Running Man The New York City marathon champion on running, religion and
what it means to be an American. By BARI WEISS
<http://online.wsj.com/search/search_center.html?KEYWORDS=BARI+WEISS&ART\
ICLESEARCHQUERY_PARSER=bylineAND>
When Meb Keflezighi finished the New York City Marathon in two hours,
nine minutes and 15 seconds the morning after Halloween, he became the
first American to win the race in 27 years. But some spectators
apparently missed the three red letters on his chest as he burst through
the tape. Keflezighi is only "technically American," argued CNBC sports
writer Darren Rovell. He's "like a ringer who you hire to work a couple
hours at your office so that you can win the executive softball league."

Though Mr. Rovell has since backtracked, nobody recalls similar comments
about Alberto Salazar, the Cuban-born American who won in 1982. And if
Meb's name was Joe Smith and he was born in England rather than Eritrea,
few would have questioned his national identity.

When I meet Meb the morning after his appearance on the David Letterman
show—almost as great as winning the race, he quips—he is
unbothered by the debate raging on the Web about his American-ness.
"What's the list of things you need to be an American?" he asks
rhetorically. "You live here, you pay taxes, you live by the American
way. I've been here for 22 years. I'm as American as you can get."

As for wearing the USA tank top: "What a beautiful day to wear it on. In
New York, to win my first marathon in that jersey—it just gave me
great pride."

View Full Image
   [winterweiss]      Zina Saunders



Talking to the 5-foot-6-inch athlete as he is massaged, iced, stretched
and bent by his physical therapist on the Upper West Side, I could
easily forget that he is one of the fastest men in the world. Unlike so
many other professional athletes—huge in ego and stature—Meb is
modest in both.

Which is not to say the 34-year-old isn't thrilled about winning his
first marathon. "My email is full, my texting is full, my voicemail is
full," he tells me with an incredulous smile. "I was kind of late coming
here because for the first time since I got to New York I went to the
breakfast place at the Hilton. And it was nonstop: 'You're not leaving
'til I get this picture,' or 'I need your autograph.'"

Yet he's quick to add: "It's a big honor. With fame and with winning
comes responsibility." Meb doesn't see the need to be a role model as a
choice: "You have to. People are following you whether you like it or
not."

It's almost too convenient to chalk up Meb's character to his
upbringing. Nevertheless, like so many other immigrant success stories,
understanding Meb's parents and their values is essential to
understanding who he is. He puts it simply: "They molded me."

Born in 1975, Mebrahtom (his full name means "let there be light") grew
up in an Eritrean village with no electricity and no running water.
Besides poverty, Meb's parents, Russom and Awetash, feared for their
family's safety because of Russom's involvement with the Eritrean
Liberation Movement and because of the ongoing war with Ethiopia. Meb's
father decided to flee. "He walked all the way"—60 miles—to
Sudan, Meb says. Russom eventually made his way to Milan, Italy, where
he worked to raise the money to bring his family out of East Africa.

On Oct. 21, 1987, a date that rolls off Meb's tongue, the family
immigrated to San Diego as refugees with the help of the Red Cross and
the sponsorship of Meb's half-sister, Ruth. "Dad used to wake up at 4
a.m. so we could learn English," Meb says. "He worked as a taxi driver
and worked in restaurants to be able to feed the family."

Meb adds, "You start on the bottom, work hard, and your dreams will come
true—and that's what happened. We have a very successful family
because my parents always emphasized using the opportunity you have to
the maximum: 'There are a lot of people that don't have this
opportunity, so make sure you use it.' That stuck in our head."

They stressed school to their 11 children. "Sports was not in our blood
or in our family," Meb says. "So it was 'Do what you can and work hard.
Your teachers are your parents when you are at school. They want the
best for you, so make sure you listen to them."

Meb's oldest brother, Fitsum, was the trailblazer. He started ninth
grade not knowing a word of English. By the end of the year, he won the
top academic prize. The Keflezighis still have the tiny trophy 22 years
later.

That ethic was key to Meb's success. "When I started running for the
first time—seventh grade—I wanted to get that A, just like my
parents taught me."

Meb had never run in his native country and had no concept of running as
a sport. But his family's San Diego apartment was down the road from
Morley Field where the national Foot Locker high school championship is
held. "When I saw them running, the high school champions, I was like
'What are these crazy people running for?' They're not chasing a soccer
ball or anything else."

Meb's two older brothers decided to take up the sport, he says, and "I
just followed in their footsteps." At 12, he ran his first mile. He
clocked in at five minutes and 20 seconds—with no training. Dick
Lord, the PE teacher at Roosevelt Junior High, called up the high school
coach on the spot: "Hey, we got an Olympian here."

Ron Tabb, who ran the marathon in 2:09 in 1983, saw similar potential in
the young runner. Meb recalls Mr. Tabb seeing him practice in 1992. "He
said: 'You're going to be a great marathoner and make the Olympic team
in 2000 and be a medalist in 2004,'" Meb remembers. "So a lot of people
did read my future."

By his senior year in high school, he says, "I ended up being one of
those crazy guys running in the national championships." From San Diego
High School, he went off to UCLA. Bob Larsen, who has remained his coach
until today, offered the straight-A state champion a full ride. There he
became a four time NCAA champion. And in 1998, the year he graduated, he
became a citizen. Meb traces his success back to those years. "It goes
back to high school—you try to be the best high schooler there is,
and then to be the best collegiate runner you can be." Unlike team
sports, "with running, it's just you and what you decide to get out of
it."

If Meb sounds old school, that's because he is. His message for young
people is simple: "Life is precious. Do something that is
optimistic—that is good for society. Don't sit on the couch." His
heroes, other than the list of American long-distance runners he rattles
off (Jim Ryun, Steve Prefontaine, Steve Scott, Eamonn Coghlan, Paul
Tergat), are Jackie Robinson and his parents. About himself, he says:
"My God-given talent was discovering when I could run 5:20. Not everyone
can run 5:20 . . . I was definitely gifted, but I have to work hard."

His determined training has helped him defy people's expectations. At
the 2004 Olympics in Athens, Meb was ranked 39th out of 101 runners. He
walked away with the silver medal with high hopes for the Beijing
Olympics.

The Olympic trials in 2007 brought no such victory. Not only did Meb not
make the Beijing team—he finished eighth—he fractured his hip
during the race. Then there was the terrible tragedy of Ryan Shay's
death. The rising marathon star and Meb's close friend suffered a
massive heart attack during the race. During this year's marathon, Meb
crossed himself in the spot where Shay went down.

"The darkest part of my running career was last year," he says. "I could
have easily hung it up." Was he tempted to retire, I ask? "Oh yea. I'm
not going to say I wasn't. I couldn't walk—I was crawling like a
10-month-old baby," Meb says about his hip fracture.

Recovering from the injury took a year and a half of intensive therapy
and "hard work." But "hard prayer" was also crucial for Meb, who, like
his parents, is a deeply religious Christian. Though his training
schedule doesn't always allow him to make it to church every Sunday, he
makes time for prayer "every day before I go to sleep and every day
before I get up." He also uses the 15 minutes he spends in the ice bath
for reflection: "Every day in the ice bath is my God time," he says.

As he healed from his injury "I really got to know who my friends
are—who's got my back." One of them is Bob Larsen, his coach for 18
years. "It's like a marriage," Meb says about their relationship. He's
"a great mentor."

Meb lives and trains in Mammoth Lakes, Calif., a hub for distance
runners because of the high altitude. Though the distance varies from
day to day, there is no escaping the reality that marathon training is
every day, approximately 130 miles a week. Sundays, Meb runs at least 20
miles, sometimes up to 27 or 28 miles. Thursday is a recovery day,
"which means you run just 10 miles in the morning and then a few in the
afternoon." Fridays are a "simulation of what the marathon will be like:
He runs "race pace or faster anywhere from eight to 15 miles." He also
bikes and lifts weights, though he has to be careful not to build up too
much muscle. "For 26.2 miles, you want to be a lean, mean machine."

"During practice," he says, "probably 90% is physical and 10% is mental.
When it comes to race day, it switches because you know your body is
ready and then you have to use your head to be able to perform."

To pump him up for this year's race, Mr. Larsen encouraged Meb to
pretend he was "going on a long run with his buddies. Relax for the
first hour and get to work after that." Marathons, Meb says, "are about
patience and even pace."

He followed that strategy on Nov. 1, sticking with the elite pack, even
allowing himself to drift a few feet behind the front runner. The wind,
he says, was the hardest part of the race. But Meb realized he was in a
fantastic spot as he ran up Fifth Avenue. "With two miles to go, I knew
I had it in the bank," he says. As he entered Central Park at 90th
Street, he saw his opening and pulled ahead of four-time Boston Marathon
champ Robert Cheruiyot of Kenya.

British marathon champion Paula Radcliffe has said that she sometimes
counts her steps during marathons—300 steps in a mile. "I do not
count my steps at all," says Meb. "I take in what the crowd is
doing—screaming Go USA, or Go Meb! The crowd is always going to get
you through the good and the bad." And the New York crowd, he says, is
simply "the best that there is."

As Meb ran through the finish line to screaming crowds, he crossed
himself and kissed the ground. Seeing his wife, Yordanos, put him over
the edge.

"When she saw me—I can't put it into words," he says. "Here's a guy
that couldn't walk, that couldn't turn in bed because of my hip fracture
. . . so when we saw each other we just broke down in tears." Meb
credits his wife, who is also a native of Eritrea, as critical to his
ability to perform. "She is seven months pregnant, we have two kids, and
I'm the one who's taking a nap. She's very unselfish. She's been a big
part of this success." When he met her, right before the 2004 Olympic
trials, "we just clicked about God and family and perseverance."

As he allows his body to recover—with ice baths, eating the right
protein, and physical therapy—he is focused on his next races. The
2012 Olympics are a clear goal. Many are speculating that he might go
for a win in Boston this April. "I really think I can do it. I've done
it once and I finished third. Now I know the course and I'm healthy."
How much time can he shave off? "The body can do amazing things. I still
believe my best times are ahead of me."

Meanwhile, he's savoring his win. And next week, he'll be back to New
York, this time for the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. Meb will be
riding with Miss America—on the Statue of Liberty float.

Ms. Weiss is an assistant editorial features editor at the Journal.



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* NOVEMBER 18, 2009
For 'Mega Marathoners, ' the Race Is On -- to Run More Races  At 73,
Eugene DeFronzo Finishes His 402nd; He's 'a Nut Job' and 'a Marvel,'
Says Doctor
By NEIL KING JR.
<http://online.wsj.com/search/search_center.html?KEYWORDS=NEIL+KING+JR.&\
ARTICLESEARCHQUERY_PARSER=bylineAND>
KITTY HAWK, N.C. -- Some compulsives collect shoes. Others obsess over
video games. Eugene DeFronzo, 73 years old, runs marathons. He clocked
his 402nd here on a recent Sunday, and has three more planned this year.

The Connecticut personal-injury lawyer cracked three vertebrae when he
slipped during a race last December. He pulled a hamstring in Tampa two
months later, and again in Mississippi a week after that. He nearly
passed out in the parched hills of South Dakota in August, finishing
last by two hours. In October, he got lost in the woods of Indiana when
organizers cleared away the markers. "It's an obsession," he says. "No
different than gambling, drinking or doing drugs."
   [video]   <http://online.wsj.com/article/SB125849597789952679.html#>
Top Marathoners Take it Slow and Steady
<http://online.wsj.com/article/SB125849597789952679.html#> 3:56
Gene DeFronzo, 73, has an unusual obsession: crossing the finish line in
marathon after marathon. WSJ reporter Neil King caught up with Mr.
DeFonzo for his 402nd race in Kitty Hawk, N.C.

Mr. DeFronzo is part of a proud subculture of self-styled "mega
marathoners, " people who run hundreds of the 26.2-mile races. Three
Germans, a Finn and a Japanese woman are known to have clocked more than
1,000 marathons apiece -- that is 26,200 miles, about 1,300 miles more
than the circumference of the earth. The record holder, 74-year-old
Horst Preisler, has run 1,636 marathons.

Norm Frank, 78, owner of a lawn-care company in Rochester, N.Y., was
poised to be the first American to break that one-thousand mark before
he suffered a stroke last November, a month after running his 965th
marathon. He is now in a nursing home, forced to use a walker as he
works to regain his strength and sense of balance. "I still have hopes,"
Mr. Frank says.

Floridian Denny Fryman, 62, has only 192 to go. Shooting for 20 a year,
the hotel concierge figures he can get to 1,000 before he turns 72.
"Every time I cross the finish line, it's the biggest natural high there
is," he says.

Scientists have studied compulsive running, not only in humans but in
rats and mice. Some compare it to eating disorders like anorexia
nervosa.

Michael Sachs, a professor at Temple University in Philadelphia who
studies exercise addictions and usually runs 18 miles a week, says for
most people, running multiple marathons is simply a passion, like skiing
or surfing, and not a disorder. He says runners enter addiction
territory only when they can't control their urge to race. "If running
marathons is at the top of your list of values above all else," says Dr.
Sachs, "that might be something to worry about."

Marathon trackers say fixations usually hit in middle age, when men and
women want to test their abilities before it's too late. That's also
when people tend to have more free time and disposable income. The
passion inspires odd fraternities. Have you run 100 marathons? There's a
club for that. Have you notched at least one marathon in all 50 states?
There's a club for that, too.
Taking It All in Stride
View Slideshow
<http://online.wsj.com/article/SB125849597789952679.html#>
   [[SB10001424052748704431804574541502304513482]]
<http://online.wsj.com/article/SB125849597789952679.html#> Rex C. Curry
Larry Macon, a trial lawyer from San Antonio, completed his 105th
marathon in 2008.

Bob Dolphin, who founded the 100 Marathon Club in 2001 with his
nonrunner wife, Lenore, says he ran "seven marathons in seven
consecutive weekends at age 77 in 2007." Others have been known to do 50
races in 50 weeks the year they turn 50.

More than 435,000 runners crossed the finish line at the country's 361
marathons last year, according to John Elliott, who runs the Marathon
Guide Web site, which tracks nearly all U.S. marathons and records. Most
of those were content with finishing just one race, but many were repeat
runners, estimates Mr. Elliott.

One tally of mega marathoners, compiled by Japan's 100 Marathon Club,
counts 167 runners world-wide who have logged at least 300. Thirty-three
are American.

Yes, there are the medals, and the bragging rights. Larry Macon, a
64-year-old lawyer at Akin Gump in San Antonio, Texas, says he does it
mainly for the fresh air and camaraderie. He ran 105 last year, or more
than two a week, and is about to break 600.

"The jerk percentage among marathoners is just so much lower than the
jerk percentage among lawyers," he says. This Thanksgiving he plans to
run three marathons over three days, plus another four in December.
(Obsession appears to run in the family. Mr. Macon's wife, Jane, has a
herd of 600 miniature horses.)

Born with a curved spine and diagnosed later with an enlarged heart, Mr.
DeFronzo ran his first race, the 1991 New York Marathon, when he was 56.
Not until 1994 did he run multiple races -- six that year. He did 15 the
next year, 20 the year after that, then 30 in 1997.

Mr. DeFronzo has achieved the 50-states feat six times and is 13 states
shy of his seventh circuit. Every lap around the country, he figures,
costs him $25,000 in travel costs and registration fees.

He ran past penguins in Antarctica. He had a near miss with lions in
Kenya. He did a race in Death Valley, and crossed the tundra in Canada's
Nunavut Territory. He has run in Saginaw, Mich., four times.

The walls of Mr. DeFronzo's law office in Cheshire, Conn., are hung with
race medals, mounted and framed. A billboard outside bears a
12-foot-square photo of him finishing the 1994 Philadelphia Marathon,
and the slogan: "I'll go the extra mile for you."

He can't quite pin down why he does it. "It's hard, and you don't get
anything at the end but a medal," he says. "I guess overachievers just
like to put obstacles in their way to conquer."

His physician, Dr. Stephen Harris, calls Mr. DeFronzo both "a nut job"
and "a marvel." His vitals, Mr. Harris says, are those of a much younger
man, while "his muscular and skeletal system is spectacular. ".

Even the cracked vertebrae last December and the pulled hamstring only
slowed Mr. DeFranzo a bit. His recent trip to North Carolina's Outer
Banks marked his 15th marathon of the year. Last year, he ran a total of
35.

He arrived at Kitty Hawk a day early, as usual, to survey the route. He
loaded his plate with rigatoni at the traditional pasta dinner the night
before, but shunned the sauce because it could upset his stomach. "Too
risky," he said. He woke before dawn to stretch in his motel room,
swallowed an aspirin and stuffed a spare shoelace in his pocket.

Jostled by runners near the starting line, he chugged a Red Bull, a
caffeine-loaded drink whose motto is, "Gives You Wings." He crammed two
more cans in his back pocket and carried a fourth in a plastic bag. "My
aim is to run this in finish time -- whatever time it takes to finish,"
he said. "I'm not looking for any hour or minute."

He started strong, stride for stride with the horde, but soon slowed to
his own pace. His shirt listed his 50-state accomplishments in bold on
the back. A few first-timers jogged past him in awe. "You're an
inspiration, " one woman said. A guy in a red pick-up stuck his head out
the window and yelled, "Way to go, buddy!"

"I don't need crowd support," he said, craning up a slope at the 11th
mile. A mile later he chugged his second Red Bull. He navigated much of
the course at a pace somewhere between a shuffle and a trot. A second
wind, fueled in part by his last two Red Bulls, helped him overtake
stragglers in the final miles. He finished 16 seconds shy of seven
hours, and 14 runners ahead of last place. The winner beat him by four
hours, 27 minutes.

"I'm glad that's over with," he said, before a woman draped him with
another finisher's medal. "It wasn't that hard, but still, it's 26
miles."

Write to Neil King Jr. at neil.king@wsj. com




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http://www.courier-journal.com/article/20091028/ZONE04/910280339/1/ZONE01/Grandf\
ather+goes+more+than+the+distance+for+autism+run+fundraisercourier-journal.com

October 28, 2009

Grandfather goes more than the distance for autism run fundraiser

By Derek Poore
dpoore@...

At Fourth Street Live, Jim Ball was looking for a beer.

But it was 9 a.m. and service hadn't started. Ball changed his mind anyway.

“It sounds like a good idea, but beer is the last thing I need right now,”
he said with a laugh.

In reality, recovery fluids and 20 hours of sleep were ahead for Ball, a
grandfather of two autistic children who wanted to do something a little
different than write a check to a cause.

Just 25 hours earlier on Oct. 16, Ball, of St. Matthews, began a run that took
him 101 miles in and around Seneca Park. He went through several pairs of shoes,
countless bottles of energy drink and raised $2,300 for autism treatment.

The challenge was handed down by Ball himself. About two months before the race,
Ball was approached by the Families for Effective Autism Treatment to sponsor
its Outrunning Autism 5K.

“Being rather prone to speaking before thinking,” Ball suggested that he
could run 24 hours leading up to the race. That way he would promote the race
and solicit donations in the process. “Never mind I hadn't done a significant
run in a couple years. And never mind I don't have time to train.”

Preparing for a 100-mile race in seven weeks is not ideal, said Ball, who
co-owns The Trail Store in Westport Village Shopping Center and is a practicing
attorney.

Ball was at Seneca Park the morning of the race before the sun was up. He and
Karen Tuell, the other co-owner of The Trail Store, set up tents, food, tables,
a fire pit and fresh coffee.

Less than 10 minutes before 8 a.m. on Oct. 16, Ball received an e-mail on his
phone from his son. He typed back: “So far so good, but haven't started
running yet.”

Ball and pals, including radio personality Terry Meiners, started the
ultra-marathon at 8. Throughout the day, friends minded the tent and took
donations while Ball ran the course, with a rotating group of dedicated friends
who ran with him for one-, two- and four-hour stretches.

All Ball carried was a bottle full of an energy drink packed with electrolytes.

“The benefit of a set schedule is it keeps me from going too fast when I'm
fresh early, and keeps me going later when I'm not so fresh,” Ball said.
“I'll stick to that schedule until dark anyway — not many people will come
out at night.”

They did come out at night, though. With the exception of a few laps, Ball had
running partners through the next morning.

Off the trail, Tuell stayed for the entire 24-hours, which was nothing new
because she had crewed for Ball during past ultra-marathons. Tuell made Ball
endless bowls of chicken noodle soup and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

“I just stop by and chow down every once and awhile,” Ball said.

Twelve hours into the run, Ball's energy was starting to wane. But more running
partners and a change of gear — he donned a head lamp to see and another pair
of shoes — caused his energy level to rise.

“I'm not feeling great, but I'm not feeling bad,” Ball said as he walked one
of his laps to let families and children join him. “There's just no way to get
ready for it in seven weeks.”

Ball avoided sitting during breaks. His legs would stiffen up if he let himself
rest. “The old timers have a saying, ‘Beware the chair.' It just feels too
damned good,” he said.

During the night, much of Seneca Park was empty, except for Ball's entourage.
The temperature dipped into the 40s but the fire pit was like a glowing amber
oasis in the chilly deserted night.

Sharon Croutcher, who runs Maps Unlimited in Ball's Trail Store, warmed by the
fire.

“I'm not much into the trails, but I wanted to come out and support Jim,”
said Croutcher, of Meadowbrook Farm.

The Outrunning Autism 5K raised $20,000, said Michelle Harper, co-chair of the
race. Ball accounted for about 11.5 percent of that.

“It's really great to see someone say they're going to do something and
actually do it,” Harper said.

Ball made it to the start of the 5K, but he did not run it. He was limping a bit
at Fourth Street Live, but climbed up on the stage under his own power and made
a speech to start the race.

His shoes were caked in mud. The crowd cheered and whooped.

Afterward he posed for pictures with families.

Ball took a moment to lean against plant fixture and sip coffee. He bumped fists
with Harper, who spent much of Friday and Friday night at Seneca running with
Ball and cheering him on.

“Mentally, I'm pretty with it, I guess,” Ball said, adding with a laugh,
“I don't think I should be the face of their organization right now,
though.”

Soon Ball took extra time gingerly placing his sore legs into the passenger seat
of a car to head home. He didn't have to run another step.

COVER PHOTO: Jim Ball, wearing a head lamp, runs during the evening of Oct. 16
at Seneca Park.

Reporter Derek Poore can be reached at (502) 582-4286.
 


























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