1986 Bix 7 Diary
by John Gerstner
Murmurings made into a tape recorder before, during and after the legendary 1986 Bix 7 road race in Davenport, Iowa.
Lying in bed
6:15 a.m. — I hate running.
6:20 a.m. — I’m too tired to run. I’m too old to run.
6:22 a.m. — It’s not that I don’t want to run the Bix. It’s just that I don’t want to run the Bix today.
6:25 a.m. — The sun is shining. It’s a beautiful day. It’s a perfect morning to sleep.
6:30 a.m. — O.K., I’m up.
Driving to the race
I’ve showered, slurped my morning cup of tea, downed a bowl of the Breakfast of Champions (for psychic reasons), pinned my race tag on my shorts. I am ready for war.
Bix raises the ultimate question: why?
Bix makes you think of your body and how much we don’t know about it. What should I have eaten this morning? Last night? Was I “carbo-loading” when I ate that slab of barbecue ribs?
Walking to the start line
Bix exists because life is boring.
There are all these runners actually running before the race begins. Who are they trying to impress? I’ll warm up after the gun goes off, thank you.
At the start line
Hey, I’m excited. This is fun. Rock music is blaring from giant loudspeakers. A TV helicopter is hovering overhead. About 9,200 runners and I are squeezed together stretching and joking and smelling one another’s deodorant just a few feet from the banks of the mighty Mississippi.
This is epic.
“Say something profound,” I say, aiming my tape recorder at an attractive yuppie running couple lined up next to me.
Him: “Wait. Wait. Wait. What could I say into a tape recorder that would be profound? It’s probably not even on. I feel foolish.”
Me: “It’s on. See, it’s turning. What are your names? How do you feel?”
Him: “Tom Judge and Julie Waterman. I feel loose and I feel good.”
Julie: “I feel terrible. I want to go to the bathroom.”
Me: “How many minutes will you need to run this course?”
Tom: “I’d like to at least do under 5:30 miles, if not under five minutes… for the first mile and then…” (nervous laugh)
Me: (nervous laugh)
Announcer (after introducing Jim Ryun, Phil Coppess, Alberto Salazar, Bix 7 Billy — Bill Rogers — and everybody’s champion Joan Benoit Samuelson):
“Everybody have a good day. Runners on your mark. Ready. Set. Go.”
Starting downhill. Uphill, downhill — what’s the difference?
Mile 2. Another eight minutes.
Third Mile — Bix 7
Where’s my cheering section?
Nobody runs the Bix for fun.
You’d think with a name like John you’d have a few rooters yelling your name.
My seven-year-old daughter asked me if I was going to win the Bix. How do you admit to your seven-year-old that you aren’t even trying to win — that you don’t even expect to finish in the top 5,000?
So why am I running this race?
Feet getting hot. Feet getting tired. Legs getting tired.
Arms getting tired. Tired all over.
Thinking about the big questions in life. Like: Who am I? Where am I? Where is Mile Three? Where is Three Mile Island? Why are we doing this? Why can’t I quit? Why?
Spectators: “Go Joan!” (Benoit)
I’m just getting started and the leaders are already coming back. Why all the cheers? They only have to run about a half hour. Anyone can run a half hour. Let them try to run an hour or two like the rest of us.
Not another hill. Heartbreak Hill or what? I’m bent into it like a very old man. I feel like one.
Can’t believe I’m doing this. I had forgotten what a nightmare this was last year. It’s all coming back to me now.
24:20 at three.
Fourth mile
Topped another hill. Iowa is not flat. Give me a bike. Give me a break.
(Spotting Tom and Julie again)
Me: “OK, what do you think now?”
Tom: “Well, my legs are feeling kind of heavy, but I’m not doing too bad. For not being able to walk last week.”
Julie: “He was in a plane crash. Both legs were paralyzed.”
Me: “He was the only survivor. And he’s going for the world’s record here today?”
Julie: “Right.”
Tom: “Right.” Then to friends along the route: “Hey guys. Where’s the beer?”
Runners panting. Dogs barking. Who’s dumber?
Silly guys pulling a beer wagon. (Learned later that twelve guys took turns pulling this. They started with sixty bottles and finished the race with eight.)
Now a group dressed as beer bottles. An eight-pack.
I’m ready for a beer.
Mile 4. 33 minutes.
Fifth mile
I think they lengthened the course this year.
I know they did.
Volunteer with megaphone:
“There’s a water station coming right up past the bridge. Everybody’s having fun today. You’re all looking great.”
Sure.
Who’s winning? Who cares? What a grown-up won’t do for a T-shirt.
I’m hurting. My side is killing me. Gotta walk.
Walking.
Damn.
Losing time. Now I know I won’t beat last year’s time. I feel cheated, mad, disappointed. Like Mario Andretti must feel when he blows a piston.
5 miles — 44:08.
Damn. Can’t break an hour.
Sixth mile (running again)
Runner to me: “How’re you doing, doctor?”
Me: “Had a side ache. Had to stop and walk.”
Do I look like a doctor? Do I need one?
Lost on the Bix highway somewhere between six and seven. Nothing but a sea of sweat-glistening, grimacing runners. Not a pretty sight. Or pleasant smell.
Passing runner: “Ice cold beer. Ice cold beer.”
It’s hell trying to be a hero.
Would we all be doing this if there weren’t any spectators?
Love running through the water sprays.
We’ve all got water on the brain.
Smashed plastic cups and wet pavement. Spectators looking at us with wonder. All I can do is look down.
Rocky’s theme again. Giving me goosebumps. Or am I suffering from heat exhaustion?
The road sign says dip. I’m reading road signs now. I am delirious.
All right. Back to Brady. All downhill. Less than one mile to go.
A song is playing on somebody’s radio: “There’s no easy way out.”
I have this nightmare. I run this entire race and my name tag falls off the last block. I won’t get my name in the paper.
Almost down Brady. All right. Trying to sprint. Can’t.
Somebody’s down. A guy. Medics kneeling beside him.
Another guy down. This is war.
My side is hurting again.
One more block to go.
I see balloons. Beer wagons.
Finished.
Now waiting in the chute. Sure. Hurry up and wait. Sweating bodies everywhere. Oh the smell. Sweaty armpits and sirens.
Volunteer: “Take your tag off. Wait. What’s your letter?”
Me (heart pounding, fearing it fell off, finally relieved):
“D.”
My time: 61 minutes.
Right after the race
I feel great. I feel dead. I am ecstatic.
All the world is wonderful.
These are all my brothers and sisters.
We are joined by shared pain. We’re all winners, all heroes.
It’s a glorious morning. A peak.
Where’s the beer? Where’s Jim McKay? Where are my fans?
I did it. I could have done a lot better if I hadn’t gotten that side ache.
I’ll do a lot better next year.
12 days later
A card bearing my personal statistics for the 1986 Bix 7 came in the mail today. My official time was 61:32. I finished 3,646th in a field of 8,333 finishers. The best time for my age group (30–39) was 34:28.
I do not remember who won this year’s Bix.
I don’t care.
About a week ago I received three color proofs of me beginning my descent of Brady Street. After long deliberation, I ordered the one where I looked the least trashed.
Last night I ran about five miles. It was hot and muggy and it made me think back on this year’s Bix. I remembered the spectacle of 9,000 runners, splashing water down my back, Tom and Julie — I wonder how they did — the cheering spectators, my slow but euphoric charge down Brady Street to the finish line, the free beer afterwards… all the good stuff.
Yes, I’ll be running the Bix again next year, God willing.
Why?
Because life is boring.
And the Bix exists.