Back in the late 70s, every major event had its accompanying fun run (or race), so it was very retro of Marie Causey, Stetson class of 1978, to want to include a 5K in the 2008 reunion. Upon arriving in Deland that Friday, she met with Joe Guthrie of the Athletics Department to go over his GPS-designed (JG's a busy guy) 5K course around campus. Unfortunately, after use by one of the work-study kids, his golf cart only made right turns--in the 70s, we knew better than to give a kid the keys to one--so Joe, Marie, and my fifteen year old son, Andrew, (who I was driving home from a class at DBC) jumped into my Ridgeline and around we went.
It turned out to be a pretty tight course--mostly sidewalks and parking lots--and Joe was nervous about my truck cruising the campus--so we got out and walked the quad. (That would be the same one Adam Sandler walked in The Waterboy...but I didn't see him that day.)
Andrew paid close attention.
When we got back to the Edmund's Center, Marie took the map and we took off.
(Joe and I worked a Hatter baseball game that night, while Andrew was working on an English paper.) Sometime that night, Joe and I got to talking.
"Hey Joe," I asked, "who's timing this race?"
"Marie's handling that. I really don't know."
"Maybe I'll bring my timing equipment over tomorrow morning, just in case," I suggested.
"That might be a good idea...just in case."
"And who's leading the race?"
"Andrew?"
The race was scheduled to begin at 8:00 AM, but when I pulled up at 7:05 or so, there was no one in sight. This changed when I tried to pull onto the grass of Rinker Field. A Public Safety guy was on me like a German shepard in a junkyard.
"Can I help you?"
I love that line. I usually ask for money, or the time, but we were alone and I couldn't tell if he was packing, so I told him the truth.
"I'm here for the race."
"I don't know anything about a race."
Out came the walkie talkie.
"Hey Gene, do you know anything about a race?"
(Silence.)
"It's a Homecoming 5K," I added.
She (it was Jean) must have heard me: "Wellll, there are a lot of homecoming events going on. There might be a race."
Right about then--it was probably 7:20 or so--Joe drove past and waved. He pulled around the back of the gym and, I guess, parked, because a few minutes later he pulled around the front in a golf cart. I didn't see whether he came around the left or right side of Edmunds.
"How's it going?"
"I'm trying to figure out where to park," I said. "There's no one here yet, and I figured that I could park on the grass to register people."
To make a long story longer, I parked, on the grass, at the turnaround, between the first and second loops. Things quieted down after Joe drove off with Andrew in his borrowed golf cart to mark the course. Eventually a few runners drove up and parked, then someone who had a list of names and a cardboard box that held paper numbers and safety pins. She used the tailgate of my truck for registration. After she took out the numbers, she used the box to throw in the $10 bills (that's how much it cost to register). I didn't see any release forms, chips or tyvek bibs.
Eventually, after taking photos of the 78s near and then on the starting line (an important class in the annals of Stetson University, but not being a graduate, I couldn't tell you why), we heard a couple of quick speeches and off they went.
As expected, Andrew jumped in front and led a long string of runners around Rinker Field and out onto the first of many parking lots. It was him, Darin Gingras (a Deland teammate who had a pretty hard track workout the day before and hadn't realized it yet), Stetson student Josh Stutte, and a runner to be named later.
As soon as they got out of sight, I asked the lady who was registering the entrants, "Are there any awards?"
"Two," she said. "First male and first female."
"Pretty thrifty," I thought. I pulled out a bag of "just in case" medals that I always took to races that I had timed in the past. "Okay if I give out a few of these?"
"Sure," she agreed.
This was a two lap course and Andrew led the line around the trees they were supposed to run between (generously adding a few seconds to his time), and came to the (1.55 mile, GPS certified) half way point in 8:31. Stutte was second, Gingras third and John Tinnell (a class of the 2000s) fourth. Stetson senior XC runner Julia Joy Morgillo was fifth and the first woman.
The second lap was a little slower, especially for Gingras, whose legs remembered those 12 100s he ran 24 hours ago. (His legs locked up and he took a 30 second time out on the course, before continuing on to the finish.) Nonetheless, everyone sprinted to the finish (something to help your former classmates remember you by, like a good dye job or a trophy wife).
For those readers who dwell on numbers, Andrew ran 17:35, Stutte 18:41, Gingras a brave 18:51, Tinnell 19:57, and oh joy to Mongillo--the first woman,-- who rounded out the top five in 20:53. The best finish of all was by Willy the dog, who despite being held back by a short and very taut leash, outkicked his master Paul Croce (Stetson faculty) for tenth place (24:39).
I'm embarassed to say that there was no water at the finish line. ("There are fountains in the gym" was the response, when someone, gasping for air, asked.)
However, there were showers--also in the gym--which is why, whenever I called someone's name for an award, that person was nowhere around. This probably had something to do with an alumni/faculty breakfast at the (retiring) President Lee's home at 9:00.
There is a point to all this, especially the part about no water, paper numbers, and a $10 registration fee. First of all, everyone ran as fast as they would have on a certified, Track USA course; besides, no one there was going to set an age group record anyway. Secondly, the lack of organization didn't matter as much as the chance to run. Thirdly, no one missed the tyvek numbers, finish clock, 'accuchip,' a tee shirt littered with sponsor names, and most of all, a $40 registration fee ($43, if you register on line).
When is it that we runners lost control of our sport? I still remember my first road race, way back in 1968. Fresh off a college season as SUNY Geneseo's #1 runner, I got my clock cleaned by a field full of real runners. (I didn't even place in my age group!) It cost $5. I remember it as the definitive example of a low key race, but as a result of this event, I became hooked on road racing for life.
Nowadays, road racing is for the rich and retired (no kids to enter). I have to choose which of my four kids (or wife) to enter. To enter my whole family would cost between $100 and $215 per race. For that entry fee I would get a tee shirt that I'd be embarassed to wear in public, a finish time that I probably could have predicted beforehand, and maybe a banana. Or maybe I'm the banana for entering.
I really miss the $5 entry fee--although I could certainly live with $10 if I had to--a different distance every weekend (an occasional 3.5 or 4.6 mile race would be an improvement over either a 5K or 10K, week after week), and the grizzled, old, local high school coach (probably called Mr. G.), stop watch in hand, waiting for me to finish.
"Get the lead out, Ralph," he yells. "I'll bet you haven't done a squat thrust in 40 years!"
Recently, I did a little research. I found that, if a runner can live without computer timing, thirty sponsors' names on a tee, and medals instead of plaques (emblazoned with yet another sponsor's name) we can still put on a road race for less than a cup of Starbuck's super latte double grande. But I promise to budget in a regular cup of coffee.
If you share my nostalgia, E-mail me.
(In a former life Ralph published Islandwide Runner magazine for a quarter centurt, sponsored 300 races and ran in thousands more. Currently, however, he is overweight andvicariously relives the exaggerated glory of his running days through his children, Chris, Melissa, Andrew, and Katy.)