Jogging with Pre
A. LYNN ASH
If you live in Oregon and you're a track and field fan, you know about Steve Prefontaine. "Pre" ran fast. During his life he held every American distance record from 2000 to 10,000 meters. In the 1970s when Steve and a host of sub-four minute milers were wowing track fans at Eugene's Hayward Field, I had already been jogging since the mid-1960s. In fact, I am proud to say, I was the first female jogger in Eugene.
Well, I can't prove it, but I have good cause to believe it.
The jogging idea came from my friend Stan, who with his pals had taken up this new craze.
"How far do you go?" I asked him one day after they returned from a jog.
"Mile or two, usually," he answered. "Sometimes farther."
"You stop and rest, though. Don't you? I mean, you can't run that far without stopping."
"No, we don't stop," he answered offhandedly.
"But, how is that possible? Humans can't run that far. Horses, maybe, but not humans.
"We worked up to it, "Stan said. "We started out with a mile alternating walking with jogging, then gradually increased the jogging and decreased the walking until we could jog a whole mile. Then we started adding distance a little at a time."
I was intrigued. Anybody could do that. Even me. I wasn't getting any regular exercise and I had noticed the pounds were beginning to accrue on my small frame.
I decided I would try it, but at night under the cover of darkness, of course. I would alternate walking and jogging around my block three times, roughly one mile. See what it was like.
That night after dinner, I rummaged through my closet for my sturdiest shoes, tied them on and crept down the back stairs to the sidewalk. Street lamps shone circles of light at the corners, but in between the sidewalks were dark. Probably no one would see me, and if they did, there was a 50-50 chance I would be walking.
I began, clunking along at a slow jog in my brown oxfords. Not so bad, I thought to myself at the first corner. But I was panting, and glad to switch to walking mode. I kept at it though, gradually tacking on extra blocks to my twelve. When I advanced to jogging only, Stan said, "If you're going to be a jogger, you need jogging shoes."
Jogging shoes? Really? I blushed for shame. I saw myself as utterly undeserving. But if Stan thought it a good idea, I would.
The next day I walked into a shoe store on Willamette Street.
"May I help you?" a clerk said.
"I'd like to buy a pair of jogging shoes," I said. "Adidas, maybe."
The clerk blinked his eyes. We don't carry Adidas or any jogging shoes in women's sizes. We have men's Tigers down to size 7. We could try those."
The clerk went into the back room. He returned carrying a box, and with the crackle of parting tissue paper, pulled out a pair of shoes that made me gasp. Blue leather uppers and white rubber soles, bristling with crisp newness. A graceful strip of white leather swooped horizontally from the heel, and curved sensuously down to the sole. Two strips of white leather ran perpendicular through them, finishing touches that sent a message: Athlete. I slipped my feet into the softest, cushiest shoes imaginable.
I saw myself jogging proudly through Eugene's streets in my Tigers, thumbing my nose at the iron hand of fashion, sneering at the girls carrying purses and colored flats to match their outfits. That's what my Tigers would do for me.
Throughout the afternoon I visited the box to admire the gleaming footwear nestled in white tissue paper. I lifted the shoes to my face and inhaled the rich leather scent. I couldn't wait to go jogging in them.
Later, when night had settled on Eugene, I lifted the Tigers reverently from their box and slipped my feet into them, tugging the laces snug, tight as a lover's embrace, around my feet. In high anticipation I hurried downstairs. Tonight's jog would be different.
Silly to think a pair of shoes could be transformative, but those Tigers were. From my first pillow-like footfall, I sensed that I would become a serious jogger, running, not jogging, farther, faster, and stronger, knees bent, arms pumping and feet flashing in real running shoes.
Eventually, I went public and began my runs from the women's locker room at the university's Gerlinger Hall. Perched on a narrow bench between rows of lockers, I changed into my running garb: cut-off jeans and a sweatshirt. (Jogging attire for women was not readily available in Eugene stores in the mid-1960s.) Then I walked out through the heavy doors and trotted to the practice track adjacent to Hayward Field, keenly aware of heads turning to stare at the weird woman in grubby clothes and ungainly men's athletic shoes.
The practice track bustled with male athletes jogging laps or practicing sprints. I cast a quick glance around for other women, but there were none. Tentatively, I stepped into the outside lane, fearful that some martinet of a coach would bark me off the track.
I began the first lap, jogging slowly, aware of all the other bodies around me. Every few minutes I felt a whoosh as runners sped by me, but no one seemed to object to my presence there. I kept going, steadily, and completed four laps. One mile.
As spring turned to summer I added more laps to my workout, and soon I was routinely jogging two miles without much effort. The muscles in my legs turned shapely, tightening into well-defined curves. I felt fit and proud. Especially the day I first ran five miles on the track—twenty laps. Bursting with pride, I reported this to Stan, who by now had adopted me as a jogging buddy.
"You need to branch out and get off the track, do some cross country training," he insisted. He began pressing me to run with him up into the hills east of campus. I had been up there many times and knew those hills were steep. It's where the guys on the track team, trained. Way out of my league.
But Stan promised we would start out with an easy Fairmount Boulevard loop, just under three miles and with only a slight uphill. I objected vigorously, but finally gave in. We began at the practice track and jogged out 15th Avenue, Stan's fanny ever in front as we tackled the first slight rise. After only a mile my sides hurt and my legs felt like concrete pillars. I complained loudly, but Stan was oblivious to my suffering. The run seemed interminable. I cursed him under my breath all the way back to Hayward Field for his show-no-mercy attitude.
A week or two later we tackled the fearsome Birch Lane route into Hendricks Park. We inched up Judkin's Point then turned sharply onto even steeper Skyline Boulevard, where a rocky retaining wall at the street's edge warned cars to slow down. Years later, Steve Prefontaine would heed that wall too late.
At last we came out at the top of the hill and the worst was over. We cruised on level ground through the park and then, gravity-aided, sailed down Summit Drive and back to campus.
As time passed, I often ran those hill routes alone. One sunny day I was running slowly, but steadily up into the hills when I heard footsteps behind me. I shifted slightly to the right to allow the runner to pass. But the footsteps slowed and a young man pulled up beside me. He was short and had shaggy dark blond hair. He grinned at me and said, "You're doing great. You've got a good stride." He trotted along beside me awhile then shot forward. "Keep up the good work," he called as he sped off. I stared after the quickly disappearing figure, then realized, holy cow! I had just been jogging with Pre. I picked up my pace, grinning from ear to ear and keeping up the good work. Confident in the power of my good stride, I charged up the hill following in the footsteps of a champion.