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Bill Childs

Vaucouver, British Columbia, Canada.

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Marathoners Daydream of Running from the Front. Dreams Can Come True.

6 ‘H ERE THEY come, Dad!” “Wow. I wish I had some of their speed,” I replied as the Kenyans

drew ever closer and were all set to pass us between mile 13 and 14. They went by in a group of eight or nine and were moving comfortably in a beautifully relaxed pace.

“T was expecting them to catch us around mile 11 or 12,” I told Anthony.

[had been doing the mathematics in my head as we ran along at 6:50 per mile. I was guessing that the young elite runners would be running two minutes per mile faster than we, and since we had started 20 minutes before the leaders, making up 20 minutes would place them at mile 10, while we would be just a couple or so miles ahead. Somehow my math was off.

Iwas enjoying the cheering crowds, and having my 50-year-old son running alongside me was an exciting and heady situation that didn’t allow much in the way of precise computations.

Anthony said, “This is fantastic, Dad. It’s the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me!”

Race and television officials for the Turin Marathon had asked me to start the race 20 minutes ahead of the open elites because mine was a special story that they wished to feature for Italian television viewers. I readily assented, with the proviso that Anthony run with me.

It was in my mind that if conditions and fitness levels permitted, I might have a chance to break my own world record and help my son, who had taken up running only two years before, to a new PR.

After witnessing my 3:01:35 effort in the London Marathon in 1995, Anthony expressed his desire to start a running program. Being a certified mountaineer leader, he wished to strengthen his legs for climbing. In no time he was hooked on our sport, and for the next year I received and returned regular and lengthy transatlantic phone calls to advise him on numerous running topics and technicalities.

John Keston IN YOUR DREAMS @® 55

He is now a full-fledged long-distance runner and shows great promise, having become one of the best 50-year-olds in his club. Just one month before Turin, he had run a new PR at the London Marathon in 3:05:40 and was hoping to go under three hours today.

My thoughts returned to the elite runners who had just passed us and were drawing steadily away, their elegant figures becoming more diminutive as our contrary paces separated us. If only I were 50 years younger, I might very well be with these extraordinary athletes, I said to myself.

I was running the centennial Turin Marathon in northern Italy, on May 11 (Mother’s Day), 1997. The race had started in the town of Avigliana, some 25 kilometers northwest of Turin. I was not fooling myself about my potential to

72 Thad run the first of a series of age-graded races in Las Vegas sponsored by Indianapolis Life Insurance Company and USA Track & Field and had been declared overall age-graded winner of the half-marathon with an adjusted time of 1:02:10. My actual time was 1:25:24. Just nine days before the Turin Marathon, I had run the Indianapolis Mini 500, another USATF age-graded halfmarathon, completing it in 1:27:44, with an adjusted time of 1:03:53, gaining second place overall and placing, age-graded, ahead of great runners such as Bill Rodgers, Steve Plasencia, and others, so I was confident that I might very well be in a Turin Marathon lead pack were I in their age category. The World Association of Veteran Athletes (WAVA) and USATF age-graded tables and the officials of those governing bodies had confirmed my age-graded times,

The Kenyan pack is about to pass John and Anthony Keston between mile 13 and 14 of the Turin Marathon.

making me an official world-class athlete. You can imagine how thrilled I was to be thought of as “world-class.”

A CENTURY-OLD TRADITION

It was because of that world-class status that I found myself here, running the 100-year-old Turin Marathon. Technically, this was not the 100th running, but rather a celebration of the first marathon run in Turin, which took place in 1897. Anthony had told me about this marathon, asking if I would be interested in doing it with him. It had slipped out of my mind entirely until one day when I was browsing the Internet looking up various running sites. I came across an intriguing little line of Italian, “Correre per Conoscersi,’ or “Run to meet others,” and began to read the information.

I am fluent in Italian as my first wife, Anthony’s mother, whom I had met while serving in the RAF during World War II, is Italian, and I learned to converse in that language. There was no information in the text I was reading about the Turin Marathon, but there was an e-mail address.

“Correre per Conoscersi” turned out to be an Italian running Web site where runners could meet others to run with when visiting other cities in that country. Composing a letter of inquiry in my best Italian about the Turin Marathon, I sent the e-mail and soon received a reply from the editor of Podismo, a running magazine.

When we spoke on the telephone, Mr. Indro Neri said he had already spoken to the race director of the Turin Marathon, given him my running stats, records, phone number, and so on, and said that I should be hearing from them very quickly. Within a week I had been contacted and invited, and I confirmed that I would run the Turin Marathon.

By this time, Anthony had already registered. I sent a running resumé, photos, and news articles for prerace publicity. [had a formidable racing schedule planned before Turin, as I had elected to run several USATF age-graded masters races around the United States. I continued my practice regimen, hoping I would stay well and be able to accomplish my goals.

John and Anthony, before the start of the Turin Marathon.

John Keston ‘IN YOUR DREAMS fii 57

ON TO SESTRIERE

My wife Anne and I arrived in Milan on Sunday, May 4, late afternoon, having left Indianapolis 50 hours before. We had spent a long and tiring journey from the United States because of plane cancellations and delays. We picked up our rental car and drove to the Italian Alps to the town of Sestriere, site of the 1997 World Downhill Skiing Championships.

We arrived at 9:30 p.m. and found the office of our exchange condominium closed. Most of the town had shut down because ski season in this beautiful resort area had ended three weeks before. We were at more than 7,000 feet, inhaling pristine air, absorbing stunning scenery, which had enchanted us on the drive from Milan, but we were fast becoming jaded—and cold.

We encountered a kindly Italian gentleman, a local resident, who was incensed that the office staff had left us with no means of access to our condo. He used his cell phone to call around for a janitor or doorkeeper to bring us a key. The local carabiniere had no knowledge of where we might find an official of the time-share, ironically called “Palace Two,” but having no resemblance to any palace I had ever seen, either first- or second-class. Our new Italian friend ascertained that there was only one hotel open of the 40 or more available during ski season. We spent that night at an alternate abode and then transferred to our apartment in the east wing of the “Palace” the next morning.

Light training was my immediate goal. The marathon was just six days away, and here I was at 7,000 feet feeling the effects of the rarified air. Through the Italian Alps from Sestriere, it is possible to walk, jog, or run innumerable miles, into France or Switzerland, with the most beautiful scenery imaginable, made more enjoyable and comfortable by an asphalt trail wide enough for two pedestrians.

Feeling no need to train at other than a moderate pace, I took my first walk on this pathway just minutes from the “Palace.” It was uphill, a medium gradient at first, getting steeper in parts. What I thought would be a very easy walk felt like an 80-percent running effort and produced some healthy panting. Ionly managed three miles on this first outing.

The next day, Tuesday, I returned to the trail, pushing my effort to a slow run of intervals with short walks between. The effects of altitude made the going hard, but I consoled myself, imagining my body producing more red blood cells to carry more oxygen to my muscles when I would run the Turin Marathon next Sunday. Acclimation doesn’t work that way, of course. One needs months of altitude training to benefit from it.

The scenery, however, was more than therapeutic. It was positively a calming, deeply spiritual experience that I shall cherish forever. It didn’t matter that I was expected by my Turin Marathon hosts to try to break my own world record

for the marathon. They had assured me that they were delighted just to have me running the race as the oldest world record holder ever to do so.

I would enjoy every minute of this final preparation for the Turin Marathon. The air was cool and brisk, but the sun warmed my body as I ran on the skyhigh trail. [had only once in my lifetime ever seen a sky as blue. It was 54 years earlier, in 1943, while sailing in convoy across the Atlantic during World War II with my RAF squadron on our circuitous route to the Middle East to serve as air support for Montgomery’s campaign against Rommel.

Now the sky above the Italian Alps, speckled with clouds and distant cumulus nimbus, the brilliant blue, the corrugated, sometimes jagged snow-covered peaks that stretched beyond the beyond gave me a sense of being an innocent in anewly-created world. Unlike any other feeling I had ever had, I capitulated totally to the moment, enjoying every forward step, fairly floating back to my lodgings. The experience made even the “Palace” look more regal.

Everybody’s Friend, Carlos

Everyday it had become our habit to visit the best of the two grocery stores open in the otherwise deserted town of Sestriere to secure our daily baguettes and other alimentary supplies. There we met Carlos, the ebullient, vociferous son of the owner, who was a fountain of information regarding local folklore, gossip, and history.

He was a self-styled friendship agent. Through Carlos you could meet and be immediately accepted by any of the remaining residents of Sestriere. Carlos introduced me to Giuseppe, his brother-in-law, a distance runner who had been a fine athlete in his high school years. Giuseppe ran almost every day and was delighted to run with me, showing me his special trails. I spent three very pleasant days working out with Giuseppe.

For one of our workouts we made illegal entry to the local running track, which Giuseppe assured me was perfectly acceptable to any of the officials accountable for the privacy and maintenance of the facility. There we ran some 400-meter intervals. I found them much more difficult than usual due to the altitude. I appreciated this brief friendship and camaraderie. It is very special what we are able to communicate through our love of running.

ON TO TURIN

On Friday, Anne and I left Sestriere, traveling 70 miles to Turin. The race director had arranged for a two-night stay at the United Nations Education Center, where there was special housing for international students. We went first to a large building called “Palavela,”’ a former, somewhat aged, covered

John Keston IN YOUR DREAMS & 59

sports arena that was being used for marathon registration, the expo, the prerace conference center, and a general meeting place.

At the registration table for the Turin Marathon I was greeted by an enthusiastic group of volunteers who were expecting me and made me feel special immediately. Christiana Rossi, the Girl Friday to the race director, introduced herself and others, and then assigned two pleasant young ladies to escort us to our hotel, a short distance away. The expo was surprisingly impressive for a registration of only 2,000 runners. It covered many aspects of long-distance running, from basic equipment to the most sophisticated physical and ergonomic aids for runners. One could also register there for many other marathons scheduled for scenic Italian cities.

At the Saturday morning press conference, I was introduced to and interviewed by members of the print and TV media. I attempted to answer all questions in my good though somewhat rusty Italian. The most common question, of course, dealt with whether or not I would break my world record.

My riposte was, “Sarebbe un miracolo se lo faccio,” which translates to “It will be a miracle if I do it.”

And indeed, I was aware that I would be expecting more than I truly felt capable of at this time. My whole normal routine had drastically changed: food, climate, sleep patterns. And I was still feeling tired from the half-marathon effort in Indianapolis and the difficult journey to Italy. After the marathon, an Italian long-distance running coach told me that he would never have allowed me to race, since I had run a hard half-marathon nine days earlier, even without all the traveling.

I’ve never had a formal coach, sol’ ve gleaned most of my training regimens and techniques from running publications. Unfortunately, I’ve paid with a few minor injuries and setbacks because I’ ve practiced to the letter various training recommendations that might have been fine for the younger and more supple athlete but didn’t always work for my old bones. I’ve learned to discipline myself better and have improved considerably, taking more recovery time from hard efforts with walking, rather than easy running days.

Anthony arrived later in the afternoon. We spent the rest of the day relaxing and carbo-loading. He visited us in our tiny student room, which provided the bare essentials for hygiene, study, and sleep. He assured us that his room was even smaller, and his bed, on a lofty ledge above the study desk and accessed by a narrow ladder, looked scary to me. Our room looked onto a balcony overlooking the gardens below. The balcony ran the length of the building, allowing access for all of the other rooms.

A gentleman from next door joined us. We began conversing and “No,” he said, he was not there to run the race. He was dressed ready to go to a prerace dinner where he was to speak. Anthony and I were charmed by his affability and

his kindly and gentle demeanor. He was an elegant, lithesome, obviously athletic man, and IJ asked his name.

“Lasse Viren,” he replied. The Flying Finn, my brain’s computer flashed. I was quietly awed to be speaking with one of the giants of our sport. His wife called from within that it was time to go; graciously he introduced her and left. It is serendipitous events like our meeting with Lasse Viren that make our sport so special.

TIME TO RACE

On raceday, Anthony and I were taken with other elite runners to Avigliana, where the race would begin. We were to start the race 20 minutes before the rest of the runners. There were photos and interviews before the start as well as TV coverage throughout the race. The town had a festive air with thousands of spectators, jugglers, musicians, and flag-tossing youths in medieval costumes lining the streets and piazzas.

I was introduced to the mayor of the town who greeted us warmly, patting both Anthony and me on the back, telling us “in boca lupo,” or “in the mouth of the wolf,” a traditional Italian good luck greeting.

The weather was almost perfect, 56 degrees at the start. When the race started, we left with two police motorcycle escorts, one in front, the other behind us, as well as a police car, the lead race vehicle, and three additional motorcycles, one with a television cameraman. [had hada similar expeHos rience in Valencia, Spain, 18 John and Anthony start 20 minutes ahead of months before when running the rest of the runners. in the world’s first age-graded marathon in which I finished second overall with an adjusted time of 2:16:40. [See Marathon & Beyond,

John Keston . INYOURDREAMS ® 61

me by the people here in Turin. It seemed old age commanded great respect in both nations, and the recognition of what I was attempting had been elevated in status.

We could still hear the cheers and live music as we came to the outskirts of Avigliana and were directed onto tree-lined country roads that shaded 75 percent of the marathon course. Crowds of people along the route were encouraging Anthony and me with their cheers, bravos, and forzas, and it was still the early stages of the race.

Ihad begun feeling strong and running well. We were maintaining an even pace, 4:15 per kilometer, 6:50 per mile. The race director in the lead car was telling the crowds along the way that the taller, older runner was John Keston from Oregon, U.S.A., “categoria venti-quatro.” It took me several hearings to finally figure out thathe was telling the crowds thatI was born in 1924. A very good year, I thought to myself.

As we ran on these shaded country roads, we passed immaculately kept ° farm fields with plants I couldn’timmediately identify, although I did recognize one field of cabbages. There were almond, chest- ‘ nut, and cherry orchards Race director Luigi Chiabrera, with megaphone, along the way. This area of calls out “John Keston, who was born in 1924.” Piemonte is famous for ~ cherries. In fact, the Turin Marathon logo is a single red cherry on a stalk, bearing also a single cherry leaf. It is a unique, artistic, and very attractive logo.

Again along the route we passed vineyards all beautifully tended. Piemonte reputedly produces the finest Italian wines.

Flat and Fast

The kilometers clicked by easily at first. I was enjoying the scenic, flat course, the accompaniment of police escorts, and the crowds cheering us on; it motivated us to run tall.

Every so often I would hear, “Eco lo, ’e lui il vecchio, ma credi che ha setantadue anni?” “Bravo, bravo!” “There he is, it’s him, but can you believe he’s 72?”

I was caught up in the excitement and pressure to run well. By my side, Anthony was running easily. I was very proud to have him there. He’s the picture ofa top-class distance runner, 5’10” tall, lean, weighing in at 122 pounds. Several running friends had told me that he looks like Bill Rodgers, with a similar running style. At 50 years of age, he is showing the potential for some excellent race times a couple more years down the road. His running career is similar to mine, in that it was begun later in life.

I’ve observed that no matter when a person starts running, there appears to be a 15-year period of improvement and then a falling off in performance. This modest decline doesn’t detract from the enjoyment of running, butrather makes it a better time to appreciate how special our sport is. No matter where we are in the world, we can put on our running shoes, go out the door, and explore.

We had now entered the suburbs of Turin, and it was here that the lead pack passed us. The temperature had risen to what I guessed would be 70+ degrees Fahrenheit, and I was feeling more tired and hotter than I had expected to at this point. The effects of my long journey and my recent hard half-marathon begun to catch up with me. Farther along the route, Anthony said, “We’re off pace, Dad. The last mile was 7:10, which puts us about 30 seconds off a sub-3:00 finish. We should try to pick it up.”

I knew I was slowing down considerably and would not be able to sustain even the current pace. We were at kilometer 28 by now, with 14-plus to go. Several other packs of runners had passed us, and a steady stream of runners were catching us as our pace decreased. Anthony still looked very strong, his gait energetic and relaxed. I told him he should go ahead and try to accomplish his personal goal of going under three hours.

We had continued through the streets of Turin to the encouragement of all the good citizens who had turned out to support us. I noticed many elderly folk among them and heard over and over again, “’e Jui,” “It’s him.” They recognized me from prerace publicity, I assumed, and it was comforting to have oldies of my generation urging me on.

The pace car had gone ahead with the lead pack, but I still had two motorcycle policemen accompanying me, one ahead and one behind. They stayed with me until the finish. I later learned from the race director that they were instructed to stay with me for my personal safety throughout the event, no matter how long I might take to complete the course. This consideration for my well being impressed and moved me deeply, although what danger they were protecting me from, I’m not certain.

The Dizzies Arrive

I began feeling dizzy just before Anthony left me. Light-headed, I was unable to focus clearly on any object either ahead or close by. My hearing also seemed to be distant, as if all I was hearing were echoes. I drank at every opportunity, but there was only water available; there had been no sports drinks offered along the course.

I was having difficulty getting enough air, and my chest felt tight, which made it difficult to breathe, and was accompanied by a hint of pain. These symptoms concerned me only slightly since I was diagnosing them as hypoglycemia. Why I didn’t stop and ask one of the good folk along the way for a pop or other confection, I cannot now say. I was determined to finish the race in a respectable time, so I decided to jog, walk, run, walk, whatever would get me to the finish line.

It was obvious that I had not had enough rest to perform at my best. If I were hypoglycemic, then I should have heeded the advice of Domingos Castro, who at breakfast had told me I that should eat some bread and jam. I explained to him that I had never eaten much of anything before racing and had always felt I raced better on an empty stomach. This morning I had only ingested sweetened tea with milk. I should have done as Castro said! He had just won the Rotterdam Marathon in 2:07. “He ought to know,” I said, chastising myself later that day while Anthony and I analyzed our performances. Domingos was not running the Turin Marathon, but was there to support his twin brother, Dionisio, also an elite marathoner. Dionisio finished in 2:25:19.

For the next 12K I struggled to keep a clear head and maintain a respectable pace. Onlookers continued to encourage me. I could still enjoy their cheers and was also able to appreciate the neighborhoods through which I ran. A narrow cobblestoned street became a moderate obstacle, the footing lumpy and unstable. This opened onto a large granite flagstoned piazza with impressive buildings, statuary of ancient military heroes on horseback, and on two sides of the cordoned-off course, open-air cafes where Torinese folk sat drinking their capucinni with rum babas, watching the parade of marathoners. Several times I heard church bells ringing as we came closer to the center of town.

Already I had been charmed at the prettily dressed children on their way with Mom and Dad to their local churches. Carabiniere at every intersection saluted us as we ran by. Perhaps they were acknowledging my motorcycle escort, to whom I had become very attached.

T exchanged words several times with them and told the one officer that I wished to be photographed with them at race’s end. I was disappointed that they peeled off 300 meters from the finish line and I never saw them again.