When I was a kid, summer was a planet unto itself, stretching in all directions beyond the horizons, bounded by nothing but sunshine, green grass, stray dogs, swimming holes, marathon reading sessions ranging far and wide, games held under street-lights, and endless possibilities.

“Do you remember how long summers used to be?” I recently asked a friend as he contemplated summer vacation. He’s a teacher, so he knows more about summer than most of us.

He seemed perplexed by my question.

“You know,” I expanded. “It used to seem to go on forever.”

“Yeah?” he said, not certain where I was going with this.

“Now it doesn’t.”

“Oh,” he said.

“Oh?” was all I could think to say. “That’s all you’ve got to say about it?”

“Well, it was different,” he ventured. “We were younger then.”

“And—?” I tried.

“We had a different perspective.”

“And—?”

“What do you want me to say?” he asked, getting a little testy, as though it were a pop quiz.

“All I want is for you to explain why summers were longer when we were kids than they are now.”

He scratched his chin, his idea of contemplation. “Weren’t winters longer, too?”

“Oooof—” I said.

I had better luck with another friend who was on his third beer and had a very interesting theory: “When we were kids, summer (and, by implication, winter) seemed to go on forever because we were just kids and hadn’t lived very long yet, so any season constituted a very large percentage of our lives to that point. Now that we’re older and have more than 50 summers behind us, any one summer is a very small piece of our whole life.”

I decided not to open another beer because I could see that my friend’s mind was getting ready to disgorge any number of theories on anything I came up with. But his answer did hold a kernel of insight. Summer, unbounded by schedules and duties like homework, and expanded by early sunrises and late sunsets, constituted its own unique state of mind.

My own mind had been swinging in the direction of summers past because after a particularly cold winter for Northern California, we had a succession of days in February that teased us with characteristics of summer. The temperatures rose to the mid-60s, there was no fog first thing in the morning so the sun could begin warming the landscape from the moment it rose, and its presence was nudging the plant life into an early eruption. It was so pleasant that during the two hours when the slanted sun hit the picnic table out back, I took several inches worth of solicited and unsolicited manuscripts and read them under a sun that triggered an early seep of seratonin.

The combination of reading stories under a warming sun and the raised seratonin levels seemed to suspend me over a warm thermal vent that boiled to the surface memories long interred.

As though it were yesterday, I could vividly remember the summer of my tenth year—the year before I became the envy of the neighborhood kids by getting a part-time job at the local bakery, delivering baked goods off the running board of a blue Chevy panel truck.

That summer had only two gears: neutral and overdrive. It was ripe with hours of reading under the maple tree in the park just below our street: Turok, Son of Stone comic books, where we were willing to suspend what we’d been taught all year, ready to believe that human beings lived at the same time that dinosaurs did; Tom Swift, Jr., books filled with marvelous adventures that the adults around us were certain would never happen (they conveniently forgot Tom Swift, “Sr.,” titles from their youth, such as Tom Swift and His Aerial Warship, Tom Swift and His Airline Express, and Tom Swift and His Wireless Message); Tarzan stories in any shape or form, from comic books to novels; and the occasional classic, almost always something by Jules Verne, H.G. Wells, Jack London, or Robert Louis Stevenson—stories dripping with adventure and strange worlds.

The “overdrive” involved running—everywhere we went. This was before kids’ summers were scheduled to distraction and before mothers knew how to drive, and were much less willing to drop everything to drive kids to soccer practice. Kids took care of their own schedules, which meant they didn’t have one.

We ran in almost every game we played or made up. We ran to appointments we’d made with other kids to “mess around” for the afternoon. We ran like wild animals up and over and around Bear Mountain behind our house. We were either in hyperdrive or in suspended animation. There wasn’t much in between. We read or we ran. And if we had been more talented, we would have probably done both at the same time.

I wallow in those memories because they were so memory-friendly and because they involve this issue.

I’ve got to admit that I’ve been hoarding a little pile of longer-than-usual stories that involve adventure and exotic places and, of course, running. The session with the manuscripts at the picnic table under a mellowing sun convinced me that I should break into the cache and put them together in a special summer reading issue of M&B: an issue oozing with running adventures on the edge.

Voila! (That’s as exotic as my trove of foreign languages gets.) In your hands you hold some meaty summer reading:

• Barry Lewis’s “digested” account of the first revival of the Trans America race from Los Angeles to New York in 1992.
• Charles Kastner’s story of Ed Gardner of Seattle and his participation in the first trans-America Bunion Derby.
• Gordon Bakoulis’s recounting of the pioneer days of women’s marathoning in which she profiles five of her personal heroines.
• Kirk Johnson’s chronicle of his morphing from journalist covering the Death Valley-to-Mt. Whitney race to participant.

One story we didn’t stuff into this issue is one of the most inspiring you’re likely to hear from the world of running: That of 1981 Grandma’s Marathon winner Dick Beardsley. (Talk about shoehorning in a transition, huh?)

Dick has for years been one of my heroes: a guy who worked hard to be the best distance runner in the world but who, at his peak, was beset by disasters only Job could appreciate; he fell a long, long distance and then fought his way back up. F. Scott Fitzgerald contended that there were no second acts in American lives. F. Scott obviously never met Dick.

Dick has for years been a special guest at the Napa Valley Marathon, where he still holds the course record, which he set in 1987 (2:16:20) as a qualifying time for the U.S. Olympic Marathon Trials in the wake of undergoing several Achilles tendon operations. For the 2001 race he was the keynote speaker. His presentation about his early years of running, his 2:09 at Grandma’s in 1981, his “Duel in the Sun” with Alberto Salazar at Boston in 1982, and the rollercoaster his life became afterward had the audience roaring with laughter for 90 percent of the talk, then stunned for the remaining 10 percent as Dick jogged us through the ups and downs he has experienced. Joe Henderson summed up Dick’s presentation (I hesitate to call it merely a “speech”): “I’ve heard all the speakers on the running circuit. None has a better story to tell, or tells it better, than Dick Beardsley.”

My own feeling is that every person in America (not just runners) would benefit from Dick’s story, so we were thrilled to hear that his biography will be published by the University of Minnesota in 2002; we’ll attempt to make arrangements to carry some of it in these pages. Dick also shocked me by bringing along to Napa a manuscript telling the story of his 1981 Grandma’s Marathon win. I’ve only been after him for four years to write up the story for Marathon & Beyond. It will appear in our January/February 2002 issue, as that issue’s feature in our long-running “My Most Unforgettable Marathon (And What I Learned From It)” series.

As much as I love the written word, though, hearing Dick tell his life story in person is a unique and invigorating experience that mere paper can’t contain.

After lamenting that so few people have had the privilege of hearing Dick’s story firsthand, it occurred to me that Dick isn’t someone who lets laments keep him stuck in time and space. Consequently, after conferring with M&B publisher Jan Seeley, we decided that Dick’s story needs wider distribution. Toward that end, M&B has launched the Marathon & Beyond Speaker’s Bureau, featuring Dick Beardsley, with the goal of attempting to wear out the indomitable Mr. Beardsley by negotiating with marathons and other road races all over the world to have him tell his story to a larger audience.

Runners who met Dick and heard his story at the 2000 M&B Grandma’s Marathon Open House are still talking about it. Dick has agreed to a return engagement at this year’s Grandma’s Marathon, where he also hopes to break 3:00 on the 20th anniversary of his course-record and breakout 2:09:37 performance there in 1981. Come by and meet Dick and be inspired by a tale that redefines the word “sticktoativeness.”

In the meantime, find a patch of grass under a spreading tree and enjoy your run through our special summer reading issue. But before you do, take your watch off and throw it away.

—Rich Benyo

This is our 30th year! We are so proud that with age our event has gained credibility and tremendous accolades. However, our goal remains to make everyone who participates feel like a winner.

Goodies and Awards

We do not spend our budget on purses for an elite few — we spend it on each entrant. Our Marathon runners and walkers receive high-quality, long-sleeved finisher’s shirt, medal, poster, food and drink, space blankets, and a great goody bag. Our related event participants also receive shirts and an assortment of goodies.

Last year over 1,250 awards were given out. We have five-year age divisions, masters, Clydesdale, state and country competition, as well as team, race walker, wheelchair, and other special handicapped categories.

An Event for Everyone

You do not have to be a marathoner to enjoy the Portland Marathon because there are seven other events that take place on marathon morning or during the weekend.

Our Five-Miler is an excellent event for beginning and competitive middle distance runners. The Mayor’s Walk is 6.2 miles of fun along the last 6.2 miles of the marathon course. The Kids’ Marafun is a noncompetitive approximately two-mile event for kids 12 and younger and anyone else who wants to join them. The 26.2 mile Marathon Walk allows the walkers to share the thrill, excitement and the same perks as their running counterparts.

Our other weekend events include a first-class race directors’ conference, a spectacular sports and fitness expo, the best pasta party in the west, and a great post-race/awards party. In short, we offer an event for everyone in the family.

Course and Weather

The marathon course is rolling with a few long gradual hills on the first part of the course. The route wanders through downtown Portland, China Town, Old Town and neighborhoods with tree-lined streets. There are plenty of dramatic views of the Cascade mountain range, our city skyline and river front.

The second half of the course can easily produce a “negative split” for our runners. An average of 33% have set PRs! The weather is normally in the low 50s. It is the best time of year to be in Portland.

Organization

Our event has gained its reputation for excellence through organization: 3,500 volunteers, 20 enthusiastic aid and medical stations, splits called at points on the course, over 65 entertainment groups, and a finish line where every marathoner’s name is announced to the thousands of spectators. All of our event participants share in a great array of food and beverages.