Hate/Blood Toni Reavis’s story “Hate Runs” is likely to receive one of those love-itor-hate-it responses from readers. It is a curious piece of work that will resonate with a certain type of marathoner but will fall totally flat with others. The piece is centered at “the other” Bill Rodgers running store, the one out at Cleveland Circle along the marathon course as opposed to the store in Faneuil Hall, which used to be referred to as “the disco store” because of all the shiny stainless steel that helped it stand out in that wacky world of disco balls and the Bee Gees. The time frame, then, for Toni’s story is the late ’70s and early ’80s—sort of in the wake of disco. Bill was in the habit of taking his afternoon runs from the Cleveland Circle store, and he was always open to runners who were visiting the store going along with him for the opening warm-up miles of his run. Once he was warmed up, however, it was hard for anyone to keep up with him, so his “guest runners” gradually fell away, but like the tail of a skyrocket, they glowed for a while afterward. The guys who worked at the Cleveland Circle store couldn’t go out on their runs until the store closed at the end of the sales day, which is where Toni’s story begins. His elaborate detailing of the anatomy of one of the runs on the 11 1/2-mile course captures well the inti8 l MARATHON & BEYOND l Nov/Dec 2008

mate and intricate energies that went back and forth in those days when a gaggle of good regional runners went out to stretch their legs and add to their endurance-fitness bank account: all the games within the run, the testing and teasing and treachery that made the workout on some levels more of a hardfought contest than any official race they might run. One runner deciding to step up the pace, other runners making the decision to meet the challenge, still others holding back and maybe making a move for the lead later on at a favorite section of the course that was to their advantage. And, of course, all the nuances and unspoken volumes contained in every step, every sideways glance, every expulsion and inhalation of air. Three thousand miles away from Toni and the gang from “Boston Billy” Rodgers’s store, we had Bay Area weekend groups that would get together in a similar vein to get in 18-milers building toward a marathon or simply as a means of staying fit. Sometimes we had a group of four or five, sometimes just two of us. Toni and his group referred to these runs as “hate runs.” We referred to them as “blood runs.” They were “blood runs” because there was such up-and-down pounding throughout the 18-miler that invariably one of the group, upon removing shoes and socks, came up bloodied. But the

(and get shooed out by the Chinese proprietor who didn’t want us sweating on his linoleum floor) and, if we chickened out, to call Bill’s wife, Tish, to come and pick up our sorry, bloodied asses. Bill liked to run without a shirt, which on a bright, summer Sunday morning got some hoots and catcalls from fellows sipping coffee on restaurant patios in the Castro. Bill pretended not to notice. We would invariably end up running along the Embarcadero, dodging tourists as we sped past Pier 39, Fisherman’s Wharf, and Ghirardelli Square, the usual tourist haunts. Then we would cut over to Golden Gate Park, where on Sundays the traffic along JFK Drive was restricted but the devotees of fresh air weren’t.

runs were, in essence, the same as Toni’s “hate runs.” Our friend Bill Howard at that time lived on Twin Peaks in San Francisco, the highest point where humans can habituate in the City by the Bay. The view from his balcony was spectacular: it looked down Market Street to the Ferry Building and onward to the Bay and beyond to Oakland. The courses we ran from his apartment had only two drawbacks: the first several miles, down to the Castro District, were steeply downhill, and at the conclusion of the run, we faced the several-mile ascent back up to Twin Peaks when we were most bushed. We always carried enough money that we could stop at neighborhood grocery stores to get a Mountain Dew

ad

When Bill came down to Palo Alto to visit us, we would do our “blood runs” from near Stanford, out to Woodside, and then along Canada Road out to Crystal Springs Reservoir and back. A long stretch of relatively flat, smooth, wide-shouldered road between Woodside and the reservoir gave us a perfect segment where we could pick up the pace, either subtly or outright gonzo. We could pound on each other for well over a mile while traffic above us on I-280 went zooming by. Because Canada Road generally didn’t see much vehicular traffic, it was frequently used over the weekend by scads of casual bicycle riders. Once one of the runners in our group put the pedal down and the rest of us accepted the challenge, it wasn’t unusual to go flying past bicyclists like they were stuck in first gear. That was all well and good until we overstayed our welcome in the anaerobic zone, when one by one we’d fall off the pace and drop back to 7:00 or 7:30 pace, saving enough energy to get us back to our apartment on Grant Avenue. The runs were always memorable, if for no other reason than the fact that they were never done lightly or haphazardly. These runs weren’t for jogging about, taking a scenic tour. They were, next to the weekly track workout, the most serious runs of the week. They were the backbone of our training program, a training program that allowed us, at the drop of a marathon race date, to say, “Yeah, let’s do it,” without fear that we were going to have to plan 18 weeks in advance so

we would be ready. We were ready— any time, any place—because of the “blood runs.” I’m not sure whether the “blood runs” were so special because they were so damned challenging or because misery loves company. But they would always end with a pile of bagels, Philadelphia cream cheese, lox, and a few beers. And, of course, a recounting of every step of the “blood run” that we had just finished. It was a badge of honor to be the first in the group to “flash the red,” to display some blood. In a sense, the blood connected us to our running heroes of old, when running shoes were made of leather and bloodied feet were simply a fact of life as a road racer. It was another era back then in the late ’70s. It was a transitional era for running, one in which the forebears, Johnny “the Elder” Kelley and Emil Zatopek and Tarzan Brown, were legends, and Frank Shorter and Kenny Moore and Don Kardong were leading masses of us, new and naïve but eager runners, onto the altar of sweat, where it all seemed new and brilliant and special. That was before it became something that everybody could and would do, a time when it still took a measure of sacrifice and dedication and sometimes stupidity to feel that the results were worth the extra effort—before the “blood runs” faded and everyone was a winner. * * * At the 1992 Olympics in Barcelona, Lorraine Moller of New Zealand won

Of course, that’s just the flash, the statistical abstraction. Behind every champion is a life spotted with high points and dismal failures that sculpt the person into a fierce competitor but that also make certain to remind her that, in the end, she is very much a human being like everyone else, blighted with foibles and brilliant with determination. Lorraine has written an autobiography that is at once inspiring and humbling. It follows a sickly, scrawny, Kiwi kid who discovers she has a certain talent for moving her legs really fast—but she comes from humble beginnings and has a long way to travel to ultimately reach her goals on the international stage. There are a lot of

the bronze medal in the women’s marathon. It was the culmination of an incredible career in long-distance running. She wasn’t the best-known female marathoner of the era, but when you look at her statistics, she certainly was solidly in the top five along with Grete Waitz, Joan Benoit, Ingrid Kristiansen, and Rosa Mota. Consider: she won the first eight marathons she entered. She won three of the seven Avon Women’s World Championship Marathons that led to a women’s marathon in the Olympic Games. No other woman won more than one. She won the Osaka International Ladies Marathon three times. And in 1996, she was undefeated as a masters runner.

ad

false starts, a lot of setbacks, and a lot of triumphs. Titled On the Wings of Mercury: The Lorraine Moller Story, the book is a fiercely honest look at a life led on a fairly public stage. Lorraine spares no one, especially herself. She is forthright with the wrong turns she took in her life, the questionable decisions, and the blind alleys. But her story is ultimately uplifting because she is determined to come back from everything that goes wrong in her life. When she made a mistake, it was usually a doozy (her marriage to American marathoner Ron Daws is a perfect example), but like the person who throughout life learns how to get things right by first learning lessons from doing them wrong, Lorraine always sticks it out, works hard at correcting her course, and in the end pushes through. The book is a delight in that Lorraine’s personality drenches every page. Her unique take on the world—and on herself—provides an opportunity for readers to get to know the person behind the accomplishments. This opportunity is provided by two factors: she is brutally honest, and she is a skilled writer. She certainly doesn’t need a ghostwriter or a collaborator. This isn’t meant as a put-down to her treasure trove of running accomplishments, but she writes even better than she ran. Every page is filled with vivid word pictures and sometimes startling insights. It would probably be accurate to refer to Lorraine as a “practical New

Ager.” Throughout her adult life, she has been led by her spiritual side and has consulted many a celestial source, whether a seer or a faith healer. She has put an enormous amount of energy into finding the meaning of life, or at least the meaning of her life. And because of her generous personality, the quest in various chapters of the book comes across as more endearing than kooky. Whether a palmist is authentic or not doesn’t matter; if you increase your self-confidence in the process, well then, it worked, right? We are a little spoiled over the last year in being given two gifts in excellent running books that essentially cement the women’s running movement into history. A year ago, Kathrine Switzer unleashed her wonderful Marathon Woman; now, with Lorraine Moller’s honest and insightful tome, that chapter of the history of running is thoroughly plumbed and delightfully recorded. The strength of both books comes primarily from the strength of these two outstanding women to tell their stories with honesty and humility, to let the chips fall where they may, and to stand not behind what they have written, but above it. * * * To purchase Lorraine’s book, On the Wings of Mercury: The Lorraine Moller Story, please contact the Marathon & Beyond office at 217/359-9345 or, tollfree 877/972-4230, or e-mail Jan Seeley at jan@marathonandbeyond.com. —Rich Benyo