Marathon Man Read Online Free Page B

to achieve excellence. Jokesters like Johnny “Cigar” Connors, who in 1935 ran the first couple of miles while toking on two cigars at the same time, and in 1937 crossed the finish line in pink panties, causing Jock to blow his smokestack. I was fortunate that Jock took a shine to me and gave me such a low number—#14, to denote my 1974 finish—ensuring that I was up front with the top runners.
    Just before Jock whisked me to the front, I looked back at Charlie. For the first time, I saw a little fear register on his face. Maybe he was worried that the gloves, which I’d never worn before in a race, would irritate me. Or perhaps he was frightened that my feet would slide right out of my running shoes in midstride, revealing Prefontaine’s gift to be a curse. Or maybe it was worse than that. Did he fear that I wouldn’t finish? Was he thinking how I’d run out too fast in my first Boston Marathon and wilted on Heartbreak Hill? Or how I’d burst away too early last year and flamed out again on the brutal incline? I’m sure he wished he could tie a rope around my waist; that way he could hold me back when he felt I was running too fast a pace. He was not alone. Everybody in my life, all of whom were rooting hard for me today—Charlie, Ellen, Coach Squires, my GBTC teammates—wished at times they possessed a device with the power to settle me down. My parents sure could have used a device like that when I was a kid. Then again, knowing me, I would have found a way to break free. My brother knew this better than anyone. I always found a way to break free.
    As I established my position at the starting line, I thought about my brother and how he might be competing alongside me if it weren’t for his asthma. When he was a kid, his chest would tighten on long runs. Charlie also liked to point out that he got the short legs and long torso while I got the long legs and short torso. But I don’t know about all that. I did know that I was glad to have a big brother like Charlie. I knew he would do anything for me, but there was nothing he could do for me at this point. He gave me the gloves and now my hands were warm. That might not seem like much help—not when it comes to competing in a marathon against a bunch of world-class runners looking to skin you alive on the roads—but for some reason, Charlie’s small gesture of support meant the world to me. I didn’t know if I could win, but I was not going down without one hell of a fight.
    Jock Semple was the only person who thought I could win, or at least, the only person who dared state this opinion to the press. The reporters chalked it up to the wistful longings of an old man. After all, everybody knew it was Jock’s dream to have a local runner win the Boston Marathon, which hadn’t happened since Arthur Roth’s victory way back in 1916. When the press scribes asked my GBTC coach, Bill Squires, about my chances for victory he’d told them: “Don’t pick him. He’s too inexperienced. A year from now, he’ll blossom into the marathoner he should be, but not this soon against this field.”
    Jock’s wishful thinking aside, there was no reason for the reporters to focus any attention on me—some kid who’d won a few local road races. Instead, the media trumpeted the course record holder, Ron Hill, the only British man to ever win the race. At age thirty-six, Hill was on the downside of his career, but he felt in his heart he had one last great Boston Marathon in him. Before the race, he told reporters that if he got a tailwind—watch out—he was going after his own record. He was talking about breaking 2:10. Coach Squires has set a goal for me of 2:15. I knew this would be a stretch. Last fall, I tried to break Tom Fleming’s course record of 2:21:54 at the New York City Marathon and ended up finishing in fifth with a time of 2:35:59. A short time later, I did