Distant Heroes
An Athlete's Search for a Graceful Exit.
By Joan Nesbit
As featured in the Web Only issue of Running Times Magazine
Later, I couldn’t bring myself to read over the logbook. I moved it from the kitchen table to my desk in the back room, then under the bed. I’d see it peeking out from underneath debris, beckoning me, and I’d say, "Not yet; I’m not ready to read you yet." You see, Jack’s logbook took on a special significance for me, the soon-to-be ex-runner. His story was my story (all our stories, in a way) and I wasn’t ready to face the ending.Then I came up with and idea. Burn the logbook. Invite your friends, colleagues, the athletes you coached, your wife, children, former Florida Track Club members, anyone who shared in the triumphs—yes, triumphs!—of your running. Perhaps only when the pages of your logbook are burning, one at a time, will you finally have the chance to say good-bye.
After my own last Olympic Trials this past July, I did read over all the material in Jack’s notebook, the years upon years of 100+ mile weeks, the unbelievable consistency. This man didn’t miss. There was no hard/easy schedule for Bacheler; it was hard/hard/hard/hard/hard/rest/race. He was up and running every morning by 6:30 a.m. ("pattering by like clockwork," said Shorter), covering 8-10 miles—often with two more work-outs to go that day. In one month in 1972, he ran 156, 180, 130, 174 MPW, with intervals, at altitude!
I want to tell the truth about Jack Bacheler, about all my distant heroes.
Jack is one who loved too well, who tried too hard, and, perhaps stayed too long. I will always think of him fondly, tenderly, like some little leaguer hitting batting practice with his dad on a Sunday evening. It’s getting dark; you can barely see the ball . . . .
"C’mon, son, let’s go home. It’s time for supper," the dad says.
"Just one more, please, just one more. I want to end on a good one."
* * *
The last thing Jack Bacheler said to me at the end of his interview was, "Maybe when you talk to others their outlook won’tbe as bleak." But, driving home, I thought, "No way. I’m not going to interview anyone else. It’s far too depressing." And especially not Bob Schul, the next person on my list, because I’d heard he was as bitter as they come. I’d heard that when USA Track and Field phoned to tell him he’d been selected as a 1991 inductee for the Hall of Fame, he harrumphed, "It’s about time." Mean bitter. Irascible bitter. Shotgun-on-his-lap bitter. So, when I found myself traveling across interstate 70 from Indianapolis, Indiana to the small town of Oakwood, Ohio I was more than a little apprehensive. Would this old guy shoot me when I stepped in his yard?
Bob Schul
Here’s what I knew about Bob Schul: he was coached by the late, great Mihaly Igloi from Hungary; he was the only person ever to win an Olympic Gold medal for the United States in the 5,000m; he coached the Bob Schul Track Club for some 35 years; long-shot Billy Mills stole his thunder in 1964 by winning the 10k gold while Schul "simply" won as the favorite; in track trivia games with my generation of runners, no one could ever answer the question, "Who is Bob Schul?"
That was my quest as I simultaneously drove, drank coffee, ate Fig Newtons (the best road food), and jotted down notes & questions on a yellow legal pad in the passenger seat. Who was this man who had somehow been overlooked by the story-makers in our sport? I felt like I was searching for some jaded version of Don Quixote. At one point on the road, I looked up and saw above me, not windmills, but a huge, over-arching, rainbow sign that read, "Welcome to Ohio!" Cheesy? Yes, but also refreshingly, midwesternly innocent. It made me think of apple pie, of whole milk, and American patriotism. Maybe this guy from Ohio with the bad rap wasn’t so gruff; maybe— like Quixote—he was just misunderstood—misremembered. Like all great runners, he had dared to dream the impossible dream. Could he help it that he won?
We’d planned to meet at his neighborhood track on Saturday morning so I could see the Bob Schul track club in action. Late, I drove up as they were disassembling. "You missed the work- ut," came the matter-of fact voice from a tall, extremely fit, white-haired gentleman. Well, I wasn’t so sure he was gentle, but there he was, the man I’d flown and driven hundreds of mile to meet. This was the person who would tell me how to exit the athletic stage gracefully.
"Let’s go home and have some breakfast," he said. "Are you hungry? I’m hungry." So, I followed him the few blocks to his place—a cheerful and inviting home on a perfectly tree-lined street. I was smack-dab in the heartland of America.
Tape recorder, tapes, pens, notes, camera, film, file folders all tumbled onto the back porch table as I unpacked for The Interview. Bob waited in his deck chair, upright and imperial, as I fussed. Geez, was I nervous. Inhale. "Okay, I’m ready," I said, exhaled, then pressed RECORD. Three hours later I ran out of tape. We hadn’t budged from our chairs. We hadn’t eaten. And we had yet to talk about Schul’s gold medal run.
We’d talked about his club team, his college cross-country teams at Wright State, Igloi, different training theories, his daughter, his ex-wives, his opinion on the current state of distance running in America, drugs, USA Track and Field, his hamstring, whether or not I liked canned peaches, who else I was interviewing for my book (along with suggestions about whom I "must" include). In short, we talked about everything in his life TODAY and very little about his glory days. It was like pulling teeth getting him to talk about the past—which may be, I was beginning to see, the key to moving on in your life.