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Teeth, Dreams, and Psychology
Posted in Racing, Training by Kyle MarcotteThis article is borrowed from the newsletter “Toronto Olympic Club: The First 50 Years.” I like recycling it, mostly because Bill Marcotte is my uncle but also because reading it gives me goosebumps. Bill has survived two liver transplants. A couple of years ago he started to race triathlons as a way to get back into sport.
“Teeth, Dreams, and Psychology“, by Paul Craig.
The ability to go beyond the limit, to push your body where it hasn’t gone before, to dig so deep you surprise even yourself, is a special talent. It is sometimes dangerous, almost always awe-inspiring. It is what makes the good effort, mundane, the great effort, routine, and sometimes, every once in a while, it makes the impossible dream attainable.
I can’t remember many of the details, but some time ago, somewhere, somebody did a study on the psychological difference between boxers and distance runners. The study was based on the assumption that boxers, who stand toe-to-toe in the ring slugging away at each other, are psychologically geared to see how much pain they can inflict on their opponent, whereas runners, who race stride-for-stride for the finish line, are focused on how hard they can push themselves, how much pain they, themselves, can take. It seems that the researchers were wrong in their hypothesis. The results showed that boxers punch away, jab after left uppercut, ultimately to see how much punishment they can take. Distance runners, on the other hand, keep upping the pace in an effort to see how fast their competition can go, how much pain the other guys are willing to fight through. This is a significant finding, and a significant difference.
When I was at the point in my life when I could run a really tough workout, (now when I run my body usually breaks down before I can push myself to the limit of exhaustion), I would sometimes get light-headed afterwards. This was because most of the blood in my body was going to my oxygen-starved legs, leaving less blood for my head. I usually didn’t want to do a lot of thinking after a really hard workout, and when I got lightheaded, I couldn’t.
But sometimes, when I had an exceptionally tough workout, a once-a-year workout when I was totally exhausted, when I’d run hills or intervals until there was nothing left inside, and the well was empty, my teeth would hurt. Maybe hurt isn’t the right word. I guess it is more like “tingle”. You know you have given it everything when you don’t even have enough blood for your teeth.
For several reasons 1983 was a good year for me. I was starting a come back from chronic-fatigue syndrome, my first child was born, and I helped officiate and watched that year’s edition of the Silver Relays, a race that involved my brother John, and most of the best distance runners in the country. You probably aren’t very interested in the birth of my son or in my recovery from a still unexplained disease, so I’ll tell you about the race instead. That year the Silver Relays proved to be one of the best races ever run in this country.
The Silver Relays, (an event not contested any more), put on and often won by the Toronto Olympic Club, was steeped in tradition. It was usually raced in late October, or early November, and all member of the winning team won a set of silverware. Each of the five legs of the relay was three laps of the inside loop in High Park, a distance of about 5 400 m, with a few rolling hills along the way. The race often attracted thirty to forty teams, mostly local, but occasionally teams came from a long way away.
Even before I was a member of TOC I had participated in the Silver Relays a couple of times, and I knew about Bill Marcotte, (who ran for TOC), and his record time of 15:41 over the three lap course. To me this was one of those records, like the four minute mile, which was almost untouchable. It was faster than Grant McLaren, Bob Finley, Jerome Drayton and Dan Shaugnessy had run. It was faster than I thought possible to go. It put me in awe of Marcotte. It was one of those impossible dreams.
Anybody who ran the race anywhere close to sixteen minutes knew that they were in great shape, that they had a good race. Some years the best time on any team was around 16:05, with the top 5 guys under the 16:20 mark. A couple of years, on cool, windless days, a few runners would sneak under the 16:00 mark. In 1979, when I was in about the best shape of my life, I ran 15:46, close, but still so far away from Marcotte’s magical record.
That’s why the1983 edition of the Silver Relays was so special.
A team from Vancouver, the Valley Royals, came to Toronto to win the Relays and take the silverware home. Their team was a list of who’s who in Canadian distance running. Dean Childs, Paul Williams, Greg Duhaime, Art Boileau and Peter Butler had collectively won 13 Canadian championships, held 2 Canadian records, and all of them had run 29:30 or faster for the 10 km.
TOC fashioned a team to run against the Valley Royals of Greg Lockhart, Jerry Kooymans, Rob Earl, Terry Goodenough, and John Craig. Other great runners on the day included Dave Northey from Waterloo and Dave Reed from Longboat. Realistically, though, there were only two teams with a real chance at victory, the Valley Royals, and the Toronto Olympic Club.
In the 35 years I have been running and racing I have had the privilege of being a participant in and a spectator at some memorable events. Sometimes a runner or two does something unexpected, runs over their head, puts in an effort that will make them rise above the crowd. But sometimes you know it is going to happen even before the start. You can feel it in the air, you can taste it on your lips, and you can smell it in the wind.
There’s a feeling you can’t shake, that on this day, in this race, at this time, there will be a race, a performance, which will be long remembered by all who watch it. I had this feeling before I listened on the radio to the Ali/Forman fight in Africa, one of the greatest fights of all time. I had the feeling when Canada beat Russia in the ’84 World Cup of hockey. I had the feeling when Simon Whitfield won the gold medal in the 2000 Olympic Triathlon. And I had the feeling at the ’83 Silver Relays.
The day was cool but sunny, little wind, not quite an Indian summer. Picnic tables had been turned on their ends, making a type of instant bulletin board for the results to be nailed to. There was a supply of water and cups, ropes set up for the finish line and exchange zones, and more stop watches and clip boards than necessary. There were still some leaves on some of the trees, but most of them had dropped, blown away. Someone had taken a broom and swept away the small pile of leaves in the gutter at the last corner, making sure the runners would have a clear path.
And there was an anticipation in the air you could squeeze in your fingers.
Not all of the details need to be mentioned, although I remember every metre of the race, every leg, every split, every face. What should be said is that they went at each other, these two teams, for what seemed like an eternity. They clawed and scratched for every inch, every second, every breath. It was a battle, not of hatred, for there were friends on both teams, and certainly there was respect. It was perhaps a battle of pride. It was certainly a race filled with magic.
Runner after runner, lap after lap, the team from the east and the team from the west ran shoulder to shoulder, side by side. Williams, Kooymans, Duhaime, Earl, Northey, all ran at a pace that only days before seemed impossible. Timers stopped timing, marshals stopped marshalling, and everybody just watched. After four legs the teams were even at the hand off. The final runner for each team, Peter Butler for the Valley Royals and John Craig for TOC set off together, as if one was the shadow of the other. Two laps later Butler led Craig by a metre. Then, with maybe 900 m to go, out of sight of the finish line, Peter Butler faltered. He didn’t slow down, he didn’t stumble, he didn’t pull up. But one stride wasn’t as smooth as the last one had been. It was almost imperceptible, but it was there. It was something you would never have seen if you weren’t watching for it, never have noticed unless it was the only thing in the world at that time that mattered. I don’t know if Peter even noticed it.
But John did. And then he did what any runner would do at a time like that. What every runner had to do. He upped the pace. John got a metre on Peter, then two, then three.
With about 400 metres to go John was down to his kneecaps, three seconds up on Butler, and sprinting all out. He held off Butler down the chute, and TOC walked away with the silverware.
Part of the excitement of the day was that the Toronto Olympic Club won the race, and set the record. Part of the excitement was that they had beaten the “dream team” from British Columbia. But more than anything else, it was watching the best do what they do. Though the race is won by the team that crosses the finish line first, it is remembered for the strength of the competition. It was an epic battle, one of excellence, one of excitement, certainly one of courage, fought long and hard by both sides. That day no less than 9 runners beat the “unbeatable” and magic time of 15:41, with the record dropping to 15:23. That day distance running in Canada was redefined.
Just thinking about that race makes my teeth tingle.
