A World-Class Miler
It was the beginning in the middle of the week at a small race in Brackenridge Park in the fall of 1978. I think it was a five miler. The start of the race is always the same. Living out the last few moments of torment, at the same time courting the illusion that this will be the breakthrough race, the one in which you will vanquish all your foes in your haughty, aerobic power. Then the gun and reality set in. Why is there always someone better, someone to break your heart?
This tall, very hairy, red head with an absolutely beautiful stride was in the lead. I knew he would not be caught, at least not by me. He had me by 200 yards, with ¾ mile to go, and pulling away. How can he do that? I was really feeling it now, the old intestine sliding down the leg extremis, which starts about here when you realize you have a long, melancholy way to go. But there he was, pulling away. My shoulders were aching from the lactic acid, concentrating on form, but straining just to hold pace. My form is degenerating involuntarily. I’m thinking this must be how death is, yet look how easy, dear God, he looks up there. So this is how it is, this is exactly how it is, how he beats you and beats you and beats you.
But, can it be? I look to the left with less than 800 meters to go and there is Adonis spread-eagled on the grass. He thought that that spot was the finish line! It should have been a thrill to cross the real finish line first, but this wasn’t a win. I knew the far better man was back a half mile, making fire ant angels in the dirt. Finally, he jogged up to the finish, yelling something about how they changed the finish from last week. Of course, this was Rick. “Man, you really got lucky today! You didn’t have a chance. What’s your name, anyhow?”
That was the beginning of my thirty-year adventure with the brashest, boldest, most excitable and energetic man I have had the privilege to know. I truly believe Rick would have been a world-class miler, if he had the guidance of a coach with a will stronger than his. Of course, those coaches are rarer than world-class milers.
But Rick didn’t put much stock in “if’s”.
It was always: “Let’s”, “We will”; “Come on”, “You can do it!” “I’m proud of you, Larry.”
Of course, there were none he was more proud of than his kids. But that’s another story.
