The Great Bonne Bell Run-In

 I get odd looks when I show people this medal for the Bonne Bell road race series that was an all women's race.  The exception was the very first one they did in 1976 when the rage was 7.6 mile races and the race was co-ed.  Here is my story.

I thought my running career would end with my college days.  Three months off till shortly after starting podiatric medical school is all the hiatus lasted.  I wanted to totally immerse myself in my new courses but found something was missing.  There was this plaque in the old fieldhouse at Bates College that said something like the student is like a tripod of academics, athletics, and emotional health.  When one leg of the tripod is shortened the structure becomes unstable.  I found a group of medical and dental students that would run one mile around a track next to the dormitory I was living a couple times per week.  They planned upon running the Bonne Bell race the following month.  Frank Shorter, the Olympic gold medalist was scheduled to run in the race so these wise guys decided to have shirts made up that said Frank who? on the back.  Their goal was to sprint at the start to get right in front of Shorter for a few seconds to pull off their prank.  Their runs never progressed beyond the mile so I left the group and went out on the roads and built up to 3-4 miles per day before the race.

Fast forward to the race day.  The gun went off and I shot off the line like it was the first race I ever ran.  It did not take me long before I realized I was co-leading the race with Frank Shorter.  I chuckled to myself, maybe the med/dental group should have given me one of their shirts.  We passed through the mile at 4:45 and I did not feel bad at all.  About a mile and a half into the race I still felt good but my common sense finally came to me.  I still have over 6 miles to race and I have never raced that far before.  Bob, maybe you shouldn't be locking onto an Olympian's pace especially with minimal training.  I let Frank go and settled into a more reasonable pace.  I finished the 7.6 mile race and not many people passed me (maybe about 15).  I did well enough to medal in my age group and thought that maybe I should stick with this running thing.  My tripod has stayed balanced ever since.

The path less traveled

"TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth"


One of life’s crossroads came in junior high school for me. My main extracurricular activity was band. I played in the band or at least was the source of the band conductor’s indigestion with my very mediocre performance. Only the best made Jazz band. My goal of saxophone in the Jazz band was just a pipe dream or should I say a reed dream. There was something about the blue note that struck a chord with me. My problem was the John Phillip Souza sour notes that blocked the way to that goal. I turned down the less traveled path of running that early spring over 40 years ago. My foot steps still grace that path.

Last week I went to the Cohasset by the sea Road Race. I cannot believe it has been 30 years of one race for me. It feels like I am living a remake of the movie Same Time Next Year. I guess life does imitate art. But, a good race has a way of drawing one back. The time of year kicks off my racing season (especially as I age and race less often). The course is beautiful. It goes by quaint inlets, spectacular ocean vistas, mansions of the rich and famous, and historical points of interest. The course is challenging. Challenge inspires my gumption more than a flat fast “PR” course. The race is well run year after year. Every turn is marked and every split is barked out loud, clear, and accurate. The post race festivities (food, times, awards, etc.) are prompt and efficient. Then there is the legacy effect. Each year insidiously adds to its momentum. It seems to add to the tall tail legend effect, as well. I noticed that I was being credited with “5 or 6 wins” when in fact it is more like 3. At this rate, I can expect to be credited with 42 overall wins when they run the 40th annual in 7 years.

About 1,500 runners lined up on this sunny but very breezy 57 degree day. While waiting for the race to start, someone tapped me on the shoulder and introduced himself. It turned out to be my paperboy from the early/mid 1980’s. I had given him a shirt I got from famed miler Steve Scott as part of his newspaper Christmas tip. I remember this young boy reacting like I had given him a leprechaun’s pot of gold. He went on to become quite a middle distance runner. I wonder if my gift had any influence on his path. He then says that he will be shortly entering the masters division. Now I just feel real old rather than philosophical.

I ran a time of 37:23, a respectable time for someone about to turn 55. I particularly enjoyed this years Cohasset by the sea 10K. I felt good. I also had the surreal experience of many past positive and memorable moments merging into one nostalgic point of time. I won the race three different times today. I was also top 5 a gazillion times more. I ran mid 31 minutes like I did in my heyday. My picture crossing the finish line graced the cover of the Cohasset phone book afterwards. It was 90 degrees. It was 33. It was raining cats and dogs. There were small dogs flying off the ground (one year a small dog not on a leash dashed out from the narrow funnel of people right at the finish line. The race director hooked it with his foot a half stride in front of me barreling down the chute, sending it back into the crowd. All I saw was the poor pooch come from the bottom of my field of vision and take off like superdog out the upper right of my field of vision. Dog was startled but apparently unhurt. The same was true for yours truly).

So, I look forward to next year at my annual rite of spring, the Cohasset by the Sea Road Race and hopefully many more.

I topped the day off by going to a monthly jazz concert in Weymouth. Don Altobello and his group put on a fine show at Hajjar’s restaurant. It is stellar music of the style I always wanted to play. For a couple hours, the musical idioms help me slip into a musical bliss. Time again becomes non linear. I revisit that fateful divergence on my life’s path all over again, one that has made all the difference.

Millennium Musings

I would like to extend a belated happy new year to all my readers. I would also like to share an article I wrote for my running club newsletter written on New Years eve, 1999.

The clock ticks methodically towards midnight on New Year's Eve. To some it is Armageddon of religious prophecy. To others, it's Silicon Valley Armageddon with Y2K bugs buzzing in civilization's ear. To me, it is just another night of lasagna and fine wine at home to usher in make-a-resolution-to-break-next-week day (or I will write the updated year on my checks day). I refused to bring in firewood from the woodpile for our fireplace. My better half said it had nothing to do with Y2K but that more drunks hit telephone poles on New Year's Eve than any other night. Well, she never had me bring in firewood on any other New Year's Eve. Still, I can't help but ponder whether my tension level should be higher than “Hey mon, don't worry…be happy.” I remember pondering about the year 2000 when I was a child, (jeez, I'll be old then), and what the world would be like. I also remember reading about Haley's comet, which would make its next pass near our planet around that time (neat, I really want to see that). I also vaguely remember being in a battle for my life at age 6. I had rheumatic heart disease twice by that time and spent most of my first grade hospitalized with a failing heart valve. My hospital stay at River Dell Hospital coincided with Dr. X, (as he was known on national news). This Doctor Death, as I called him, went around the hospital killing patients with curare. Fortunately, I missed his wrath but had the sequellae of my illness to deal with. Since I nearly died on strike two, strike three would be fatal. My parents were given instructions to have me take preventative antibiotics for the rest of my life and to not stress my heart. “His heart won't have the physical tools to handle exercise.” For a child that means no play. I penciled in a lot of Venus Paradise color by number pictures and read a lot of astronomy and geology books on a cot that was moved into the backyard on nice days.My life changed when a man who was deemed by the “wise men” of baseball to be too short, too stocky, and too slow to ever play professional baseball hit the scene. Spring training flash in the pan they said. He'll be gone before July. I remember seeing Pete Rose in the old Polo Grounds in New York City against the Mets. The game was won with a 10th inning homerun by Art Shamsky, (who?), but Pete kept his team in it with hits, runs, and plays that never end up in the box scores. In a post-game interview, he dispelled his critics by saying something to the nature of focus, a lot of practice and 110 percent effort can overcome a greater skill level. If this star baseball player could prove the experts wrong, so could I. So a journey of a thousand miles began with a single step. I first imagined I was playing baseball for Pete Rose's team by bouncing a ball off the back steps of our house. With each passing day, I threw the ball harder while running, diving and lunging for the increasingly errant bounces. Soon, the imagined game became real effort. No longer would I be denied exercise. My crazy play was exercise! I soon won my parents and doctor over to my side. This was good because I failed every team physical involving a stethoscope and needed letters from both parties to fight for my re-installment. By junior high school, I was ready to go out for a sports team. Basketball was my passion then but I chickened out with a steady barrage of too short, too thin, and too slow even though I out played some of the future team members in pickup games. I chastised myself for ignoring Pete's creed and vowed to go out for the track team (at least, nobody gets cut from that team).Our first meet ever was against local powerhouse, Bergen Catholic. Their team filled 3 school buses. They warmed up in a single file line one stride apart that was a quarter of a mile long. I was our second string miler (of 2 runners) lining up in 3 rows of BC runners. I don't know what got into me when the gun went off. I bolted for the front and “never looked back.” The first quarter was in 65 seconds, 10 seconds faster than my PR for that distance. Bets were flying on the sidelines as to how much further I'd go before I would double over in a heaving ball on the track infield. Well, it never happened. I held on to win in 5:04 by a 100-yard margin over the second finisher. We lost the meet 89-6. I went from bully fodder to celebrity but only Pete Rose and myself knew the real victory that was won that day.

It was cloudy every night of Haley's comet close pass to the earth. Still, I got up in the middle of the night to check the sky anyway. A boyhood promise had to be kept. On the last night it was to be visible with the naked eye, I woke up at 3 AM to a sky that was sparkling clear… and a blustery 8 degrees (a March 12 record). I bundled myself up and drove to Duxbury beach, a recommended viewing point. I arrived to disappointment. The only cloud patch in the whole sky was over the comet. Still I persevered. I'd stay till dawn if I had to. Then I heard a voice from the pitch-black beach. “Want to see the comet? My telescope has a special lens to see through clouds,” said some kind gentleman. I nodded and took a gaze. “It's not a great view. It kind of looks like a 30 watt light bulb in a dirty fish tank,” he joked. “It's great light to a six year old boy,” I replied to a now confused man.It was October of 1999 and I watched on TV as Pete Rose was honored for being chosen to the All Century Baseball team. The standing ovation he got outshone all of the other team members, including hometown hero Henry Aaron. I think this happened not so much for his accomplishments in his sport but to celebrate his moral victory. The man Pete bested for the hit record purposely sharpened his spikes to hurt people and was so bigoted that he should have worn a white sheet rather than a baseball cap. People have committed far worse deeds and atrocities. Putting a wager on his team to win pales in the face of murder, rape, and snuffing out the hope of our youth with drugs. Yet a man who gave gifts to groundkeepers and towel managers to show his gratitude for a kind word and a job well done is not even allowed in the parking lot of any baseball game.

Well, the first has come and gone. No bugs, no devils, no (computer) errors, and no terrorists left on base. But I knew that yesterday. Armageddon doesn't choose a nice round number. It's something we confront daily. It was there at age 6, in junior high and on that frigid dark beach. Through focus, practice, and 110 percent effort the greater skills of bad luck can be overcome making the goals we achieve so much more special. No, 2000 is just another step along that journey of a thousand miles.

Chemin du Buttereau

(Please click on each picture for a better view)

Longevity in the distance running is intertwined with heavy doses of health, luck, and spirit. Longevity is something I have been blessed with in this sport. I have been running for 40 years and have won races overall in 6 different decades

In this post, I will share a source of my spiritual renewal. It is a running course I call Chemin du Buttereau (or just Chemin for short) after the Cape Breton Highland National Park trail that makes up the bulk of the course. The course starts right in front of the modest cottage I own in Petit Etang, Nova Scotia. Within one minute of running along the Cabot Trail you enter the national park running over a bridge crossing the Cheticamp River. A quick swing around the park visitor center and you go through the campground. Back to the Cabot Trail for a 150-200 meter section around a pond. Now you start the well groomed hiking trail called Le Chemin du Buttereau. The trail climbs for a couple hundred meters. It then follows the river in rolling fashion shaded with assorted glimpses of river, emerald colored delta islands,beach and ocean. Once you reach the mouth of the river at the ocean (Gulf of St Lawrence), there is a one kilometer loop that I never tire of, physically or spiritually. The waves thunder majestically against the cliff on the ocean side. I often see whales in the water here.

Eagles glide apparently motionless in the thermals above this spot. The meandering course of the river on the riverside has water that glistens like silver in the daytime sun. Troubles melt away. The only decision that has to be made is how many kilometer loops shall I run today.

It is the only course I have that I get a sense of disappointment when I turn back home rather than add another loop. The course is challenging but not so challenging that you couldn't run it on many consecutive days. The footing is of speed work quality. The trail isn't the only good scenery on the run. Here is the campground road only minutes from home.

When I had cardiac problems a couple of years ago and thought running might become a thing of the past, you get a feeling of loss. It was not the loss of racing skills that hit me the hardest. The thing I mourned most was not being able to run Chemin. This is when I realized the value of priceless intangibles I already had.

The cardiac problems cleared up. I am back to racing and more importantly, back to Chemin. My first run on this course of every trip now starts with a Rocky-like arms in the air exultation when I reach the river ocean junction. This new crazy running ritual will no doubt last as long as I am able to run.

The Old Man and the Sea

Danny, as promised, this essay in in honor of you.

An earlier time and version of me, I often heard phrases like, “runs with the grace of a deer” or “runs like the wind.” Once upon that youthful time, I was running alone on my high school track. A solitary old man was sitting in the stands. He limped slowly up to me after I finished my run, and said that he enjoyed the beauty of my stride. I stammered as I tried to come up with a response, but he interrupted and went on with passion in his voice. “I've seen many people run on this track and some quite fast. You don't run. You're visual poetry with the ground. It is a gift to be cherished. It makes the eyes and spirit of old men young again. It is the essence of life, I say. Never, I say never, give it up.” I really stared blankly now, not knowing what to say. The riddles seemed to shroud the compliments in an overwhelming way for a fragile young boy's psyche. I grabbed my sweats and went on my way.

It was 15 degrees, at best, on blustery February Sunday. Winds were 20 MPH gusting into the 30's slowing the pace of fast legs that have seen better days. It seems that, factors of aging aside and a bout with heart disease, it has become easier to let off the gas pedal of vigor and hide within my own comfort zone with each passing year. It is even easier when I can rest on past laurels. Reminiscing is easier than pushing the human limits of running. I questioned my own sanity for choosing this spot and on this day for a run. However, lunacy ruled for the day, as I headed directly into the wind to start the run. I distracted myself with the blue and green quilted waves with bright whitecaps that boldly crashed upon the beach. The horizon was so clear I felt like I could reach out and touch its delicate but definite boundary. The majestic display of nature helped to occupy the mind while the hamstrings cursed and screamed with every step into the head wind. My face was so cold, the sinuses ached. I broke the monotony and the chill by running one minute down wind before running 4 minutes further up wind. The only pleasure heading up wind for the four minutes was watching the seagulls and piping plovers that were hunkering down on the beach weave a pattern in the sky in front of me as they temporarily fled my approximate path up the beach. Just before the northerly turn-around, I saw a seagull who did not take flight. Instead it sat limp and drained with a stoic but determined stare. I soon realized it was sick, injured, or both. Death could not be but a few hours away. I felt a reverent pity for the poor creature's soul. I could not help but think that we will all be in that bird's situation one day.

I reached the turn-around point and relaxed my effort into the pleasant feel of a tailwind. I slowed my pace as I came back by the dying bird, wishing there was something I could do to make things better. Whatever great my empathy for this creature facing the end of life, I realized my powers over nature and the meaning of life were very limited. I looked back over my shoulder one last time to see the noble posture and courage in the face of death. My mind then flashed back to the old man at the track. The irony then dawned upon me that, if the bird could see how I have treated my gift, it might be having pity upon me. Be it a few hours or a few decades, be it disease or the slow march of the aging process, we do not die from disease, disability, and age. We live with them. Something happened to the embers of old sparks. My sun-faded jacket had an inner glow. I slowly upped my pace from the comfort zone.

It was Mark Twain who said, "Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover."

The trade winds pushed at my back. I concentrated on form. My pace continued to quicken as I explored, dreamt, and discovered.

Yes, you must have your ship boldly take on the wave in order to ride its crest. I want to try my best to get to the top of my own wave and touch the sky even if gravity and physics has lowered its watery mountain-size. The crest is the thrill. It is the essence of life. It is the thrill of the chase. It is Santiago catching his marlin. The prize is in the struggle. Yes, my eyes were starting to see with clarity. What can these old sea legs can do if given the chance? It is time to revisit the gift of stride, for that is how the spirit, once again, becomes young.

All that glitters

I think everyone who partakes in an amateur sport, at some time or another, entertains the dream of running in an Olympic or world championship. I often did on days when I felt extra spunky on a run. It is just that I happen to also be a realist, even when I have my head above the clouds. Therefore, I rarely won, even in my dreams. Cracking the top ten was a fine and dandy doer even for a dreamer.

The idea to revisit cross-country in a big way started when Coach Bill Squires asked some of my workout friends and me if we wanted to run on a team for him in the cross-country Nationals to be soon held in Boston. Bill was between jobs and looking to showcase himself. He had been providing free coaching during the past two years for us, so it was the least we could do for him. He registered us with the USATF as Team SISU and gave us singlets with the team name. Sisu is a Finnish word which roughly translates to courage or toughness.....OK a closer translation would be balls! While waiting for my race, I watched Rodgers and few other people I know in the 1990 Masters XC championship race, thinking, I could do that. I could stay up with those guys (not yet realizing that age 36 is very different from 40+). So the seeds were sewn for a goal. Oh yes, I was about 200th place in the open championship.

Over the next three years, I trained hard but my heart really wasn't into it. I blamed it on the new duties of fatherhood rather than the physiology of aging. My times were getting slower and it was getting more difficult by the year to compete in the open division. As I approached age 39, I read that the National Masters XC champ would be returning to Boston but that the open division race would now be held at a separate time and location. This didn't bother me because I would be a master. I slowly started “ramping” up training. There was a lot of grass running leading to repeat miles on a boring, flat, devoid of shade course I laid out around the outside of the track on the school grounds. This was the best I could do in park-bare Weymouth to get a necessary pillar of cross country training. One can transition from grass to roads but you cannot go from road training and expect to do well on grass. I trained through a 5k developmental XC race to get the first feel of running in spikes since college. Then after a couple of weeks where many of my repeat miles dipped under 5 minutes per mile, I ran the New England XC champs. I finished 3rd, just barely loosing out in a last minute battle for second with Jack Fultz (two time winner of the Boston Marathon). Then, I fully backed off on the training and did my goal race. I was 7th in the Nationals and exacted my revenge on Fultz, who finished a couple of places back.

So, my goal was complete.....or so I thought until the invitation to the Worlds came in the mail. USA was the host country for the first time in 20 or 30 years and Buffalo was the host city. Hmmmmm. Doable! Very Doable. The race would be July 12 which was at the end of my hard to change, already scheduled vacation. The wife and son did not want to give up our Nova Scotia trip so the compromise was a slightly shortened Nova Scotia trip, then shuffle off to Buffalo. My first thoughts when opening the invitation: July 12th in upstate New York.......it will probably be 90 degrees and humid. So bring on the encore presentation of repeat grass miles and Sunday fartlek workouts. Add some weight lifting type workouts to boot. Then resist the urge to remove that extra clothing layer in the spring all the way into the summer. By the time we transition into summer, I'm still doing my workouts when it is 80 degrees with a rain suit on. This culminates in my last full length workout 5 days before the big race. I ran an easy paced 11 miles on a 90 degree day in a full rain suit. Since 90 days are rare in Aylesford, Nova Scotia and most locals were suffering in the heat, I was quite a sight to the locals in my heavy running gear.

Sunday- There is heavy bumper to bumper traffic through Maine that afternoon. We decide to drive an extra 50 miles and sleep at home in our own beds in Massachusetts.

Monday- Then, go west, young (errr old) man. We make it as far as Syracuse and stay in a motel. Tuesday- Next morning I wake up and I cannot put any weight on my left leg. It is two days before race day. First thought, panic! The next thought: okay, what did I do that was unusual 1-2 days ago? Ah, heavy clutch activity in our standard transmission car in Maine. I hobble out to the car and continue a gimpy shuffle off to Buffalo.

Wednesday- I wake up in Buffalo and the leg has made quite a recovery. A short run confirms my opinion. I go to a team meeting /athlete orientation. WAVA (World Amateur Veterans Association- the arm of IAAF that handles us geezers) and IAAF(the organization that runs the Olympics) officials “lay down the law” about conduct, random drug testing, etc. I rest in the motel for the afternoon and watch my son. My wife goes and tours around Niagra Falls.

Thursday- It's race day! Out to Akron Falls, the site of the cross-country venue. We reserve a spot in a campground only a couple of miles away for afterwards, then off to the race. I was wrong about the knee jerk temperature prediction. It wasn't 90 and humid. It was 99 and humid! My race was last as they started with the older age groups of both men and women. Half hour before race time, warming up. The course is 10,000 meters (6.21 miles), has a lot of up hill in the first half (my forte) and is flat or downhill in the second half. The last mile culminates in a lot of downhill (my weakness). 10 minutes before race time, there is an announcement. 24 people treated by medics on the scene today and 10 of those requiring hospitalization. The event has been postponed until further notice. Shock and disbelief set in. A meeting was scheduled at the Games headquarters tomorrow. It was only announced in English. A Runner from Portugal standing next to me is lost in concept due to the language gap. I don't know the language but I do know a little Spanish. I successfully get the concept across in the third party language. Back to the campground. We see groups of teens heading into the campground with cases of beer, possible impending bad weather, and a race possibly still to be run. There are broken beer bottles on our tent site. We decide to leave. Buffalo is out of the question for accommodations with the Worlds now in full swing. Severe weather alerts are starting to come across the radio. We pull into a motel in Akron Falls. I forget the name. I think it was the Bates Motel or something like that (psycho violins sound effects scream in the background). The manager, who has a strange resemblance to a young Anthony Hopkins shows us to a room. My 5 year old son goes to sit on the bed and it collapses <>psycho violins. Mr. Hopkins shows us another room and the bed is fine. We take it. Later, I check the bathroom and see an old porcelain tub style shower with a white vinyl shower curtain. The light in the shower is a bare bulb hanging from two wires. There is no cover plate protecting the electrical outlet. <>more shrieking violins Now there are violent thunderstorm warnings and a tornado warning for this area. I have the urge to shut the TV off for fear of a Hitchcock film festival being the feature presentation.

Friday (the 13th )- Well, we made it through the night. No conversations with a long dead mother or daggers in the dark. It's off to a meeting that hopefully will not be run by a fellow in a hockey mask named Jason. An official looking person comes in and reads a brief statement. The gist is that the race will be run Monday morning at 9:00. This looks grim for me. My wife must be back to work Monday and Horror Hotel is out of the question for even another night. I see the Portuguese runner I met yesterday and tell him that it is unlikely that I will be able to run. He tells me in Spanish, “Hay uno o dos cuartos vacíos en mi edificio en la aldea del atleta (There are one or two empty rooms in my building in the Athlete village).” This is confirmed with a WAVA official so the wheels of Instride's scheming gears start to turn. My wife and son head home. I stay and eat in the Athlete village and take a flight from Buffalo to Boston. I miss my scheduled work in a nursing home on Monday, but they were already in the process of giving my work to a multi-health service corporation. So a delay till the following weekend shouldn't ruffle any feathers. So it's settled. I continue the quest. Take that, Jason!

I was on the tenth floor of a building without air conditioning. The only people who spoke English on my floor were those from New Zealand and they generally kept to themselves. I wasn't going to go to Opening ceremonies tonight (sounded too pomp and circumstance for me) but changed my mind to get some human contact after many hours of solitude. It was clearly my best decision of this adventure. I had never experienced the full roar of tens of thousands of people cheering on the home team when we entered the stadium in our USA uniforms. I was placed in the front row for the procession because someone decided I looked good in my uniform (somebody better give that official a drug test). There were fireworks, Elvis impersonators parachuting to a target on the 50 yard line, a Chubby Checkers concert, acrobats and dancers. All in all, it was quite entertaining. Ingrained in my mind was that Ruth Anderson as the torch person to light the “Olympic flame.” She dropped the torch after lighting the flame and the flammable material from the torch must have spilled and caught fire. The platform was engulfed in flames but a quick acting fire fighter whisked her out of there with only suffering minor burns rather than doing a Joan of Arc imitation.

Saturday- It is still hotter than Hingham House of Pizza Buffalo wings. Rod Dixon wins the 800 meters in that furnace. I remembered him medalling at the Montreal Olympics in the black uniform of New Zealand.

My travels lead me to discover an air conditioned room in a place housing mostly Australian athletes. The “cool room” was one of the few comfortable places around. They quickly adopt me as one of their own on the basis of his wit and story telling. One of the Aussie women I spoke with makes it through the prelims and semis in the 100 meters. Her physical rehab between races is thorough and her demeanor is incredibly focused. I now have some new found respect for sprinters. I told her that maybe I'll watch her race Sunday night to offer moral support. She says if I do anything other than rest for my race, she would personally beat me up. Considering the size of here biceps and the speed in her legs, I have no doubt that she could keep her word. I followed her advice.

Sunday- I don't know if it is hot enough to fry an egg or humid enough to poach that egg. Maybe I could tell if I could figure out which came first, the roasted chicken or these hard boiled attempts at wit.

It's tough getting to bed. The heat is bad but the temperature in my subconscious is starting to rise. I'm starting to doubt whether I belong in this caliper of competition. I wake up in the middle of the night. I head out to the John. An empty bladder makes for better sleep. I notice that I'm rubbing elbows with Rod Dixon who is draining his dragon in the adjacent urinal. If piss and vinegar count, maybe I do belong here.

Monday- Race day for real! I make my way to a shuttle bus at some ungodly hour for a nearly one hour ride. Even though it was early, the weather was more reminiscent of fire and brimstone than a heavenly dream. We line up on a course that starts right up a hill. Bang! The gun goes off 4 days late and a whole bunch of dollars short. Feeling the adrenalin and a gift of good hill climbing, I'm in the lead pack as the hill levels and then transforms into a gradual downhill. I ease into a rhythm as others up their tempo. People pass me by in droves. The situation reminded me of that childhood nightmare where you are trying to run away from something or someone and going in slow motion. It seemed like everyone in the race must have passed me by the mile mark. I was waiting for the Laugh-In man in a yellow raincoat on a tricycle to come scooting by. Still, this is no time to panic. There are many uphill sections over the next two miles for me to use my strength. I gain on no one over the next mile and a half. On the most challenging uphill on the course at about 2.5 miles, I catch no one. Someone even goes by me. Maybe it is time to panic. However, the little over-achiever voice in my head says I'm out here to do my best.....to represent myself, my team, and my country. Have pride and do your best. I retrench and refocus on my race effort, whatever that may turn out to be. Then, a funny thing happened after we hit the halfway mark. The course opened up onto a huge grassy field. It reminded me of the conditions where I did my repeat miles: flat, groomed grass, and hotter than blazes! The tide turned. I started passing people. Only one person went by me in the next 2 miles. He said something in an Eastern European language. I could not understand the words but the tone of his voice was encouraging. He could have been saying that my mother eats kitty litter and I wouldn't have known it. I tend to lean towards kind words because of the tone. Ah! I know. He must have said, “Slovac and steady wins the race.” Well, so much for oxygen debt humor. I start the downhill last mile and I'm still getting by competitors. I pass three more in the final 200 meters. I didn't have the slightest idea as to my place in the race. I was just happy that I gave my all and had done my best on this given day. The race was won by Grenville Wood of Australia. I hope he is as nice as the Aussies who shared their cool room with me. Joaquim Pereira was second, and Francisco Ribiero took the bronze (both from Portugal). The slots started to fill in on a top ten board. Then low and behold, the tenth slot is filled and says Robert Chasen USA. A wry but satisfying smile came to my face. Dream-Mission Impossible is accomplished. Then, as they say on a Ronco commercial, “wait there's more...” The team scores were then posted and the USA won the silver medal (Portugal won the gold).

It may be a team medal I was awarded. However, no piece of hardware on my awards shelf has such a rich individual story to tell. Yes, all that glitters isn't always gold. Sometimes it is the silver lining to a dream fulfilled.

Tapestry

I lie curled up on a cot, shivering under a military blanket. I started to cry first as a whimper. But as the dam gave way, the trickle became a deluge. An EMT came over to quickly access the situation, “anything wrong? Are you in pain?” I turned and replied, “No it is just the pain going away.” A perplexed worker stood and stared, then finally walked away. Had I lost my sanity? Here is my story. It was a full blown New England Nor'easter as I waited inside the school for the start of the Ocean State Marathon. Huge thunder claps reverberated the room and lightning flashed in the gym skylights as I stretched on the floor. I overheard a passer-by say, “It sounds like a hog heaven rally in the air going on out there.” I said I would run another marathon when pigs fly. That was 1982 in the Foxboro Marathon. I was invited as the guest lecturer for their sport medicine seminar the night before. Running the race would be a good follow through for me. I prepared with long runs and a variety quality workouts. I trained and planned to be prepared. But somehow, even the best plans of mice and men can go awry. That is especially so at about the 21 mile mark when glycogen supplies of the muscles have a tendency to ebb. My brisk pace slowed to what seemed like a crawl. Less than 100 yards from the finish both hamstrings seized up. You've seen it before on the news. A runner doing an imitation of a telephone pole right before the finish. No matter how I tried to take even the smallest of baby steps, my legs would paralyze in spasm. I had come this far. The cameras, finish line spectators, and the clock were in front of me, creating a surreal nightmare. I reached down for something physical and nothing was there. When the flesh is weak, it is time to explore the spirit. I searched the recesses of my mind for an answer. An image then appears of my cat who loved to play with me by challenging me to catch her. She did so by staring me down while making her eyes look big and round, arching her back, escaping me while running backward. I never caught her. If I got too close, she would give a four legged leap 6 to 7 feet in the air all the while twisting and gyrating in ways that would make a gymnast jealous. Okay, idea strikes. If the hamstrings are out to lunch, why not pivot myself around and go backward to use the quads instead. Sure enough, I could move a little. I finished walking slowly backwards, much to the delight of spectators and film crews. The loudspeaker breaks my reflections, “10 minutes till the start of the race. Please make your way to the starting line. Make sure your number and team tag if you are on one is on the front of your jersey.” My team was one man short for scoring in this grand prix championship event. I had dedicated my performances in the grand prix to my cat, Windy, who lost her battle with cancer several months earlier. Some people are musicians and can write a song. Others are artists and paint or sculpt a masterpiece. I only have a reasonably fast pair of legs to define who I am. I raced wearing a T-shirt bearing her picture. I had run superbly in those earlier races but figured I would end my season before the marathon. Here was my chance to put an exclamation point on that tribute. “We'd like to give tribute to the Mayor of West Warwick...” the starters bullhorn droned on. The rain, thunder and lightning had ceased. The weather was finally starting to cooperate as they ended the V.I.P. introductions. Our introduction was awkward at best. This cream and blue calico cat came out of a side alley begging for food. She was a full grown cat that was emaciated down to just 4 pounds. My wife asked someone on the porch of a nearby apartment if she knew who the cat belonged to. The person replied that the cat was one of many strays that fend for themselves in the alley behind the building. Faster than you spell hooked, she brought the cat home to our no pets allowed apartment and raided our $10 a week food supply for something a cat would eat. I not only lost part of my week's sustenance, but she came right in and ate a spider in the corner of the apartment. I coexisted with this arachnid because it worked better than any can of poison to get rid of biting red ants in the apartment. Now I have a type of animal I never have had any previous contact with eating my precious few morsels of food returning me to a life of ant bites. The cat just stood there and blinked her eyes at me. I blinked into a stray droplet of rain as the starters gun fired and the race went off. I settled into a comfortable 5:55 pace for the first two miles. Then the course takes a left turn once you reach the Atlantic coast to head northeast for the next 23 miles or so. This normally would not be a problem, except the start weather was just a lull in a powerful Nor'easter. A Nor'easter is October to April precipitation event named for the winds that blow in from the northeast and drive the storm up the east coast along the Gulf Stream. This a band of warm water that lies off the Atlantic coast fuels the storm to make it even more powerful. The winds took any spunk right out of your stride. I worked extra hard to catch up to 3 runners running side by side about 100 yards ahead. Even with the extra effort the pace slowed to 6:10 for the next mile. I already know that the marathon is a long and humbling race. It was time to tuck in behind them and “dog it” for awhile. I was in a small park near my apartment with Windy on a warm spring day. She enjoyed the outdoors but we tried to do it in a supervised fashion. Suddenly a huge unleashed German Shepherd had her cornered. I rushed into the fray and quickly swooped here up. Windy immediately became calm once in my arms. “You mean she didn't claw you trying to get away,” my wife said, “I never heard of a cat doing that. There's some kind of a special bond between you two.” Windy always considered my lap a safe place to be. I stayed with that group as if their was a rope around my lap attached to them. Two of them fell off the pace at 9 miles. The other runner took off ahead of me at 10 miles as we passed through in 61:20. I was happy to keep pace and let him go. The rain was really starting to intensify, again. The wind didn't seem quite as bad but still had a bite to it. I was on the porch of our apartment in Massachusetts. Another cat came across the lawn and became friendly with me. Windy she sat on the other side of me while I pet the cat. She scrunched her eyelids in an disapproving manner. Suddenly the cat bit me on the hand for no apparent reason. Windy growled and leaped over me chasing the cat right off the property. She stopped at the property line whipping her tail back and forth staring down this fleeing feline. The rain was starting to pick back up as I passed that same runner between mile 14 and 15. At about mile 17 there was a stream coming down a street across my path. It feels more like a steeplechase rather than a marathon. Someone once said that I was so thin that I could run around in a shower and not get wet. However this was no ordinary rain. By mile 18, I was so cold and drenched that I was numb below mid calf on both feet. It was a very strange sensation when running, indeed. At least my feet did not hurt. There was a wet matted area on the fur of her neck. I found this to be odd for an immaculately clean cat. I brought her in for her 5 month overdue annual check-up. The veterinarian found a growth on the underside of her tongue and thought the possible diagnosis was bad. I had him perform an excisional biopsy. The diagnosis was squamous cell carcinoma, an extremely aggressive and deadly cancer in cats. Windy was unusually good for a cat. She took all the pills I gave here without much fuss and even let me give her subcutaneous fluids with a needle to take the stress off of her now straining kidneys. She would give me adoring soulful eye contact even after this painful treatment. It was as if you understood the whole situation. I hit the 20 mile mark in 2:01:40. I became leery of the dreaded marathon wall that was the start of my undoing 15 years ago. Sometimes I wondered how she escaped my room to greet patients in my office attached to my home. Then one day I had her in the room with me while I was resting in bed with the flu. I heard a sound and rolled over in bed to see Windy on a chair next to the door. She was “standing” on her hind legs using her two front paws to jiggle the door knob. The door opened and out she went. Instead I felt better than I had all race. It was as if someone had opened a door in the marathon wall. I picked up my effort through a small village. I felt invincible but knew better than to keep the hammer that far down as the legs started to fatigue at about mile 24. One day early in June, she felt well enough to issue me the arched back catch me if you can game. I caught her for the first time ever. Rather than gloat about my victory, I fell into a tearful embrace of her. She in turn, looked at me and rubbed her cheek onto side of my face. Shortly thereafter, we turned out of the wind, but the slowly mounting fatigue made the loss of the wind handicap, unnoticeable. The flooding roads were camouflaging potholes in the road construction as the rain continued to fall. I stepped into one of those potholes with my right foot. It was about 2 feet deep. I went down onto the flooded road face first. I had a lousy Father's Day. First I was lead off course while running what would have been a nationally ranked masters 10K time. Then I come home to the real bomb. For the first time, Windy won't let me give her the daily medications. At the local animal hospital, they take some tests. The advancing cancer had ulcerated right through the lining of her mouth and could not be repaired. This was causing massive infection which could be controlled by antibiotics but not stopped. The cancer had also spread to hear lungs. I should have known something was up. Usually she sleeps on or next to my legs. That morning, I woke to her on my chest with both front paws in full embrace of my neck. Windy took the journey to the rainbow bridge that following Monday morning. She sat on my lap, the safe place, as the series of three injections were administered to finish the lethal process. It was the most difficult thing I have ever had to do. Picking myself up out of a 2 foot pot hole in a storm during a marathon was a small hurdle on the steeplechase course of life after black Monday. I got up and made my way up to the finish line. The clock said 2:42 as this weary 43 year old body crossed the line a full 17 or 18 minutes behind the young Kenyan winner. It was not a day for times and records. It was a day for courage and commitments. That was fine by me for I had kept mine to a special fury friend. The EMT tried to take my wet shirt away from me. “No!” I yelled, “it's source of warmth as I clutched it even closer to me. He completely gave up to attending me after that. But, the pain was leaving and the shirt with her image was warm. The sampling of the memories I have shared of here are tightly woven into my adventures like a strong but beautiful tapestry. Such fabrics resist the fraying stresses that life brings along its journey.