quit first. And that to me is what marathoning was often like: this brutal struggle, where you think you are about to break, and can’t hold out any longer, but you hope the other guy breaks sooner. Survival. Toughness. It’s your ability to hold on just a little bit longer than anybody else. You cry, and wish you could end it, and you have all these doubts, but if you want to win, you have to hold on and not let go.”

The morning after the marathon race, Dick Beardsley received a call at 8:00 AM from Jim Davis, the president of New Balance: “Dick, there’s a car awaiting you at the front door. It’s for your enjoyment.”

After Dick and Mary dressed, they went downstairs and climbed into a white stretch limousine. They toured Boston, doing the sightseeing they had avoided while he had conserved energy awaiting the race. Toward the end of the day, they were driven to the New Balance offices. Several executives brought Beardsley into an office and handed him a three-year contract offering $30,000 a year. “I need time to think this over,” said Beardsley, politely handing the contract back.

After he returned to Minnesota, adidas continued its pursuit. Beardsley eventually agreed to a contract with New Balance that offered $180,000 for three years, not including bonuses for performance. Fortunately, the contract was backed by an insurance policy should Beardsley become injured. He won Grandma’s Marathon two months after Boston in 2:14:49, but an Achilles tendon injury forced him to cancel a return showdown with Salazar at New York. In the next decade, Beardsley would become injured in a car crash, nearly have his leg torn off in a farming accident, and be hit from behind by a car while training in the dark near Minneapolis’s Metrodome.

“Tt seemed like I could never train for more than six months without getting hurt,” Beardsley would reflect on his blunted running career a dozen years after finishing second at Boston. “My body had taken such a beating—not only at Boston, but in all of the marathons I ran leading up to it—that it no longer would respond.”

Beardsley should have been sad, but he had a wide grin on his face: “If i there had to be an end, I’m glad it came at Boston.”

Killer Humidity Threatens to End the Third and Final Run Early. Part 3 of 3.

NTRODUCTION

Bells, gongs, burning incense, colorful flowers, and pilgrims. Peter joins the pilgrimage to the Ganges River on his third and final run and stops at the holy Hindu cities of Rishikesh and Haridwar. His daughter, Joanne Lane, reports. x ek Ok

To begin his run to the holy Hindu religious cities on the Ganges River, Peter has to scale the 6-foot-tall Presbyterian Seminary wall in Dehra Dun with a bamboo ladder. He had lectured there all week and knew the gates would not open until 6:00 A.M.

He safely negotiated the rickety heights and dropped on the other side: “Outside the gates were six students who had traveled two weeks by train, bus, and foot from the hills of northern India to return to seminary. They were amazed to see me dropping over the wall!”

As he ran down the narrow lane from the seminary, he glanced back at the hills of Mussoorie, silhouetted against the rising sun. He could just see the route of his first “Temple of Doom Run.”

After only 500 meters, he was a lather of sweat. The temperature was 25 degrees Celsius and humidity was around 90 percent—bad running conditions. But Peter knew that as long as he had plenty of water, he was OK.

Dehra Dun, the railhead of the north, was starting to come alive, but most of its 300,000 people were still asleep.

“For the first few kilometers out of town, I followed a river of filth: an open sewer that ran outside shops and houses. It was full of filthy water, rubbish, and vegetable scraps and also served as the toilet,” he said.

Strangely, no shops were open yet, so Peter was pleased he was carrying water and food, even though it was already feeling heavy.

“The first hour was uneventful, but it was hard to imagine I was in India as I passed a Baskin-Robbins and shops with the latest designer clothes.”

Around 7:30 a.M., Peter entered a small village and stopped for a breakfast of honey and bananas and fresh water. To his horror, no shops sold water, only tea and soft drinks. So he had some delicious sweet milky Indian chai [tea].

At this point, Peter decided he would stop the run if his water ran out and there was no water to buy along the way. Fifteen kilometers out of Dehra Dun, he entered the holy town of Doiwala. It was built on the Ganges River but was grubby and busy. It had taken Peter two hours to cover this short distance! The heat and humidity had taken their toll, and the weight of the water slowed him down.

There was no water to buy, but he cooled off at a service station. He rationed his drinks carefully.

THE PATH TO THE HOLY RIVER IS PAVED WITH…

As Peter ran out of Doiwala, he crossed the Ganges River. He ran down to splash off in the cold waters. To get there, he skirted endless pools of human feces left by pilgrims who had gone to the riverbanks to relieve themselves. However, the river was refreshingly cold, and it took only 10 minutes before he had dried off again. It was warm!

Fortunately, huge gum trees lined the road, providing a wealth of shade for several kilometers. Even here on a hot Indian road 6,000 kilometers from his Australian home, amidst the sickly sweet smell of buffalo and cow manure and rotting vegetables, there was a cheerful reminder of home. The trees were planted by early settlers and resembled the cheering crowds at the Brisbane or Gold Coast marathons (annual events on Peter’s running calendar) with their slightly swaying branches.

In the gum trees, Peter found another treasure—a billabong. It was really a buffalo water hole: dirty, muddy, but deliciously cool.

“T lay down in it to cool off,” he said smiling. “I didn’t care what I smelt or looked like!”

There were other encouragements from passing pilgrims as they headed to the holy towns in convoys of trucks, scooters, cars, and coaches. It seemed they also knew Peter was on a type of pilgrimage.

“At one point, a truck pulled up in front of me, and while the male occupants got out to relieve themselves, one fellow ran back to jog with me.

“The man said to me ‘Keeare kurray sahib?’ (What are you doing, sir?)

“T told him: ‘Mai Rishikesh or Haridwar co jarrahar hun.’ (I’m going to Rishikesh and Haridwar).

“At this he replied: ‘Bohut acha!’ (Very good!)

“He delivered this news to his friends, who also gave me their roar of approval.”

Soon after, a hill loomed ahead. Peter felt tired and started to walk. At this moment, he did what all pilgrims do: pray, especially for rain! The road signs to

Rishikesh indicated he had another 10K to go. At this pace in the heat, he would never make it another 35K to Haridwar.

HUNG OUT ON HIS OWN

The final 10K into Rishikesh was the worst of all with no water, houses, or shops—only the Ganges flowing about 2K away. It was a tough stretch.

He eventually arrived at 11:00 a.m. amidst a slight drizzle. There remained another 25K to Haridwar. It was hot, and there was no certainty of water. Peter decided to hitch.

“Who would pick up a sweaty, smelly runner? I needn’t have worried. Within seconds, a truck carrying five other hitchers had stopped. But after only 5K, we stopped at a police blockade diverting traffic. The driver decided to wait until the blockade was lifted, but I wanted to keep moving.

“Again, within a few seconds, I had another lift on the back of a scooter with a man in his late 50s. The breeze was cool, and I was not worried about being on the back of a scooter in running gear without a helmet. Everyone travels like this, and often there is mum, dad, and three children on a scooter.”

There is no such thing as road rules in India, or traffic police, traffic lights, or markings on the road. There is only one road sign that appears regularly in India. It says: SPEED SLOWLY.

Peter was dropped off 5K outside Haridwar near a group of brightly painted temples and ashrams [meditation centers].

i | 4 Joanne Lane Photos

A Peter Lane rests by the Ganges River in Haridwar.