Frontier Days: Wyoming, 1981

It’s widely accepted that modern running was born when Frank Shorter won the 1972 Munich Olympic marathon. If that’s the case, then Greg Birchall was in this first wave of modern runners, going from social laps of Melbourne’s Princes Park in the 70s, to training with Shorter’s coach in Boulder, Colorado in the early 80s. Now in his early 70s, Greg has begun to chronicle his experiences as a runner. This is the first of his stories.

It is early, very early on a Sunday morning in July 1981. It is cold, and my back is stiff from sleeping on the floor of our very rudimentary family camper trailer. I am mentally and physically preparing myself for the Frontier Days Half Marathon in Cheyenne, Wyoming. I’d like to say Frontier Days was part of a careful plan by my coach to gradually build to a marathon later in the year. But no. I had no coach and certainly no such plan. The real reason was tourism. I had a short break from university for some reason, so we hooked up the trailer, piled the family into the car and headed from our home in Boulder, Colorado to Wyoming. It was a long day but we finally pulled into Cheyenne and found a camping site. Arriving late and with the family to settle, I missed all the pre-race hype. No motivational speaker or pasta dinner for me. Just a fitful sleep in a crappy trailer hitched to an AMC Hornet.

Nervously, I jog and stretch to limber up and to prepare myself for the 13 miles to come. I had completed one marathon a few months before, back in Australia. This was my first ever half marathon. There had been no kind of deliberate training build up nor taper. "Don't go to too hard and blow up,” I tell myself over and over. It’s all a bit of a shambles really. But let's do this.

I jog along the road area behind the start line and eye off the competition. Starting time is set for 7:00am. Sharp, fit looking college boys prance and pose in matching varsity gear. A few old hands cautiously stretch muscles and joints. My own mismatched running gear looked quite shabby. No one would pick me as any kind of threat. My goal was survival - to finish. The starter and celebrity guest runner is George A. Sheehan MD, “The Running Medico” – a philosopher and writer with a regular column in Runner's World magazine.

My plan is the usual, start out conservatively, work my way into the race and then finish as strongly as I am able, perhaps picking off a few runners who had begun recklessly and had blown up toward the finish. Early in the race I find myself in the rough vicinity of Dr Sheehan. A glib, curly haired college boy, chock full of confidence, pulls up alongside the doctor and asks, ”Well Doc, what are you planning to run today?” The doctor ran on for a minute before replying. “Well I can’t say yet, son. Right now I am just running along here listening to my body. I should know sometime soon how today is going to be for me.”

With that the college boy ran off perhaps to joust and trade stories with the quicker runners at the front. I did not see or hear the Doctor again in the race. I think he finished well ahead of me.

Instead I settled into my own comfortable race pace at about seven minutes per mile, just to cover the miles and the time until I judged that the time had come for some race effort and to try to “run myself ugly” and pick up a few minutes and places in the race. My technique is to run economically; my style is conservative with somewhat choppy strides. I have tried to eliminate any superfluous energy sapping movement from my action, doing only those things that will move me forward efficiently and economically. I think this understated running style may be a reflection of my personality. I am not a confident person and usually prefer to fly somewhat unnoticed under the radar and away from the spotlight.

As I plod steadily on I find a count sequence comes into my head to coincide with each footfall. I don’t know why this occurs, it just begins seemingly of its own accord, like a metronome quietly ticking … 23, 24,25,…37, 38, 39, 40…44, 45. Gradually my thoughts drift off into a state of comparative mindlessness and contemplation which I generally find quite comfortable. The count seems to keep me at the desired tempo as I patter along at a steady clip, checking for my seven minute pace at mile markers and drink stations.

If it is at all warm I have developed the tactic of taking a full cup of water proffered by a volunteer and then walking briskly through the drink station and drinking the complete cup. I might also take a sponge to cool down if needed. I have found this a better strategy than grabbing at a cup, spilling half and then trying to gulp down what remains whilst running at race pace.

Over the years I have learned that hydration is important to me as a runner and there is little disadvantage in slowing to a brisk walk for a short time. At the exit of the drink station thus refreshed and fuelled, I resume my seven minute mile beat to the count in my head. I seldom at this point reach a state of breathlessness as I run within my aerobic capacity.

The conversation rule works for me, you should be able to run whilst at the same time being able to converse with other runners.

Perhaps unknowingly, I have been training for this. In my home town in Australia on the north-eastern suburban edge of Melbourne, the housing melts away to farms, a river valley and gravel tracks made by struggling gold miners fossicking for gold in the depression years of the 1930’s and beyond. Family convention has it that one of my mother’s uncle's, Uncle Charlie, down on his luck, had indeed fossicked for gold in the vicinity of the nearby town of South Morang in the depression years. I would run at good pace with three or four regular running buddies for over an hour through some quite hilly terrain and engage in a banter conversation for the entire journey. Our conversation might range over sports, especially our beloved Australian rules code of football, cricket, athletics, work experiences and theories of management, family events and milestones with the odd joke or tall story thrown in. Being able to converse while running was part of my running world. On race day however, I had little to say.

Often, when I run at my conversational rate, the metronomic count in my head seems to liberate some imaginative quarters of my brain and I find myself off in far corners of the world or dreaming up radical theories of education or society or perhaps a surefire business scheme, that one day would make me rich beyond imagination.

But we’re not in hippie Boulder today. Later in the day, after a Budweiser or two, we will line up in the streets of Cheyenne to view the Frontier Days parade pass by. Cowboys, Indians, Chuck wagons file by in memory of frontier times past.

I watch with some bemusement as mature men leap to their feet with hand over heart as a colour party bearing the American flag is carried by. The crowd grows quiet and respectful, the men seem to grow in stature as the glow of patriotism fills their chests. I have never really understood the religious, conservative, blind patriotic streak in the American psyche, fuelled by fundamentalist Christian beliefs of the moral majority that gave rise to the Presidencies of Reagan, and later Bushes Senior and Junior. This theme was to become an underlying strand in my doctoral thesis on changes in school curriculum and the general dumbing down of schooling under the slogan of “Back to Basics”. The logical progression of this thinking sits in the White House today, eating cheeseburgers in bed. In Boulder, I was often surprised when my American Friday night drinking buddies would rush off to the Tuesday morning prayer breakfast, or when the Professor of research and statistics invited all to meet with him over “brown bag” lunch to discuss the life and times of Jesus Christ a couple of times per week.

This was unlike my University in Australia, where the note on the professor’s door would be more likely to be an invitation to discuss the writings of Marx, Marcuse or perhaps Michel Foucault. Bring your own booze.

55,56,57…..61. On and on I plod through Cheyenne, but beginning to notice a griping pain in the gut. Having camped overnight, my pre-race routine had been disturbed and I had overlooked my habitual pre race visit to the toilet. So with some panic, I am forced to find a petrol station with a toilet at about the eight mile mark. Refreshed and secure again and into the second half of the race, it’s time to leave the comfort zone and to pick up the pace through until the finish. Slowly, almost imperceptibly and without a readily noticeable change to style, I increase the tempo, the counting speeds up and I focus more on race and speed.

This is no time for daydreaming. I must mindfully monitor my speed and condition carefully and watch for any track advantage. I pick out a bright running singlet some hundred metres ahead and focus on a new goal. I catch the coloured singlet wearer and blast past him without hesitation. I put in a stronger burst to put space in between him and I and to discourage any chase. It is too early to “race” but a sustained pressure effort is needed over a several tough miles. “Hold speed and hold form,” I remind myself. At the 12 mile marker, I judge that it is time to get ugly. I lengthen stride and increase the tempo. My form becomes more aggressive and I run with some resolve to beat the barriers of exhaustion and pain. My breathing becomes noisy as I exhale vigorously to empty my lungs and to take on a fresh load of oxygen. With a mile to go all bets are off and I set sail for the finish.

My diary records that I finished in 1 hour, 29 minutes and 28 seconds. I came in 49th overall and 24th in the 30-39 years male division. I have averaged under seven minutes per mile for the whole distance. To the extent that I have met some self-imposed goals, I am pleased enough with myself and determined to enjoy the rest of our stay in Wyoming before hightailing back to Boulder Colorado for the Monday afternoon curriculum design doctoral seminar. One day soon, I would be the running doctor.