Marathon Man by Bill Rodgers Page A

John “the Elder” Kelley. (In the previous three decades, a mere trio of Americans—my roommate Amby Burfoot in 1968, his coach Young Johnny Kelley in 1957, and fellow conscientious objector Jon Anderson in 1973—had captured the ultimate prize in marathoning.)
    As we approached Framingham, the crowds continued to dwindle and for miles we passed only a small number of spectators on the road. It was quiet and calm now. Side by side, Ron Hill and I swung past Bracketts Pond and followed the course as it snaked uphill through the mostly wooded area. The way Hill was matching me stride for stride, I felt compelled to respond to the challenge. The adrenaline was flowing and I had plenty of fight. I refused to shrink in the awe-inspiring presence of the course-record holder. I was thinking feisty. There’s “Ron the Hill.” I told myself. As in “thirty-six years old and over the hill.” He’s had a legendary career but his best days have come and gone. This is my time.
    In many ways, I ran best when I was right next to somebody. My competitive instincts kicked in and I went into another mode of being. “When he wasn’t running, Bill seemed like the gentlest—and spaciest—guy in the world,” Alberto Salazar once said. “But once he laced up the training flats, the starling turned into a swooping bird of prey. Bill just soared on a breathtaking, light-footed stride.”
    Sometimes, in the thick of the battle, I overreacted to the competition and let my primitive brain run riot. In other words, I raced stupid. Too much from the gut. But reacting emotionally to a situation is a part of who I’ve always been, ever since I was a scrawny runt, battling Charlie and Jason to catch elusive butterflies in the fields, or a little later, running my heart out through the forest trails as a member of my high school cross-country team. At times it’s gotten me into trouble—big trouble—but other times my feistiness proved to be a great weapon. In order to win the race, sometimes you have to go a little berserk.
    I can’t tell you the exact time in a marathon race to succumb to that animalistic nature—to lose a bit of control and fight with fury. But I promise you, it’s not after the first mile, or the second, or the fifth, or even the tenth. There’s too many tough miles left to withstand such an early release of aggression. Even squandering a little of your energy reserves early on can spell doom later when the race toughens up, when it takes every bit of energy you can muster to outlast your opponent. How about Mile 16? Maybe you can lay the hammer down with a surge of speed and break away from the competition. Just maybe. You still have ten more miles to go, so you’d better know you have the strength and stamina to finish strong. It’s easy to confuse bravery with foolhardiness. With that said, if your goal is to win the race, and not just finish it, then at some point you need to trust your talent and your instincts and go for it. Three miles into the race, running stride for stride with Hill, I told myself to be patient: You’ll know when the time is right to make your move. It’s not now.
    I attacked the upgrade going from Ashland into Framingham. If you’re feeling bad here, something has gone horribly wrong for you. You did not run smart, you went out way too fast, or whatever you ate the night before isn’t agreeing with you. Regardless, you’re probably not going to finish. You’re definitely not going to win. I know because this is what happened to me my first time. Ran too fast. I was in too much of a hurry. I had no clue what I was doing. That’s a bad way to run a marathon. It’s a bad way to go through life.
    Hill and I remained shoulder to shoulder as we sped along the road to Framingham, about five miles into the race. With a stiff wind at our back, neither of us was willing to yield to