wanted to tell him how important he was to me and how lucky I was to have two caring, loving parents whom I love very much. I wanted to tell him how empty I felt sometimes since we didn’t talk as much anymore. He was also the smartest person I had ever known, and I wanted him to be aware of that. I just wanted to hug him again in case our paths didn’t cross again for some time.

* Eo *

“Your father has a severe liver disorder,” the doctor explained to me. “I can’t make him take the medicine; that’s where I need someone’s help.”

This isn’t what I had bargained for on this trip. | came to Tampa to do my favorite race, Gasparilla, and this is what I had to listen to? “He really shouldn’t be working and needs to have a specialist look at him. It may only be a matter of time unless he starts taking care of himself and meets this head-on. Timing is critical here. He could have a few months or a few years—it’s up to him.”

I respected that doctor’s bottom-line mentality. He knew my father had no insurance and extremely limited cash flow but wanted to make us aware that we needed to get on the ball. Financially, I could help, but we were talking something bigger here than I could ever wrap my arms around. We went to a nearby hospital and spoke to a smiling, bubbly social worker who we were hoping could help out in some way. “We have programs, assistance, and many other ways we can help out,” he explained confidently.

The issue, of course, was timing. He was speaking in terms of weeks, even months before anything could get done. When we got back into the car, I asked my dad why he had let it go so far. Why hadn’t he made me realize how bad things had become?

“If | would have known this a few months ago, I may have been able to help you more,” I told him, sternly.

He looked at me and said quietly, “I don’t want to get into this. You don’t come here very often, and I don’t want to fight when you are here.”

A few days later, | ran the 15K Gasparilla in a daze, trying to figure out ways I could help my father. In the 10 or so times I did this wonderful race, this was

by far my slowest time. * Eo *

Inside the house, my wife had awakened and was readying for the day. She smiled and wished me a happy anniversary. It was on this day many years ago that we had our first date. “I know this day has mixed feelings for you—being your father’s birthday and all—but I just want you to know I love you,” she whispered to me. Indeed, it was a very special day.

“I know it’s been two years since he died, but you still miss him and think about him a lot, don’t you?”

Smiling and trying to find just the right combination of words to put i together, I just said, “Yeah.” 4

RETURN FROM THE FARTHER BEYOND

It’s Never Too Late to Start but Always Too Early to Think About Finishing.

Runners run for reasons that reason sometimes doesn’t understand . . .

s I lay on the operating table, I heard the doctor say, “Let’s get started.” I

had been given a sedative and, although relaxed, would be awake during

the entire procedure. The date was October 31, 2005. I had celebrated my 74th

birthday two weeks before, and I had a heart problem called angina. The doctor was about to perform an angioplasty with stenting.

Eight days before the surgery, during a Sunday long run of 20 miles in preparation for the New York City Marathon, my heart suddenly hurt. It was not a chest pain. It felt more like tiny fingers pinching the wall of my heart. It happened during the first half mile. At around three miles, I began to feel tightness on the left side of my throat and jaw but continued to run while banging my fist on my chest hoping to chase the problem away. It was early and still somewhat dark. I wanted to think that the pain might be due to the cool moist air, but I knew better.

“This will sting a little,” the doctor said as he inserted a hypodermic needle in my groin area and injected an anesthetic. He then made an incision in the femoral artery and threaded a long, hollow plastic tube, called a catheter, through the artery to the aorta, then via the aorta to my heart and the troubled coronary artery. The catheter traveled a distance of about 20 inches. The troubled artery was 90 percent blocked.

The purpose of the catheter was to provide a conduit through which to pump contrast dye to mark the blocked section of the artery, to launch a small inflatable balloon that would open the blocked area, and finally, to insert and place a metal stent to keep the occluded section of the artery permanently open.

An X-ray machine had been swiveled to about 12 inches above my chest, and a video monitor rested on a stand to my left facing the doctor. The monitor displayed what looked like branches of a defoliated tree. An iodine dye solution was pumped through the catheter to light up the occluded area. I felt as though a

heater was inside me. It was an unusual but pleasant sensation. The doctor then inserted the balloon and stent through the catheter. I watched the monitor as he probed around my heart. It was as if he were bobbing for apples. Every time the balloon approached the troubled area, the artery bounced away. Finally, with the balloon and stent properly set, the balloon was inflated in incremental steps. could feel this. It was the same pinching sensation that had brought me to the hospital in the first place. I closed my eyes and heard the nurse call out numbers.

“Eight, nine, 10.” And my heart ached.

“Eleven …” the balloon was being expanded in increments.

The stent, expanded by the balloon, forced the clogged artery open and was left in place to serve as a permanent, rigid scaffold-type implant.

AN OPERATION THAT IS BECOMING ROUTINE

The procedure is called a coronary angioplasty with stenting, and it took about 30 minutes to perform. Medical literature states that there is less than a 5 percent incidence of postprocedural problems, and the operation is performed some 2 million times each year.

After the operation, my wife, Judy, was waiting and walked along as I was wheeled to a hospital room. In the room, we talked about our disappointment at not being able to run the New York City Marathon together on November 6, six days hence, as we had so carefully planned months before.

Judy was 70 and I was 74. Neither of us had ever had any serious injuries or illnesses, and I had already run seven marathons, including five serious attempts at a Boston Marathon qualifying time. Judy was an excellent runner but had never run a marathon. We both made the lottery for New York and had hopes of making PRs. Judy would complete her first marathon, and I would try, once again, to run a Boston Marathon qualifying time. We had visions, too, that we might be the first husband and wife team over 70 to finish the New York City Marathon. We were motivated, we were in shape, and we had trained hard. But it wasn’t to be.

In August, two and a half months before New York, as part of our training schedule, we ran the San Diego America’s Finest City Half Marathon. Judy pulled up lame after six miles. I ran an inexplicably slow time and hit The Wall at nine miles. It had been a warning to me so obvious that it might as well have been standing in front of me, eyes bugged out with a big sign on its chest that said—WARNING! I did notice it, but for some reason it didn’t register.

Judy was smarter. She let the doctor figure out her problem. She was diagnosed with an arthritic hip socket. Over the past year, she had experienced some hip pain, but it always worked its way out. Not this time. The doctor told Judy that the cartilage in her hip socket was badly worn. C’ est la vie.

Judy will never run again, let alone a marathon. It was a huge disappointment for her, especially after having listened to me so many times recount the adventures

of my first marathon and the first time I ran the New York City Marathon. She knew that these two events were momentous occasions in my life.

My first marathon was the San Diego Rock ’n’ Roll in June 2000. I was almost 70. My goal was just to finish in one piece. The race started at Balboa Park, where the sky was clear and the early morning calm. Lyrics of our national anthem soared on a sweet voice of a beautiful young lady, and a restless crowd fell respectfully silent. From a modest stage close by the side of the road, the race director suddenly shouted, “Are you ready?” Our cheers rose. I jumped up and down. I was 23 again, not 70.

The starter’s pistol snapped, and with a surge, we sped away. That morning is as alive to me now as it was then. During the first few miles, I couldn’t talk enough to my new marathon “buds.”

“How you doing?”

“Where are you from?”

“Really!”

“T used to know someone from there.”

I spotted the 9:30-mile pacer and hung behind her. We trekked smoothly through miles four, five, six. As we ran a long downhill on Highway 163 by Balboa Park, at around miles eight to nine, spectators were shoving and pushing onto every overpass. Colorful signs draped over all the railings.

SIGNS OF THE TIMES

“Yeah, Vincent—Go!”

“Hi, Sophie; Geri and Beth love you.”

Spectators waved and cheered down at us, and we waved and cheered back; then with an impetuous burst of speed, I shot by the pack.

I’ll give ’’ema little show, 1 smiled to myself.

And the bands played on. There was Dixieland, which I love; there was hard rock, which I don’t like, but at that time, I loved it. I loved everything. I loved everyone.

By mile 10 or so, conversations were few. Chitchat burned energy. The urge to yak it up conceded to the realization that 16.2 miles yet remained to the promised land.

Sixteen miles to go; hmm.

It was getting warm, the sun was bright, and I had lost sight of the pacer girl. I remember thinking, too, that the elite runners were almost finished. I still had over two hours to go.

“Ugh,” I grunted, and shuffled on.

Thit The Wall around 19 miles. One minute I was running fairly well, and the next, I really didn’t care anymore. Bystanders urged me on.

“You can do it.”

“You’re strong.”

“You’re looking good.”

But I wasn’t strong, and I wasn’t looking good; and I became irritated by their cheers and patronizing attempts to encourage me.

What do they know? They say the same thing to everyone who runs by.

Judy had worried about me before the race.

“It’s your first marathon,” she said. “Take it easy and don’t do anything stupid.”

“T’m tendon tough.” I boasted.

“Yeah,” she said, “but you’re almost 70.”

“Don’t worry,” I reassured her, “I’ll be OK.”

But, as I limped under Rock ’n’ Roll’s prophetic simulated rock wall at mile 20, I was not OK. The bottoms of my feet hurt; I had blisters, my nipples were raw and bleeding, and my inner thighs stung.

A marathon is not a 26.2-mile race. It is a 19- to 20-mile run with the Bataan death march at the end.

When I finished, there was not a happy corpuscle in my body.

I will never do another marathon! I told myself.

But in bed that night, I could think of nothing else. Time after time, I reviewed each mile and saw the faces of my runner buds. I wished, too, that I could go back and thank every spectator who had shouted encouragement.

That race, my first marathon, was an epiphany. It had been one of the most profound experiences of my life—corpuscles not withstanding.

Who cannot love the training regimen for a marathon?

Really.

During weeks of running, your soul is nourished and the body is invigorated. There are, in my opinion, few things as stimulating as running or able to promote such a keen sense of well-being.

And before a race, there’s the expo. What a great opportunity to strut your stuff. Who there knows I’m slow? They look at me and wonder, and I look back. I look at each individual in the crowd. Everyone exudes extreme vitality. Trim and strong, square jawed, bright quick eyes; they move with grace and extraordinary confidence.

These are my brothers and sisters.

I like being at the expo with these people. They are way cool.

THE BEST PART OF A MARATHON

But the favorite part of any marathon for me is in bed the evening after the race. The worst is over, pain is on the wane, and though I have sworn never to run another marathon—it’s there, safe and sound, under the covers that I begin to reconsider. It’s there, falling off to dreamland, that I look at myself with a hint of awe.

I can do anything.

And when I wake up in the morning, I am so proud.

Before I could bore Judy with more details of my heroic running exploits, the doctor walked in to tell me that the angioplasty had gone well and wanted to know how I was feeling.

“Great,” I said. “Can you tell me if it’s OK for me to go to New York next Friday?”

“Friday!” he rocked back on his heels. ““That’s only three days away. You’re not thinking about running are you?”

“Oh, no; I just want to know if you think I’ll be good enough to travel.”

He told me that if I felt good, he could see no reason not to go, and he gave encouragement by saying that with the artery unclogged, I would probably be stronger than before the operation.

The bionic man.

I found out, too, that the doctor was a runner, 62 years old, who in 2000 had had an angioplasty with stenting. I wanted to ask whether he had done the job himself but fought off the urge to be a wiseguy.

At home the next day, I took it easy. Two days later Judy and I were on our way to JFK and the Sheraton Hotel in mid-Manhattan. We would only be spectators. But, hey!

On Saturday morning, we beat the crowd to the expo at the Jacob Javits Center. The expo was an extravaganza, a la New York. Everyone was there. My way-cool running buds looked strong and ready. The exhibits were full of color and animation. The expo had food, instructional and promotional videos, handouts, lectures, and clothes and more clothes. There was energy, anticipation, and there was joy.

On Sunday morning, starting at 9:00 a.m., NBC presented live TV coverage that lasted four hours. From our bed in the Sheraton, Judy and I watched. The race, as usual, began at Fort Wadsworth, at the base of the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge on Staten Island. NBC told us that the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge is the secondlongest suspension bridge in the world at almost three miles, ramp to ramp.

The excitement at Fort Wadsworth was palpable. The weather was Southern California, clear and warm; 38,000 runners stood in their assigned pens scratching and pawing. Mayor Bloomberg said a few words, the starter’s cannon shattered the morning, runners shuffled forward with arms waving, and Sinatra’s “New York, New York” boomed over megawatt speakers. The 2005 New York City Marathon was off and running.

THE DRAMA AND THE SPECTACLE

Helicopters whirled overhead. Newsmen did on-the-spot interviews with excited runners as they moved from their pens toward the start line. Panning from above,

TV cameras caught scenes of runners heading up the bridge. FDNY fireboats, bobbing in the river below, spewed geysers of red, white, and blue to honor them. Spectacular aerial shots of a mass human migration over the Verrazano Bridge heading toward Brooklyn were like the art of Christo but much more dramatic, much more beautiful.

Judy got up to visit the bathroom—and I was grateful. I didn’t want her to see that I had tears in my eyes. The memory and excitement of the race had overwhelmed me. I wanted to be on the Verrazano Bridge, not in a hotel room at the Sheraton. When I participate in a marathon, I feel that I am a part of a historic event and that each of the thousands of racers is a special and intimate friend. We are bonded. I get emotional. This was never truer than on November 4, 2001, about seven weeks after 9/11, when I ran New York for the first time. It was my second attempt to qualify for Boston.

On that day in 2001, over 30,000 runners were expected to run, but only 23,664 showed up at Fort Wadsworth. It was a cold, dreary morning and a scary time. Many of the runners I talked to that morning had taken pause after 9/11 and considered pulling out of the race, and I had been one of them. The tragedy on 9/11 had elevated the drama of the race tenfold. The New York Road Runners race committee had discussed canceling, but those discussions were short lived. To the committee’s credit, the race proceeded as usual. Mayor Giuliani bid us godspeed, the cannon boomed, and Sinatra sang.

Up and over the Verrazano Bridge we charged. Fireboats below turned up their nozzles; flumes of red, white, and blue reached for us. The Statue of Liberty and lower Manhattan stood in the background. On the right was Coney Island. These are famous landmarks that I had never seen before except in photographs. As we crossed over the high point of the bridge, we waved our arms, clenched our fists, and cheered.

Or was it more of a cry?

We could see ash and soot hanging over lower Manhattan where on September 10, only seven weeks before, all was at peace. Then the next day, September 11, suddenly and without warning, all was hell. I had goose bumps, and the shiver that swept through me was not from the cold air.

Not only was I running in one of the world’s greatest marathons with all the attendant emotion, but I was a witness, also, to the aftermath of the first attack against America on American shores in this century. I love my country and New York. As we ran over the highest point of the bridge, everyone stabbed their arms in the air, a common expression of excitement like those we see at rock concerts or sporting events. But that day, there was more to it. It was anger that said: You ain’t going to get away with this.

We raced through all five boroughs of New York City: Staten Island, Brooklyn, Queens, Manhattan, and the Bronx. The race was full of surprises. In Brooklyn,

we cheered hard for a group of FDNY men perched on a raised platform. They were all 9/11 heroes. In Queens, citizens of Jamaican ancestry stood four deep along the street. They gave us energy. We ran through a neighborhood of Hasidic Jews, whom I had always regarded as serious and dour. They dodged precariously across the street in front of us, laughing, cheering, animated while trying not to run into us, nor we into them.

ON THE QUEENSBORO BRIDGE

At around the 15-mile mark, we entered the lower level of the Queensboro Bridge. Shaded by the top deck, the stretch over the bridge was quiet and somber. Our feet pounding against the steel structure created a sound like distant thunder. The voice of the bridge spoke; it seemed to grumble at our presence.

When we left the bridge, I could hear Sinatra’s voice again, getting louder. “New York, New York,” he wailed. I had the feeling something was about to happen.

As we poured from the bridge into Manhattan, we could hear the faint sound of cheering. As we rounded a sharp bend leading to First Avenue, the cheering became louder; and as we ran onto First Avenue, there was pandemonium. We were suddenly engulfed. Tens of thousand of excited New Yorkers, lined eight deep, consumed us.

I was just one in a gaggle of hundreds of runners who swung onto First Avenue at that moment, but I felt that I alone was the center of the spectators’ attention and that they were cheering for me—and only me. I gasped.

For 30 seconds, I knew how it felt to be a returning hero or a famous celebrity. I captured every eye, every smile was directed at me, and I evoked spontaneous cheers from thousands of adoring fans.

Look, look! There he is.

Oh, my God, it’s him!

» The Hogarths at the finish line in Central Park the day before the race. It was a lot easier to get there that day than it was the next.

He looks just like I knew he would.

It was one of the most unexpected and bizarre experiences I have ever had. Much has been written about this section of the New York City Marathon. It alone is worth running the race.

Up First Avenue toward the Bronx, the tumult never ceased, and then I heard my wife call,

“Hon.”

That sounds like Judy. That can’t be. She’s at Central Park.

“Hon,” she said louder and gently poked me in the side, “wake up.”

“What?” I said, blinking my eyes.

I focused on the TV. The leaders were flying down Fifth Avenue, getting close to the turn at Central Park South, Columbus Circle, and the finish line.

“The leaders are getting close to the finish,” Judy said, “You’d better go throw some water on your face.”

With only a few hundred yards to the finish, three elite runners were ripping. Spectators went up on their tiptoes craning for a better look. The NBC TV commentators were hyperventilating. If they had wanted to lay it on for their TV audience in an attempt to heighten the drama, they didn’t know how and they didn’t have time. There was not much that needed to be said at that moment. The race spoke for itself.

As the finishers approached the tape, it was nose to nose, ankle to ankle, between Hendrick Ramaala of South Africa and Paul Tergat of Kenya. In a desperate final lunge, Ramaala grimaced and threw himself at the tape, crashed to the timing mat, and lay sprawled in a heap. He lost to Paul Tergat by one second with a time of 2:09:31. Ramaala ran for 7,771 seconds and lost by one second. It was the closest men’s finish in the 36-year history of the New York City Marathon. In third place, at 2:09:56, was 2004 Olympic silver medalist, Meb Keflizighi: a good guy, a great runner, and from Judy’s and my hometown of San Diego.

The elite women were no less spectacular. The women’s winner, Jelena Prokopcuka of Latvia, who had ran up to 120 miles per week in training, finished at 2:24:41. In second place, Susan Chepkemie of Kenya gave her all, and a lot more. She vomited three times during the final miles and never broke stride. It was a sight to see, and a truly heroic effort. She finished 14 seconds behind Prokopcuka at 2:24:55. Third place went to Olympic medalist, Derartu Tulu of Ethiopia, who finished in 2:25:21.

A WHEELCHAIR RECORD

The men’s wheelchair course record fell to South African Ernst Van Dyk, who claimed the title in 1:31:11. In the women’s wheelchair race, course record-holder Edith Hunkeler of Switzerland defended her title in 1:54:52.

Another year, another race, and although Judy and I had not been able to run, the trip was one of our best vacations. After all, it was a marathon, and it was New York City.

On the return flight to Southern California, Judy and I discussed our plans. Although time was sneaking up on us, at ages 70 and 74, we felt that we still had a good lead. Judy would return to the gym with renewed vigor, get on a solid walking program, and do yoga three times a week.

We talked, too, about the miracles of medicine and how fortunate I had been to detect my heart problem when I did. If I had been more sedentary, I wondered whether the 90 percent blockage could have become even more advanced and resulted in a major, or deadly, incident before I was able to take action. And the particular type of stent implanted in my clogged artery is a highly sophisticated device available only 20 months before my operation. It is a tubular latticelike affair made of stainless steel, measuring about 2 inches by one-eighth of an inch and costing, according to the doctor, around $3,000.

And I mentioned to Judy that I was thinking about entering the 2006 Chicago Marathon for yet another try at a Boston qualifier.

She raised an eyebrow. “Do you really think you can do a 4:30 Boston qualifying time? You’ve already tried five times.”

“Well, sure,” I said, “Maybe the stent will help.”

The best chance I had ever had for a Boston qualifier was the 2002 Marine Corps Marathon. Before the race, I told everyone that I would crush the Boston qualifying time, only to end up limping in over the last three miles with a debilitating stabbing pain on the outside of my right knee.

That race taught me to respect the marathon and keep my predictions to myself. The machismo I used to have before a marathon is gone, replaced by an image of how I know I am going to feel when I reach miles 19 to 21. I have come to realize, too, that success in a marathon has as much to do with mental preparation as it has to do with physical conditioning and training. A marathon race is