“W

hat is that smell? Is someone smoking?” Wherever he raced, the scent was hard to miss, let alone for Alford Claiborne to escape since the cigar he had puffed produced the offensive plume. Donning his running bibs, including the Boston Marathon running number he had earned through qualifying, the middle-aged marathoner sheepishly observed runners’ reactions and privately vowed that, as comforting as the occasional stogie may be, it was time to give them up. Backing up his resolve were two back-to-back bouts of bronchitis and a bet placed with two lawyers at a local race that if he stopped smoking, they would reward him. Thus, in July 2000, the San Francisco Marathon

Scott Ross

▲

Alford Claiborne warms up at a 10K in San Diego before driving to the next day’s Tucson Marathon.

would be duly recorded among Alford’s long list of marathon firsts as his first 26.2-miler as a nonsmoker. He had already done almost 80 marathons by then and peaked in terms of personal records, including a 3:08 in Pensacola, Florida, almost 10 years prior.

He would go on to run almost 60 more marathons, all “for fun,” in the next six years. Then he would call it quits. * * * It’s not the knees, though they’ve given him ample trouble over the years. And a doctor once told him: no more than 10Ks.

It’s not the cost, though traveling to all these cross-country races on a retiree’s income can get expensive. And Alford never leaves an expo empty handed. It’s Rita. The woman he married more than three decades ago has Alzheimer’s disease, which destroys brain neurons responsible for memories, thoughts, and feelings. Over time, nerve cells die and tissue is lost; the brain withers. The illness is as hard on family and friends as it is on those afflicted. When she was first diagnosed, Alford had retired from his second career as a San Diego probation officer but still worked part-time driving a shuttle van. A couple of years later, he gave that up too to become a full-time caregiver. Then the disease and the drugs to fight it began exacting a steeper toll and demanded far more vigilance, leading Alford last year to think that maybe it was time to stop running marathons. As rewarding as they are, he realized, they also are time consuming.

Anyone who has regularly chased down long-distance races, let alone almost 140 of them, knows it’s not easy to retire from recreational pursuits integral for so long to your daily life. Alford isn’t saying it is, but he knows this is what needs to be done. And he is doing it willingly and graciously. But like that smoking habit that distinguished him, it won’t be easy to abandon those long races in sometimes exotic places that also helped define him. * * * In late May, a few minutes into the final track workout before the 2006 Rock ’n’ Roll Marathon, some 200 finishers-in-the-making stretch out in a giant circle on the artificial turf at Balboa Stadium. As they gently tug on quad muscles and flex their Achilles tendons, individuals, including Alford Claiborne, are called to the center of the human ring by San Diego Track Club coach Paul Greer.

They’re being recognized for their involvement during the five-month training program, where Alford devoted many Saturday mornings to providing water and electrolyte-replacement drinks as an aid station volunteer. The wildly successful program began the year with 600-plus participants, requiring a lot of cups and encouragement to dispense.

“Among the many hundreds of individuals who have volunteered for the San Diego Track Club, Al stands out as one of our best,” says Stephen Burch, the club’s president and volunteer coordinator. “Not only does he handle a water station better than even the most experienced volunteers—you should see how he neatly and efficiently lines up the cups on the table, as if they were soldiers arranged in a perfect formation—he also is one of those rare volunteers who commits to the dates of when he will be available to volunteer well in advance. This may seem like something that would not be that significant or difficult to do, but in my experience as the volunteer coordinator for the San Diego Track Club, he is one of the few who commits far in advance and is only one of the even fewer individuals who has ever committed to more than one or two events at a time.”

Alford has left his wife in the care of a son to drive in for the special recognition. He usually doesn’t come to the Tuesday workouts anymore; in fact, for years he has done all of his training on his own. He is dressed as he is most days: shorts, socks, running shoes, race T-shirt, and baseball cap. “

See that guy—the one in the cap going up to the coach?” one of the stretchers says to the guys next to him. “I heard he’s run, like, 100 marathons.” Someone catercorner pipes up, “I heard it’s more like 130.”

Others nearby chime in. “You kidding me?” “That guy?” “Wow. That’s incredible.” “I had no idea.” Few did. In a world where beginners frequently boast of their feats and seasoned athletes seek props for their fast times or longevity, Alford’s accomplishments remain relatively unnoticed beyond a core group of local runners. “

I have not known him long but . . . I think you want your family, your club, your nation, your world populated with folks like Alford,” says longtime track club member Cindy Evans, who also is known for her extraordinary dedication to the San Diego running community. “He is a gracious, generous, and strong man, runner, and volunteer. He and Rita are going down a tough road, and yet, when he speaks of her, he does so with a grace and wistfulness that is without self-pity, without asking anything of the listener, without bravado, and in a way that is so human, so unelaborated and modest.”

It was Cindy who decided Alford’s accomplishments and carefully planned send-off to the marathon community deserved some publicity. After Alford unveiled his official marathon farewell tour to a few friends, he allowed Cindy to post the races and his finish times at a track club Web site, on which she serves

as administrator. “When he e-mails his marathon time updates for the Web site,” she says, “he always thanks me for the ‘public relations,’ the ‘promotion,’ the ‘help.’” His farewell tour, he explains to a visitor, is modeled after the final visits of athletic superstars like Michael Jordan, only in reverse. “Whenever he decides to retire, each place he goes is part of a farewell on a farewell tour, and each place gets to say good-bye to him.” In his case, Alford repeatedly says so long to significant pieces of his past.

The tour’s kickoff took place in July 2005, with the Seafair Marathon in Bellevue, Washington, because Washington had been where he ran his first outof-state race (Goodwill Games, 1990). That was followed by Columbus (culled from a top-10 list) in October, Harrisburg (first city where he raced with his sister) in November, and Tucson in December. They’re all favorites he couldn’t let pass—or that conflicted with the same month or week as some other sentimental stops in 2006.

He contacted race directors to ask for special favors, for instance special bib numbers. Every letter he receives about a request, whether to say it’s confirmed or being considered, is carefully cataloged in a special three-ring binder.

By the time Alford appeared at Balboa Stadium for his volunteer citation, he had already hit tour spots Carlsbad, Mardi Gras, Los Angeles, Hogeye, Boston, and Avenue of the Giants. He would join the Rock ’n’ Roll gang for that weekend’s marathon too, but at the end of the Tuesday workout, when he is again called upon for a special salute from the crowd, Alford is on his way home to relieve his son of caregiver duty. “

Alford Claiborne, are you here?” Greer yells into his bullhorn. “Does anyone know if he’s still here?” Realizing the man has gone, the coach jokes: “He must be out running a marathon.” * * * Like a lot of avid runners, Alford has recorded his training schedules and race finish times since he picked up the running bug during his 20-year stint as an operations specialist in the U.S. Navy, retiring as a master chief petty officer, the highest enlisted rank. A longtime cigarette smoker, he nonetheless gave running a try and found he fit in—even if his basketball shoes did not. He eventually switched to bona fide running footwear and entered his first race in 1983. In an instant, he was hooked. In 1987, he gave up cigarettes. Then, shortly after he kicked the habit, he found a congratulatory cigar for a son’s birth and smoked it. So began his 20-year addiction to Swisher Sweets.

Some feats are recorded in pencil on college-ruled notepaper. Some are etched in pen within leather-bound journals.

A few come from computer printouts, though he is “not much of a computer person.” At the moment, the collection is strewn all over the main cabin of the recreational vehicle the Claibornes bought for road trips. The RV is parked in front of the couple’s home in the San Diego suburb of Encanto, a place far enough inland to benefit from the area’s ample sunshine but not its mercurial sea breezes. Alford runs before Rita wakes, past majestic vistas and clusters of modest tract homes individualized by flower and rock gardens, ceramic lawn ornaments, and white wrought-iron fences. Ethnic restaurants and aging shops shout their bargains in bold colors along the main thoroughfare that also is part of his typical training course.

Quick recovery is key to serial marathoning, and the 62-year-old begins and ends each run with stretching and maybe some strength training to keep his 6foot, 165-pound sinewy frame in top shape. He mentions in passing that he placed third in his age group the previous weekend at a highly competitive 10K race in Coronado that draws thousands of runners. “I’ve been kicking butt lately.”

His longtime friend Nancy Morris agrees. “All he does is get better. He’s been doing very well with his running,” she says. Nancy and Alford ran and have volunteered together for many years, and she agrees that her friend is unique in the running world. “He’s very grounded, and he’s been able to develop a nice balance of being able to do something for himself and still take care of Rita. It’s just now tipping to where he can’t do that anymore. “

He’s not bitter. He just accepts what life brings him, and his wife and his family have always come first. I think if her condition had declined more rapidly, he would have made this decision earlier.”

The air conditioning blasts through the RV as Rita watches a commemorative DVD of the last Los Angeles Marathon and Alford rummages through various logs, magazines, newsletters, official finisher certificates, photos, medals, and programs. “

I’m into the memorabilia,” he says with a grin. Rita smiles frequently at the TV. When she shifts in her seat or starts to drift, Alford asks if she is comfortable. When she says she is cold, he immediately flips the AC off and opens a window. “How’s that?” he asks tenderly.

He does all the cooking and the cleaning and makes sure she gets to all of her medical appointments. A younger son, Reggie, 28, moved in shortly before being badly injured in a motorcycle accident, and when he isn’t working at Office Depot, he helps around the house. A 34-year-old daughter, Alyssia, who followed her father into probation work, lives nearby, as does their other son, Sean, who works in construction. Thanks to the four of them, Rita has roundthe-clock care.

Anne Saita

After a run, he will note his time and maybe how he felt in one of his simple training logs. Marathon coverage gets the same light treatment in Alford’s book. Take the 1999 Air Force Marathon, which he ran in 4:14:20. The journal entry that date read: “Heel spur. Tooth chipped. Wasp sting. Runny nose.” “

I don’t remember any of that,” he says with a slight laugh, staring at the entry. “Only thing I remember from Air Force was we ran way out somewhere, and when we came back it was up and down, a real hard up and down.” When first created, these documents helped determine the source of an injury or bad training stretch. If the running was not going well for a longer period, he might not keep a record. “I guess I stop when I start running bad. I mean, when you start running bad, what are you going to record? You’re just worn out and shouldn’t be running to start with.”

Over time, they became proof of past performances. In the future, they will be the records he consults when waxing nostalgic and, perhaps, to prevent his own memories from fading. His first 26.2-miler was the San Diego Sea World Holiday Bowl in December 1987. His hundredth came with the Maine Marathon in October 2001. Other notables: first on the East Coast, New York City (1990); first sub-3:10, Blue Angels (1991); first predawn, Honolulu (December 1993); first run in 100-plus degrees, Tupelo (1997). That same year he ran his first marathon in the snow: Louisville.

▲ Alford Claiborne explains the significance of each marathon medal along his “Wall of Fame.”

The list goes on and on, each milestone duly noted. In 1998, Alford completed his first back to back, running the Richmond (Virginia) Marathon on a Saturday and Rhode Island’s Ocean State the next day. That same year, six months later, he finished his 50th-state marathon in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Among his treasured possessions is an official certificate pronouncing Alford as the 103rd American to run in all 50 states, plus Washington, D.C.

The medals from each of those states are showcased in shadow boxes hanging on “the wall of fame” inside the main hallway of the family’s house. Alford goes over each, pointing out something about the race or the medal that made it special. The other medals, of which there are plenty, are organized in piles inside the RV. Los Angeles comprises the biggest clump, since Alford has run that race 17 times and considers it his favorite. It also carries the distinction on his list as the first world-class marathon. “

I don’t know what I am going to do when next March comes around. That race was so much a part of my annual running ritual,” he says wistfully. * * * A native of Galveston, Texas, Alford met Rita through a friend when she was a young schoolteacher from Houston and he was a Navy sailor on leave. The courtship was short. The family grew to include three children and eventually settled in Encanto after years of scattershot military deployments. After Alford left the Navy, he became a San Diego County probation officer—a career that wove nicely into his marathon plans. He could work three days of 15, 15, and 12 hours each week to make room for long weekend trips. Or he could bank overtime to afford so many out-of-town races. He still consults the newspaper travel section for inexpensive airfares and uses frequent-flyer miles whenever possible to get to a race. As a probation officer, Alford made a deal with some of the troubled teens he supervised and introduced them to running. To qualify for the group runs he coordinated or local 5Ks and 10Ks he entered them in, the youths had to be on good behavior and passing their classes. He also served as an excellent role model for the young men, demonstrating discipline and fortitude. The motivational technique worked, and shortly before Alford left the profession, he was named the county’s probation officer of the year.

There was just one problem. The banquet at which he would receive the honor fell the same weekend as his 50th-state race, in Tulsa. Other 50-staters would be there for a reunion and would witness Alford’s feat. So, “while my sister Edie and I went to the pasta feed in Tulsa, my wife and daughter were feasting at the Probation Annual Awards Banquet at Sea World and accepted the award,” he recalls. Those scheduling conflicts are no longer an issue now that he’s finished his farewell to the marathon community. After San Francisco in July came Grizzly in

Montana in August; Wisconsin’s Fox Cities in September; Hartford in October; New York City in November; and, finally, Tucson again. Alford persuaded one of the track club’s senior members, Martha Walker, to run Tucson last year because it was an easy qualifier for Boston. “Boy, was she mad at me when she didn’t,” he recalls.

If his friend had a grudge, it dissipated quickly. After Alford finished in 3:50, he went back on the course to run the woman in. The gesture both surprised and moved Martha. “I saw him at the marathon start,” she said. “I told him to come back and get me when he got finished, just sort of kidding. He really did come back to get me! I think I had about three miles left and was constantly grumbling that I was never going to do another marathon. He certainly helped me along. “

He is an amazing runner,” she continued. “But he still is modest, friendly, helpful, and encourages us all.” * * * Since Alford has run so many marathons, it’s obvious to wonder why he never bothered to run an ultramarathon, if only for a new challenge. His response: he didn’t need it. “

It’s OK to run a marathon, but if you run another marathon, you sort of become suspect. And if you run a third marathon, you have to be crazy to do it,” he explains, chuckling as always. “You hit The Wall at 22, so why would I want to run 31—that’s a 50K, and that’s nine miles past The Wall. Sometimes The Wall is not so bad, but that doesn’t mean I want to run nine more miles. “

Yeah, it’s The Wall,” he offers as an explanation. “Because of it, I have respect for the marathon distance.” In turn, his devotion to both his wife and to his long-distance running has earned him respect among other competitors. “

I think he really appreciates his running a lot,” explains Marcella Teran, a former SDTC women’s masters team runner who has been racing in San Diego for 16 years. “Some people race and don’t appreciate being able to do such a thing. They never fully appreciate what they have, and he does. “

He’s just a very down-to-earth, appreciative person,” she adds. “It’s refreshing, because he’s very unique in his accomplishments. And yet he’s just a very kind, sweet man—very humble.”

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