Columnist faces Pre's legacy in pure-guts race

I raced Steve Prefontaine the other night.

No, wait, I really did. We ran the mile - the two of us, four laps, in a pure guts race.

Maybe you heard it. Maybe, pausing in the misty meantime of a silent Oregon night, you heard the quick padding of feet at the high school, two nights ago, when an unearthly race was being run.

Or was it?

That's crazy, you say. Pre wasn't there. Pre made like a rubber-shod James Dean long ago and slammed head-on into myth. Into legend.

So, no, he wasn't there.

But I was there, racing a figment of other people's memory, on, ironically, Memorial Day. A day we leave aside for remembering. A day, fittingly, that marked 30 years since he died in a car accident in Eugene.

I was there because I needed to know more. I needed to know Pre, to prod at his shaggy-haired legacy, because nine months ago I knew next to nothing. Back then, when I first came to Coos Bay, Pre was no different than any other blur running through the shiny pages of Sports Illustrated.

Sure, I knew the name. What sports fan wouldn't? Pre has been in books, films, magazines. He's even become a cult hero on the Internet. Even Google is hip to the runner's legacy - the site returns a whopping 52,000 matches for "Steve Prefontaine."

Apparently, Pre's People have gone digital.

They come from all around the world, too. For instance, about three months ago I interviewed a Danish man on the side of U.S. Highway 101. He actually was running around the world, having started in London 14 months ago. When I told him Coos Bay was Pre's home town, his eyes lit up. He didn't believe me.

I guess that's how most track fans react when they come to Coos Bay - when they come to Pre Country. It's a pilgrimmage. There is debate his greatest triumphs came at Hayward Field, the hallowed track at the University of Oregon. That's where he dominated collegiate middle distance running and where he sewed up a victory at the 1972 U.S. Olympic Team Trails.

But Coos Bay is where it all started. And I didn't have a clue.

Slowly, it came. The first week I started working at The World was the same week of the Prefontaine Memorial Run, a 10-kilometer race held every September. Participants are mostly from Oregon, though some hail from California, Kansas, Wyoming, Ohio and as far away as Europe.

The course is not terribly scenic. It's a grind out along Ocean Boulevard and back, dodging down 9th Street before hopping up a short, steep hill onto the track at Marshfield High School.

Before the race, I hopped in my car and drove along the course. I turned onto 9th Street and there it was - the Prefontaines' house.

Suddenly, the story was real. This is where Pre had lived. Where every hard-run day had ended. Where former Ducks' track and field coach Bill Bowerman had sent one of his only recruiting letters, something he rarely did, to encourage Pre's eventual journey to Eugene.

More reality came a day later. I watched the race and saw nearly 900 participants charge down Anderson Avenue. I met Ray and Elfreide Prefontaine, the track star's parents.

Then the race ended. Sure, I'd learned more about Pre. Earned a slight appreciation for his legacy and why other people loved him.

It took nearly nine months to figure out more. As in, why Pre's life should matter to me. Why this enigma haunted every sporting event I covered in Coos Bay, and why so many South Coast athletes idolize him.

Still, I put it off. Had other things to do.

Then, finally, there was a reason.

Here's what happened. On Monday, I woke up and realized Steve Prefontaine had died 30 years ago. Thirty years on the 30th day of the month - falling on Memorial Day, no less. The dates, the numerology, the holiday, whatever; somehow, it all had meaning.

The time was right to finish my Pre-ducation.

First, I had to meet the man himself. See what the fuss was about. So I went to Sunset Memorial Park, on top of a long hill above Isthmus Slough. Prefontaine's final resting place.

I had to go twice. The first time, as dusk fell, I couldn't find his grave. The second time, after driving home and calling someone who knew, I finally saw it.

Gray granite, baby-blue bronze plaque - the only upright headstone in his plot.

So here you are, I said. Tell me, what's the deal, Steve? Why did Hollywood make two films about you, plus a documentary? Why the full-length ad on Memorial Day that Nike, lords of the Swoosh, published in seemingly every newspaper?

No answer. Nothing.

Fine, I said. We'll settle this on the track.

His track, that is. Prefontaine Track at Marshfield. Where the phenomenon began. Maybe he'll show up for this, I thought. Just me and him, running together, so I could get a glimpse into the legend.

If he showed. Just in case, I left one lane open - Lane No. 1 - for Pre's ghost.

All right. I toed the line.

Ready. One mile. Set. Four laps.

Go.

I sprinted, going all out, past the covered bleachers. Looking up, I tried to picture the people, fans, Pre's fellow high school students. Tried picturing if the stadium even looked the same. Wondered how much faster Pre might have run the rust-colored rubberized launching pad there today.

Around the turn I came, legs pumping, into the glare of a streetlight. One lap down.

No pain yet. This wasn't so bad. What did I need? Did I have what Pre always said was his best advantage against more talented runners - pure guts?

Yeah, well, if Pre's ol' ghost shows up, I'll have enough guts, I thought. All I have to do is remember Finland's Lasse Viren, the gold medalist in the 5,000 meters at the 1972 Summer Olympics in Munich, who outkicked the American runner in the final laps. Tonight's race was just a mile. I can hang.

I started getting a little cocky, hearing the breeze shout in my ears as I again turned into the backstretch. It was easy. I should've worn a 'Stop Pre' tee shirt, I thought, the kind Prefontaine once playfully wore after one victory.

Again, the turn. Two down.

The cockiness ebbed as I churned into the backstretch a third time. My shoulders started to droop. Gasping, not breathing, at the air that singed my burning throat.

You stupid, scolded a voice inside my head. You're not in shape. You can't run the mile this hard.

Look left, another voice said. What would the imaginary Pre, keeping pace beside me, think about stopping?

Thought so. All right, we'll keep going then. Here's the end of the stretch and yet another turn.

Three.

Just one more lap. Did Pre think the same thing at the 1972 Olympics, toward the end, knowing he had 400 meters to test his guts and those of Viren, Tunisia's Mohamed Gammoudi, and Great Britain's Ian Stewart? The race he surely thought he'd win?

Instead, he took fourth. Got caught in the last five meters by Stewart. Turned out, that was his only chance.

He never would win an Olympic medal. Never would set a world record.

So what.

There, on the backstretch of my final lap, running against a ghost in an empty lane, I realized the records and medals didn't matter. Pre's gift? He'd made people realize running was cool. Heck, he'd done the same to me. Here I was, running in the middle of the night, as hard as I could, because of some guy I never met who died thirty years ago.

I got it now. He'd made me stop and try something a little different. And it was fun, pretending I had Pre alongside me. Having fun and being different were two things that forged Pre's legacy.

Four. Race over.

Fun, different - that's why you did it, Pre. That's how you ran and how you lived.

Now I know. Thank you.