John U. Bacon

In 1896, the first modern Olympics in Athens staged a marathon. The next year the Boston Athletic Association followed suit. Just 18 men ran that day, and the winner finished in about three hours – something office workers can beat today.

Most people thought they were crazy – if they thought of them at all. Many people probably still do.

Marathoners don’t care.

“We are different, in essence, from other men,” said Czechoslovakian star Emil Zatopek – and he would know.  After winning the 1952 Helsinki Olympic gold medals in the 5K and 10K, he decided at the last minute to enter the marathon – and won that, too. “If you want to win something, run 100 meters.  If you want to experience something, run a marathon.”

Greg Meyer knows exactly what Zatopek was talking about. Like Zatopek, Meyer wasn’t made to run the marathon – but he couldn’t resist it.

Meyer grew up in Grand Rapids, and enrolled at the University of Michigan in 1973. Before his sophomore year, Michigan hired a new cross-country coach named Ron Warhurst, another unlikely figure in this drama. Warhurst had returned from Vietnam with two Purple Hearts, and a hard-won lesson: “The world doesn’t stop because you’re scared.”

Warhurst had been a good runner, but was a great coach. He had an uncanny ability to get inside his runners’ heads, and get more out of them.

The duo’s first season together ended at the Big Ten meet in Iowa City, where Meyer had a disappointing finish in the steeplechase. “Right in front of my parents,” Meyer recalls, “Ronnie said, ‘You sucked. You blew it. And I want you to think about that all summer long.’ My dad said, ‘Yep!’ And I did.”

But Warhurst had a soft side, too. The next season Warhurst picked Meyer to go running together every morning, when they talked less about running than about life. “Some of the best talks I’ve ever had,” Meyer says. “He’d give me a book like Siddhartha, and say, ‘Read this.’ And I would. He became one of the most important people in my life.”

After graduating in 1977 with Big Ten titles in the 10K and steeplechase, Meyer stayed two more years in Ann Arbor – working as Bo Schembechler’s janitor – and winning races. In 1979, he was about to accept a high school teaching job, when Bill Rodgers invited him to come to Boston to train with him. Rodgers was on his way to winning four Boston Marathons, four New York marathons, and four others, establishing himself as the Marathon Man.

Meyer debated it, until Warhurst said, “You need to go. There’s nothing left for you to prove here – you’re already kicking everyone’s ass – and you can’t stop now. I think you’re just scratching the surface of what you’ve got.”

“I give him a lot of credit for that,” Meyer says. “I owe a lot to Ronnie. And to Billy.”

Meyer started cleaning up at just about every distance. He ran a sub-four minute mile, and set American records in the 8 kilometers, 10K, 15K, 25K and the 10 mile. He had the respect of his peers, if not the public, which focused on marathons, not 10Ks.

Even after he moved to Boston, Meyer had no interest in running marathons. He just wanted to get better at what he did best – until one day, at the Eliot Lounge, a runners’ hangout, the bartender told him, “Keep running, and some day you’ll be as good as Vinny Fleming.”

Who’s Vinny Fleming? Good question. If you weren’t a hardcore running fan – and I mean hard core – you’d probably not know that Fleming’s claim to fame was an 8^th place finish in the Boston Marathon.

Meyer said nothing, but thought, “Screw you,” or words to that effect. “Looks like I’ve got to run a marathon! If the best do this, I better see if I can do this, too.

“That was it. At that moment, I decided to become a marathoner.”

Problem was, legends like Rodgers weigh 128 pounds. The Kenyans dominating the event the past two decades run 10 pounds lighter than that.  At his leanest, Meyer weighed 155. If he was serious about winning the Boston Marathon, he had some work to do – so he went to work.

After he won the Detroit Marathon in the fall of 1980, Meyer thought he was ready to take Boston that spring. After about 15 miles, Meyer still had the lead. He thought, I’ve got this.

Not so fast.

“And that’s when Boston showed me what it was made of. The thing about Boston, you never know when it’s gonna get you. You just don’t know. You hit the wall when your glycogen is all used up, and you start burning fat – right around the two-hour mark, which is right when you hit Heartbreak Hill,” the fourth and biggest of a series of inclines that run roughly from mile 16 to 20.

“If you’re off at Boston – and I mean, just a little off – it’ll eat you up. I got my ass kicked [finishing tenth]. That’s when I realized I really had no idea what kind of shape you have to be in to win that race.”

Two seasons later, Meyer won all but two events he entered, cleaning up at almost every distance he ran, including the Chicago Marathon in the fall of 1982. But it was Boston he wanted. He lived a mile from the half-way point, and ran part of the course every day for six months leading up to the 1983 race.

By race day, he had no doubts. At the pre-race press conference, he said, “I see myself in front at 20 miles.” One of his competitors, Benji Durden, didn’t like hearing that, and decided to challenge Meyer by taking the lead early on.

Meyer followed up.  At the halfway mark, Durden tried to break away again, and Meyer reeled him in once more.

Right before Heartbreak Hill, around mile 20, Meyer pulled up alongside Durden again.

“Is he done?” Meyer recalled wondering. “I wasn’t sure. I was going to ask him a question to find out. Didn’t matter what. I just wanted to see how he was breathing, where his head was. I can’t even recall what I asked him. But I can recall his answer, after a couple breaths: ‘Looks like rain.’ I sensed something, maybe just a crack. But you just know.

“There’s a little voice inside you that says, ‘Hit ‘im now!’ So I ran ahead, to see if he could follow. And when you do that, you get a little adrenaline shot, you get positive thoughts, and he deflates.”

Durden couldn’t keep up, and started learning the lesson Meyer learned in 1981: Boston can pull you down whenever it likes.

“At the top of Heartbreak, I was all alone, just like I’d envisioned it.”

He was running a little over five-minute miles, but when he heard the guy in the press truck rolling in front of him say, “You’ve got this,” Meyer coasted the rest of the way at a 5:20 clip. Only when he finished did he realize he had missed the record by eight seconds.

Meyer ran a few more marathons, but he never won another. He simply was not built for that distance, but he was talented enough – and determined enough – to will himself to win.

Meyer stood as the last American champion for more than three decades, until this week, when another unlikely winner, Meb Keflezighi – who is a couple weeks shy of his 39th birthday, which is ancient by marathon standards – ran 2:08:37. That’s just 23 seconds faster than Meyer’s time 31 years earlier.

True, Keflezighi was born in Ethiopia, moved to the U.S. when he was 12, and became a U.S. citizen in 1998. But the Boston fans didn’t seem to care, cheering for him heartily, and chanting “U-S-A!  U-S-A!” After all, if Meb isn’t an American, most of us aren’t, either.

At the finish line, Meyer was there to announce the historic moment, then give his successor a big hug – one unlikely champion paying homage to another.

About the writer: Ann Arbor resident John U. Bacon is the author of the national bestsellers “Fourth and Long: The Future of College Football,” “Bo’s Lasting Lessons” and “Three and Out: Rich Rodriguez and the Michigan Wolverines in the Crucible of College Football.” You can follow him on Twitter (@Johnubacon), and at johnubacon.com.

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Motown-Ann Arbor Hash House Harriers on a recent run, navigating a shiggy trail in Ypsilanti Township.

At the sound of a toy plastic horn, a pack of runners jogs down a road to nowhere and onto a faint trail in an undeveloped subdivision in Ypsilanti Township. The front runners point out white dots of flour on the ground and holler “On-On!” to let the others know they’re on trail.

When they reach a floury white “X,” one runs ahead in each likely direction to look for the three white dots that mark the real trail. In moments, “On-on” echoes through the woods from one direction and the whole pack turns and plunges down a steep bank, crossing a flooded ditch on what looks like an old section of privacy fence.

As they disappear into the woods, “On-on”s blend with birdsongs and the squawking of a duck. When they emerge, scratched and dirty somewhere on the other side, there will be beer.

The Motown-Ann Arbor Hash House Harriers describe themselves (as do hashers around the world) as a drinking club with a running problem. Some of the club’s 80 members started hashing for the exercise, but they keep hashing for the camaraderie. Any exercise incurred along the way is somewhat incidental – a side effect of getting from one “beer check” to the next.

“It was started by (members of) the British military hoping to get back in shape when there were no wars,” said Nancy “Mother Inferior” Marcott. “But the active description of a hasher who’s been hashing a year would be someone who can run 10 miles interspersed with swimming, rock climbing and large leaping, and has a huge beer belly.”

Nancy "Mother Inferior" Marcott. The water she's running through appears to be colder than the beer in hand.

But you don’t have to drink beer to hash (we’re pretty sure there were non-alcoholic beverages in the cooler, too, and people were seen drinking water, which they must have gotten somewhere). You don’t have to run, don’t have to be a particular age, don’t have to have a  nickname (though if you stick around long enough they’ll gladly give you one you can’t take home to Mother.)

All you really need is a healthy sense of humor (actually, a sick one will do, too) and an old pair of shoes.

Hashes typically cover 4-6 miles on trails that can range from stroller-friendly to “shiggy” (riddled with obstacles including – but not limited to – water, fences and rash-inducing vegetation) with beverage stops along the way. It’s not uncommon to ford knee-deep streams. It’s less common – but not unheard-of – to cross chest-deep, muddy-bottomed ponds. In May.

The pack follows flour or chalk hash marks – dots, arrows, Xs and other signs – to pick out the true trail from any bogus ones the “hare” (the person laying the trail) might have left.

Marcott, who lives in Ann Arbor, has been hashing with the Motown-Ann Arbor group so long that her hash name is often shortened to “Mother” or just “Ma.” She used to be a legitimate runner. After taking some time off she started hashing with the idea that it would get her back into shape. In the 17 years since, Marcott’s role has shifted, nudged along by an arthritic knee. Now she leads a group of walkers at every hash – generally with a copy of the map so they can take the appropriate shortcuts to arrive at the beer check at about the same time as the runners.

There, happy hour ensues – or at least a happy 15 minutes or so – while the day’s designated hare takes off to mark the section of trail that leads to the next beverage stop.

“I’m a competitive runner and I enjoy the not-so-serious nature of this,” said Dave “Diaper Rash” Dysert, from Detroit. “It’s not training, but it’s fun anyway, and there’s always beer afterwards.”

Hashing goes back to 1938 and a group of British expatriates in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. It’s popular with expats around the world because of its ability to create instant community out of the shared silliness. Average age tends to be over 45, but hashers range at least 20 years in either direction. Someone in the Motown-Ann Arbor group hosts a hash just about every weekend through the summer.

Hashers will get the meaning of this bumper sticker.

After the hash, the group of 15-20 gathers at the “on-after” – usually a bar or restaurant – to eat, drink, sing raunchy songs and assess “down-downs” (penalty drinks) for misdeeds real, imagined or blatantly made-up.

Members of the Motown-Ann Arbor group have hashed all over the country and around the world. Larry “Minuteman” Tonda has hashed in Malaysia, England, Ireland, Wales and Costa Rica. Dysert, who runs marathons and ultra-marathons, recently hashed with his wife in Las Vegas, where hashers they’d just met put them up for the night to save them a late 80-mile drive back to Mesquite, Nev.

Likewise, the local hash welcomes visitors from other clubs. Toledo and Bay City hashers were on hand the day The Chronicle tagged along.

“I know people because of hashing that I would never know otherwise,” said Sharin’ Fluids, a registered dietician whose hash name comes from her tendency to encourage people to stay hydrated. (Out of deference to her employer she declined to give her real name, but it’s not Sharon).

When she moved to Ann Arbor in 2006 she didn’t know a soul and says she could hardly walk a block. Someone suggested she try hashing, and through the club she met people of all ages from all over southeastern Michigan, including Mark “Pennsil Vein” Shehan, who’s now her fiancé. Last year, encouraged by other hashers, she ran a half-marathon.

“(To enjoy it) you just have to be an open-minded individual who likes to socialize and be active,” she said. “Your fitness level doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if you can only walk, or if you can run six miles. Everyone accepts everyone.”

About the author: Amy Whitesall is a freelance writer based in Chelsea.

The Ann Arbor Track Club and the Michigan All Stars shared the lanes at the University of Michigan Indoor Track Building on Tuesday night.

Last Tuesday evening at the University of Michigan Indoor Track building, runners were spinning  through at least two different workouts: (i) 400-300-200-meter ladder repeats with 30-second recoveries between rungs, and a 4-minute recovery between the four total set, and (ii) run at your goal 5K goal pace until you just can’t maintain it any longer.

If you were a member of the Michigan All Stars, a youth track club that competes in Amateur Athletic Union (AAU) events, you did the ladder repeats. And if you were a member of the Ann Arbor Track Club, you did the run-til-you-drop drill.

The occasion actually gave The Chronicle the chance to renew a previously-made acquaintance involving another kind of drill – the kind of giant drill that’s used to bore for soil samples.

Why The Chronicle Attended a Track Workout

Meetings of public boards, commissions, and councils don’t take place at the UM Indoor Track Building – so it’s fair to ask why The Chronicle was there in the first place. First, just to be clear, not everything at The Chronicle revolves around public meetings. What prompted us to check out the indoor track was something we heard um, er, yeah, okay  … at a public meeting – the last board meeting of the Downtown Development Authority, specifically.

Race director of the Dexter-Ann Arbor Run (May 31, 2009), Hal Wolfe, spoke to the DDA board about some frustrations he was experiencing with organizing this year’s race. The Ann Arbor Track club, which organizes the race, holds its Tuesday night workouts at the UM indoor track, so we figured we’d check it out.

Michigan All Stars athlete training at the University of Michigan Indoor Track.

Incidentally, at the DDA board’s operations committee meeting on Wednesday morning, at least some of Wolfe’s frustrations were addressed. First, the DDA will communicate to the holders of premium permits at the Ann-Ashley parking structure that if they are unable to get access to their spaces on race day, the DDA will find alternate parking spaces for them.

Second, the DDA will waive the parking meter bag fees for the race (when a street is closed, as for a race, any parking meters have bags placed over them). And finally, direction would be provided about how to request a waiver of street barricading fees.

The Giant Drill Connection

Tyrone Coleman, one of the assistant coaches for the Michigan All Stars, struck up a conversation with The Chronicle because he was keen to know who the other group on the track was – the traffic on the inside lanes was not optimal for the kind of hard intervals his guys were doing. Later, after the groups had finished their workouts, he ventured, “I think we’ve met before? Out in the Pioneer field when we were drilling that hole?” Why, yes, of course! Tyrone was one of the three-man crew we met out in that snowy field back in early December of 2008.

Tyrone Coleman.

Coach of the Michigan All Stars, Rad Greaves, said that they were getting ready for the Michigan Indoor High School Championships, to be held at Central Michigan University this Saturday (Feb. 28), as well as the Michigan AAU Indoor Youth Track and Field Championships at Eastern Michigan University’s Bowen Field House on March 15. The mid-March track meet goes from 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. and costs $5 for spectators.

Track Club News: Reciprocity Agreement with Triathlon Club

While chatting before the workout with Jon Woodard, who was wearing an Ann Arbor Triathlon Club T-shirt, he tipped us to a recent reciprocity agreement between the Ann Arbor Track Club and the Ann Arbor Triathlon Club: the arrangement will allow members of one club to join the other at a discount of $10.

Stani Bohac, coach of the Track Club’s Tuesday night workouts, cautioned that the membership forms still needed to be revised to reflect the agreement, approved by the boards of both organizations,  and that revision might take a couple of weeks.

Mitch Garner, president of the AATC, confirmed the agreement between the clubs by email, saying that “The AATC Board felt that the two clubs have a lot of common ground, and the AATC wants to reach out to other running-related clubs in the area to promote physical fitness and good health in our community.”

UM Indoor Track

During a snowy winter in Ann Arbor, athletes looking for a place to run hard without fear of slipping and falling on their heads can find such a place in form of the 200-meter University of Michigan indoor track. There’s a couple of different options for getting access. Drop in during open hours (mornings and evenings, but not afternoons) for $5 a visit. For Ann Arbor Track Club members to participate in their Tuesday night workout, that drop-in fee is reduced to $2.  Or the general public can purchase a membership to use  the track ($135 for the season).

Stopped.Watched. correspondent in training?

Post-workout, Rad Greaves with Michigan All Stars.

Center in the blue Ann Arbor Triathlon shirt: Jon Woodard.

Dexter-Ann Arbor Run T-shirts leftover from last year. They were available as self-administered rewards for Ann Arbor Track Club members who were satisfied that they had "run hard."

Ann Arbor Track Club workout at the University of Michigan Indoor Track.

Ann Arbor Track Club member warms up. This is not jogging. It's running.

Stani Bohac, Tuesday night workout coach for the Ann Arbor Track Club, warms up.