won the thing. He’ll tell you all about the experience at the least prompting.

To be sure, plenty of athletes were making money under the table leading up to that juncture. “I was making more money back then when I wasn’t allowed to than you are now that it’s okay,” Fleming, always the sympathetic coach, tells me frequently. The Jordache race did not ask permission from the governing body of track and field in the United States (The Athletics Congress, or TAC) to dole out the cash. In the spirit of the maxim “it’s easier to ask forgiveness later than for permission now,” they just went ahead and did it.

Almostimmediately there was talk of banning Tom from competition. Threats were made, but no one followed through on them. People recognized that the age of the professional distance runner was at hand.

TRUST FUNDS

TAC created what were called “athlete trust funds.” Athletes could put any money they earned into a trust fund (almost invariably run by the Bank of Boulder) and take it out for training expenses. If you needed a Mercedes to get to the track (let’s say you’ re Carl Lewis), then that’s a training expense.

Originally intended as a means of overseeing athletes’ income and keeping them poor enough to still be “amateurs,” the trust funds amounted to little more than extra paperwork and hassle for all parties involved. When

I first came out of college in 1989, these trust funds were still in effect. My first prize money was a check for $500 made out to “TAC Trust Fund of Joseph LeMay,” whichI won the summer following my graduation for a five-miler in the high 23-minute range.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” was my only thought.

SoI gota list of approved trustees from TAC and sent my money off to some dude in Connecticut—the only East Coaster I saw on the list. I figured I wouldn’ttouch that money until Ireally needed it or until Iretired from competitive running. After all, more of those easy $500 races were coming, right?

That November I found myself broke and had to jump through a few hoops to get the money. Seems TAC would wait two weeks after you requested the money to send it since they were accustomed to seeing checks bounce.

Sometime the next year my trustee decided he was getting out of that business, and I was supposed to find anew one. I never did. Whenever the occasional check made out to “Trust Fund of .. .” came in, I just went to my regular bank, stuck it in an envelope, and they never had a problem with it. With the ability of a high 28minute 10K runner, I made about $4,000 to $6,000 per year at the time, and I saw no reason to bother TAC with that piddling sum. I was barely even a blip on their radar screen.

Finally, beginning in 1993, TAC, which had changed its name to

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USATF, abolished trust funds, and athletes were free to earn money without the oversight of any governing body other than the IRS. (By the way, if you have kids, one conversation you should have with them as they approach 18 is how to file an income tax return. I know it can be complicated, but the basics aren’t. At 18, I wasn’t even sure if I was supposed to file. I think the “tax talk” is more important than all the sex and drug talks the TV ads say you’ re supposed to have with them. They already know about that stuff anyway.)

AMERICAN-ONLY CASH

So with the TAC monkey off your back, you can go nuts and make lots of cash on the “lucrative” road-racing circuit, right?

It’s not so easy.

Personally, I stayed at the $5,000 per year level until 1996, when I started to get a lot better. With the advent of the USA Running Circuit (USARC) in 1995, a few Americans were able to take advantage of the U.S. citizen-only prize money pools offered by someraces to the point where they could actually make a living.

Keith Brantly was the first to take advantage of the USARC, winning the 1995 title and taking home $12,500 for it. His 2:14 to win the U.S. Marathon Championships that year won him $30,000, which, in my humble opinion, is a lot of money for a 2:14.

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This was not a bad thing for many American distance runners, and I was able to score a couple of good paydays myself that I would have been eliminated from otherwise. For example, a win at the Gate River Run 15K in 1997 for my biggest-ever prize of $10,000 (Iran 43:35) and a second place at the New Haven 20K in 1996, where I got paid more than Joseph Kamau, the overall race winner: my $4,650 to his $2,500.

That particular event raised some questions regarding fairness in funneling prize money ina lopsided fashion to American runners, and I was the subject of some pre-New York City Marathon press in the New York Times pointing out those disparities. Specifically, it was an article by Marc Bloom comparing me with Joseph Kamau in both the New Haven and Falmouth Road Races. It wasn’t all that flattering, but P’ve always maintained that you know you’ ve really arrived as an athlete when they take the time to write negative things about you.

While the USARC lives on with half the end-of-year purse it started out with (cut from $50,000 to $25,000 due to lack of sponsors), the question ofits fairness and whether it’s the right track to take is still debated. In theory, it was supposed to make it easier for American distance runners to earn a living, thus giving them more time to train, thus allowing them to better compete with the rest of the world.

Although it has made it easier for them to earn a living, they haven’t been performing any better on the