I was having a hard time sleeping. I just witnessed one of the best running performances of my life and was still elated from all the euphoria. The man simply known as “Pre” had just destroyed Frank Shorter and the rest of the field in a 5000-meter showdown. He narrowly missed his own American record and was tuning up for ‘76 Summer Games in Montreal. The crowd was electrified because Steve Prefontaine had just given them what they wanted, another victory.
It was strange seeing Pre clad in a black tank top compared to the traditional Oregon gold and green I had become so accustomed to seeing him run in over the years. Instead, this was a full grown man with mustache and sideburns—not some skinny kid from Coos Bay so desperately trying to make an impression. This also was not the naïve Prefontaine who, up until the 1972 Olympics, thought he was invincible only to be defeated at the hands of the more experienced European runners. This was Steve Prefontaine the race promoter who openly defied the stuffy AAU officials by inviting the Finnish Track Team to the sacred ground of Hayward Field. At the last minute, Pre’s Olympic conquer, Lasse Viren, backed out because of injury.
To the proud Oregonians, rich in tradition from hard work and toil in lumber country, “backing out” meant Lasse Viren was scared. And who could blame him, Steve Prefontaine was undefeated in any race over a mile on his home turf. Pre’s people clapped in rhythmic unison for six years and 25 straight races without a defeat. To any opposing runner, running against Pre at his distance and on his home turf meant you were running for second place. Nobody ever beat him. Victories were preordained and the sun always seemed to find its way out of the clouds when Prefontaine stepped on the track. To the average runner like me, Steve Prefontaine seemed like a superhero. Someone like Spiderman, unbeatable and unstoppable. It never occurred to me that he was mortal.
It was just after midnight when I decided to go for a run. I ran my usual loop around Hendrix Park and was laboring in the stuffy night air. My 7-minute-per-mile pace created just enough wind to keep my sweat-covered body cool. I felt good. I imagined myself finishing a final lap at Hayward Field with the crowd clapping to my every step. I felt so good I just kept running past my normal 3-mile marker. I decided to get on Summit Avenue and then hang a left onto Skyline Boulevard. From there I would get on to Birch Lane and follow that all the way to Fairmont Park. That would be at least an extra mile and most of it would be downhill so I really wanted to push it. I asked myself: “What would Pre do?” Knowing the answer, I started running as hard as I could.
Skyline Boulevard curves around to a long straight road that gradually descends around a very sharp turn at the bottom of the hill before it intersects with Birch Lane. I wanted to be at full speed by the time I got to the bottom of the hill. About 200 meters before the turn, I heard screeching tires and then a loud crash. The unmistakable sound of metal and glass being halted by perhaps another car or even, God forbid, that natural rock wall that outlined the bottom of the boulevard. I knew someone was in trouble and ran faster than I thought I could. Suddenly, right before I got to the turn, a small convertible sped around the corner and almost hit me. I actually had to jump in the brush to get out of the way. I was mad and yelled: “Watch where you’re going you idiot.” The car sped away and I got a glimpse of what looked like someone my age, perhaps 20 or maybe 25. The car looked like a light colored MGB but it was too dark to tell for sure.
I was still breathing hard from running and the trauma of almost being hit by that car. I got up and ran toward the scene of the accident. The night was quiet again and all I could hear was my breathing—my loud breathing.
