Remembering Grete

I wasn't born when Grete Waitz won the 1978 New York City Marathon. I never saw her blonde braids "swishing rhythmically...as she churned up First Avenue" en route to any of her nine victories. But I was there a few years ago on a muggy June evening in Central Park, standing sweaty-shoulder-to-sweaty-shoulder with thousands of other desk jockeys, when a soft-spoken Waitz stepped to the podium to wish us luck in the the JP Morgan Chase Corporate Challenge. Organizers couldn't have chosen a better ambaassador: This elite runner was also one of us.

We all find inspiration in different places, and for me, it's not Quenton Cassidy pissing blood after 60x400 in John L. Parker Jr.'s novel, Once a Runner, or cyclist Tom Simpson pedaling himself to death on the sun-baked slopes of Mt. Ventoux. It's Norwegian schoolteacher Grete Waitz setting a world marathon record in her first attempt at the distance, after a dinner of shrimp cocktail, steak, wine, and ice cream --because, you know, it was her first time to the States and she was about to retire from elite running, so she might as well celebrate--then hurling her shoes at her husband at the finish, declaring she'd never run another marathon again.

Oh, and by the way, she'd never run more than 12 miles at a time. And she had no clue where the finish line was, because all the markers were in miles, not kilometers.

Today, Waitz is no longer with us, after a six-year battle with cancer, and a working stiff has about as much chance of winning the New York City marathon as the naked cowboy in Times Square. But, thanks in part to Waitz's life's work inspiring recreational athletes, more than 40,000 people now finish the race each year--ten times the number of finishers in 1977. And female runners are no longer considered over-the-hill at 25.

Also, the most important lessons from Waitz's story still hold true. You don't have to do everything right to accomplish great things--although you'll probably be happier (and nicer to your loved ones) at the finish line if you're at least somewhat trained. Race like it's your last chance. Make a weekend out of it.

And--ahem--never count out a runner in pigtails.