On a bumpy flight to New Orleans
But the marathon roller coaster changed directions the next morning.
My wife and I sat at the end of the front row of the few dozen chairs set facing the modest stage tucked in a back corner of the race expo. As we sit discussing our plans for the rest of the day, I stop and stare with an increasingly excited look, as Frank Shorter walks from somewhere mid-expo, hops up on-stage, grabs a microphone, and climbs up the bar-stool-height chair that’s waiting for him. Then he just starts talking. “Yeah, well…” and he’s off, diving right into his suggestions for proper marathon training. The host of the “One-on-One with Frank Shorter” session joins him on stage, but lets Shorter do all the talking.
I had read in an edition of Runner’s World that Shorter was a very quiet and somewhat guarded man. My first impression, however, was that if you let the man talk about what he wanted to talk about (which was usually running), he was an open book, and he loved every minute of it.
He told the growing crowd about his favorite workouts with Steve Prefontaine, Jack Bacheler, and the rest of the Florida Track Club. “The rule for the group,” he recalled, “was that everyone ran as fast as the one who wanted to run the slowest that day.” Shorter emphasized the his opinion that the sense of community the runners received from each other was far more important than any personal accomplishments. “Runs that are faster than conversational pace are just to show you that you’re fast. They don’t have any workout value… There’s a diminishing return,” he remarked. He seemed to impress only three types of work upon his captivated audience: speed work, hill work (“speed work in disguise”), and most importantly, group work.
It became clear that Pre was his favorite running partner for two reasons: 1) on a regular run, he ran side-by-side with Shorter’s pace, and 2) during a speed workout, he “instinctively traded the lead” throughout the workout, to avoid one runner doing all of the work. Shorter remarked that the two seemed to be so compatible because of this idea of what a workout should be and what a workout partner’s responsibilities are. While Shorter trained for Olympic glory in the marathon and Pre trained for the middle distances, the men ran weekly 20 milers and bi-weekly speed workouts (at their 5k paces) together because they saw the value in a companion who could push their speed or endurance.
Shorter still believes utterly in his semi-passive workout methods (and who’s going to argue with him?). He admits to being a bit of an extremist when it comes to not over-working. For those familiar with Jeff Galloway’s training programs (most runs at 1-2 minutes slower than you could run), Shorter remarked that, “the good thing I can say about Galloway is that his methods are really our methods,” explaining that he and his running partners trained using the methods that Galloway would make popular through several books targeting non-elite runners. Rather than running full-throttle in every workout, Shorter stresses consistency. “The more consistent you are with your workouts, the less it means,” he said, explaining that if you are continually putting in the work you set out to do, a bad day will not hinder your progress. He implored us to “set workout goals you can achieve even on your bad days,” emphasizing miles or training time over speed.
After he had imparted his wisdom of the practice of laissez-faire training upon us, Shorter briefly recounted his two biggest races. “The morning of the ’72 [Olympic] marathon, I woke up, and I knew I had it. When I started to pull away at mile 9, I knew they’d made a mistake.” (Shorter would win the gold, the last time an American won gold in a distance race at the Olympics.) According to Shorter, no one knows how the race is going to go the week before, the day before, or even as they drift to sleep the night before. But that morning, they know it. “In ’76 [on the day of the Olympic marathon], I put my feet on the floor next to the bed and thought, ‘oh God, why today?’” “But,” he continues, “I ran faster that day, and in a way, I’m even more proud of that effort.” (Shorter would win the silver, falling behind in the final miles.)
Shorter went on to discuss some of his work with the US Anti-Doping Agency, whether he thought anyone would ever run a sub-2 hour marathon (not legally), what the American’s had to do to medal in the Olympic marathon (stay with the lead pack no matter what), and his hand in Shalane Flanagan’s phenomenal genes (no, not that way; her parents met while working at one of his running stores). Finally, though, the session ended.
And the host remarked that Shorter would stick around for some pictures and autographs. And internally, I was giddier than I’ve ever seen a school-girl be (and I attended a co-ed Catholic school). As I watched a few other runners take their photos and ask Shorter to sign their race bibs, I tried desperately for some wise question to ask him, maybe something that might unlock another one of his surprisingly humorous memories or accounts of race-day glory. But as I stepped up and greeted him with a (let’s hope not too flimsy) handshake, my mind was blank. He signed my bib (“Go Tom! Run Well”) and asked what I was planning on running. I’m still not sure whether he meant which race or a certain time, but who has time to interpret when he’s talking to Frank Shorter? So I answered, “I’m hoping to run 3:45, but I’ve been having trouble getting past that 20 mile wall.” Luckily, this was something Frank (we shook hands, so we’re on a first name basis now) wanted to talk about.
“Well,” Frank thought, “I always told myself, ‘at this point, everyone else is feeling pretty bad, too.’” “So?” I wanted to question, “I’m not running against everyone else, I’m running against the clock!” But Frank soon eased my worries. “Slowly increase your perceived effort,” he said. “It always feels like you’re running slower than you actually are.” As my wife snapped about 35 pictures to make sure she got a good one, I stood and listened to the man who, 40 years ago, held the stars and stripes atop the Olympic podium after a performance that has not been repeated by an American. I listened to every word the man said, but all I could do was nod in agreement as he spoke about his passion, smiling. After a few minutes, he drew to a conclusion, and I snapped out of my awe-coma. With true sincerity, he wished me luck, and shook my hand once more (definitely firm this time).
“Ok,” I said to my wife, “now I’m ready.”
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