(And what | learned from it.)

UEENS, NEWYORK, June 12, 2004—In the northeast corner of Queens, New

York, atop a forested hill overlooking Little Neck Bay, sits little Crocheron

Park. This was the location of the 23rd annual Joe Kleinerman 12-hour run on June 12, 2004, put on by Richie Innamorato and the Broadway Ultra Society. Joe Kleinerman, one of the founders of the New York Road Runners Club and a great ultra supporter, had died the previous November at the age of 91, making this a very special memorial run. We were also told that this would be the final running of the Joe Kleinerman 12-hour race, so it had greater meaning still. (The race was actually held again in 2008, 2010, and 2014.)

Thad run the 2003 Joe Kleinerman race as only my third ultramarathon, after a 50K and a 60K, finishing with about 66 miles, good for sixth-place male. In 2004, with a couple of more ultras under my belt, I felt confident that I could do better. I set a goal of 72 miles, which I felt was ambitious but reasonable, and I came up with a plan to achieve it. If I ran nine minutes per mile for the first four hours, 10 minutes per mile the next four hours, and 11 for the last four hours, I would reach more than 72 miles. I wasn’t too concerned about what place I would finish in, but judging from past results, I thought that could get me a second- or third-place finish.

I was still new to ultras and didn’t know most of the runners, even by name, but two names I did know were Byron Lane, who seemed to win just about every race he ran, and Tim Henderson, who was also a regular near the top of the results and who I learned was Byron’s training partner. These two, I figured, would finish first and second.

The course, a blacktop path that measured 51 yards short of a mile, began in a wooded area with the scorers’ tables and the aid station, then went up a gentle rise through the trees, another gentle rise into a sunny clearing, past ball fields, then made a horseshoe curve around the parking lot and tennis courts, passed through a sunny meadow, and finally went up a slightly more noticeable rise back to the start.

The start of the 2014 race, including Byron Lane, left, in red shorts; Tim Henderson, center, in blue shirt; and the author, right, in yellow shorts.

© Larry Sillen

At the start of the race, I joined a group of about six runners at the front. Not really knowing the runners personally at this point and not being a chatty runner in general, I was content to listen to the other runners talk. Byron and Tim talked about running together for 11 hours, at which point, Byron said, it would be every man for himself. For some reason, that comment stuck in my head, and it served me well later on. We all ran the first few laps about 8:45 each, and I heard Byron tell Tim, “That’s way too fast.” But it felt good and comfortable to me. They decided to walk up the hill leading back to the start area, but I felt comfortable, kept running, and pulled ahead. Still, there were one or two runners who took off at a blistering pace and eventually lapped me, but the consensus was that they would pull out or slow down after reaching some short-term goal.

Rolling along at nine minutes to the mile

I stuck to my plan, keeping about a nine-minute-per-mile pace, estimating my mile pace against the lap time. I was also judging against the previous year’s run, when I had reached the approximate marathon split (27 laps) in four hours, which was my goal again this time. I continued and felt comfortable enough to keep the nine-minute pace, and by six hours I was fairly convinced that the rogue early sprinters had taken a break or pulled out and that I was in the lead. I felt proud that I was in the lead halfway through the race, although I knew it couldn’t last, that I had no right beating these guys. Leading up to this race I was training an average of only 35 miles per week. I didn’t have their training or experience. By eight hours I was slowing down some, but I had lapped Byron and Tim twice, and my uncertainty about the early sprinters was put to rest when the scorers told me I was in fact in the lead.

At this point I had many conflicting thoughts running through my head. First of all, I was proud to be leading, and with a two-lap cushion this far into the race. Still, I felt that I had no right beating these guys, that it was inevitable that they

would eventually pass me. On the other hand, I was beginning to allow myself to think that I might actually win, and that this could be my one chance to win a race. I thought about my sprinting career at my small high school in Nebraska. I would do fairly well in the 100- and 200-meter dashes, sometimes placing but never winning. The 4 X 100 relay team I was on my junior and senior years won many races, but I was never the anchor and I never got to break the tape. And I had never had an individual win. I might never be in this position again; this chance on this June day in Queens might be the only chance in my entire life to win a race on my own.

Very soon after the nine-hour point, Byron and Tim passed me, regaining one lap. This only made my mental struggle more agonizing. What if I pushed too hard and fell apart before the finish, or simply got passed and came in second even after pushing myself to extreme pain? Giving it all you’ve got doesn’t mean you win, after all. On the other hand, how could I let up? What if I didn’t push as hard as I could and got beat and never won a race and had lingering doubts the rest of my life? I had never pushed myself to the point of real pain before—exhaustion and extreme discomfort, of course, but not real pain. At this point I had minor blisters but no real pain, so maybe this was the time. I was still plagued with doubt, but what finally motivated me was hearing some other runners mention as I passed that I was the leader, and I thought about that word. I got the idea that as the leader, I should lead; that’s what people expected of a leader, not to ease up just because I was tired. I felt a responsibility to the other runners and to Richie and the volunteers to push as hard as I could. As foolish or self-centered as it might seem, that was my motivation.

Meanwhile, Byron and Tim passed me again before the 10-hour point, meaning we were on the same lap and my lead was less than a mile. I had stopped counting laps, knowing I was going to reach my goal mileage and knowing my only concern was staying in the lead. But still there was that nagging notion that Thad no right to win this race and that my defeat was inevitable.

At the aid station, when I grabbed a drink, I sometimes ran with the cup, sometimes walked. At about the 10:30 mark, I was walking with my Gatorade away from the aid station and into the woods when Byron came running past me, cup in hand. So this is how it ends, I thought: he passes me while I walk. I felt humiliated and thought I should give chase, but I couldn’t get my legs to run just at that second. Then I saw what Byron was doing. He was running past the aid station but walking up that slight incline in the woods, drinking while he walked. OK, here we go. I started running again, I passed him, and he let me.

Don’t look behind; they might be gaining

I tried to keep my pace. I vowed never to look back behind me. I learned at an early age that looking back for the runner behind you is deadly. I didn’t need to,

anyway. I knew that he was close behind me, waiting for his chance to pounce. And I had seen enough close races to know that the runner in close second almost always pulls ahead at the end to win. I was trying to figure out how I could make this an exception.

Then I remembered Byron’s comment from early in the race, that he would make his move at the 11-hour mark. I wasn’t confident enough to think I would be able to counter that, so I came up with the brilliant idea to take the offensive and make my own move at the 10:55 mark. And that’s what I did.

I don’t know where it came from, but I began running 7:00-7:30 laps. The volunteers at the scorers’ table were clapping as I went by. I figured if I could stay in the lead to 11:45, about when we would be moved onto the short loop (used to facilitate final measurements), I could rely on my sprinting background to seal the victory. And I felt confident that I could stay in the lead to 11:45. Byron hadn’t tun this fast the whole race. For crying out loud, he was walking up those little tiny hills early in the race! There’s no way he could keep up with me now! That’s what most assuredly went through my head.

One of the scorers at one point told me I had about a two-minute lead. But a couple of laps later as I came around, she said, “He’s gaining on you!” How can that be? He can’t keep up with my pace! That next lap, at about the 11:30 mark, a 90-degree turn about halfway through, I gave into temptation to look behind me. But I didn’t have to look far. Byron was no more than two steps behind, and a few seconds later, dead even. I pushed to keep with him, and we approached the scorers’ table side-by-side. The odd thought that went through my head now was how exciting it must be for Richie and the volunteers and anyone else watching. Another lap and we were still even, still running 7:00-7:30 pace.

Then at that little rise in the woods just past the aid station, Byron pulled ahead, and I couldn’t answer. My legs felt like lead. A lap later he was 100 yards ahead of me. One of the other runners said I could still catch him, but I couldn’t get myself to move that fast again. I had conceded defeat and just hoped Tim wouldn’t catch me to take second place from me.

Byron won with a distance of 75.99 miles. I finished second with 75.49. And Tim was third with more than 73 miles. I don’t know which way of finishing a race is sweeter, crossing a fixed finish line or hearing the sound of a whistle to end a timed race. But very few times before or since have I been so happy to stop running. Immediately after the finish, Byron and I congratulated each other. His next words were: “Are you feeling dizzy?”

“A little,” I replied.

He said that he was, too. How could you not be a little dizzy, having run so hard for so long on a warm, sunny June day? Those moments immediately after such a race, waiting for the circulation to return to normal, can be the most painful of the day. It was all I could do to get to a park bench to sit, catch my breath, and

endure the torture. While the results were tallied, the runners collected themselves and their supplies, ate a little bit, and rested. I was told that Tim had fainted at the end of the race and that another runner had collapsed as well but that neither case was serious. Then, when the awards were being given out, just as I was about to go up and receive mine, Byron fell backward in his chair and fell to the ground. The ceremony was cut short as Byron was given medical attention. Fortunately, he was also not in a serious condition and I was able to congratulate him again before I left the park. It was definitely a disturbing end to an exciting day.

Winning ain’t everything; really, it isn’t

I didn’t win, but I was happy to have surprised a lot of people who didn’t know me and to have injected some excitement into the race. Richie called me the next day to make sure I was OK, which I was, and to assure me that Byron was OK, too. But still, there was that nagging feeling that I didn’t really give it all I had in the last half hour. I never experienced real pain. Tim and Byron both passed out from pushing themselves so hard. Was I capable of doing that? Would I ever have another chance to win a race? A lot of questions were left unanswered.

This was my first big competitive finish. Byron and I have gone head to head many times since then, sometimes competing for the win, sometimes for second or third, but always pushing each other and always in a spirit of friendship and good-natured rivalry. He usually came out on top, but I’ve finished ahead of him sometimes, and yes, I’ve even been fortunate enough to win a few races since then. I’ve had better races and bigger races; there have been closer finishes and I’ve had more dramatic results when I came out of nowhere in a big race to do very well and surprise a lot of people. I’ve had national championships and I’ve even had an American record, but I’m putting this race down as my most memorable. All of my later successes have been variations on this, my first big success. And it was not only a great lesson in success but also a lesson in defeat, as all good defeats are.

<4 Byron (left) and the author after the 2014 race—10 years after first competing against each other in the Joe Kleinerman 12-hour run.