Only One Mile to Go and You're Looking Good

By Bob Bacon, 1978






Sunday morning . . . 7:00 a.m. . . . no breakfast today except for a glass of fruit juice.

A half hour away in Staten Island, runners are gathering in great numbers. The first of many buses left Manhattan at 5:30 a.m. bound for the Verrazano-Narrows (Saturday Night Fever) Bridge. There are over twelve thousand people running in this New York City Marathon ranging from eight years of age to women and mostly men aged from early twenties to forty, and many over forty. World class and rookies. By noticing all the different names on the runners' shirts, I get the indication that there are many track clubs represented. One runner, dressed as Superman (cape and all) announces "Due to lack of interest, this race has been called off!"

In comparison, the Boston Marathon is the most prestigious, but New York is the largest foot race ever held. Forty countries and all fifty states are represented here.



Time: 10:00 a.m. . . . An Army band leads us to the starting line on the bridge. Marathon experienced males go to the top level, right side, while women and rookie males start on the left side. It's a beautiful sunshiny day . . . too beautiful for a marathoner. Fifty degrees and drizzle would be perfect racing weather. At 10:15 it's already 70 degrees. Most of us have trained in 50-60 degree weather while some people ran 30 miles per week and others 150 miles per week. Everyone seems pretty relaxed considering what is about to happen. National and local television cameras are everywhere. I've counted 13 helicopters in the air, while all around me it's like Old Home Week; everyone shaking hands and wishing each other well. Mel (one of the joggers) and I become instant friends. He's been doing about the same mileage per week and we have a lot in common. We've decided to run together.

"BANG" . . . the cannon goes off . . . cheers go up and 24,000 feet are on their way to Central Park . . . 26 miles and 385 yards away. There are now eight lanes full of runners. "What a view from this bridge."

First of the five boroughs is Brooklyn, Mel's hometown. He's lived here for 31 years, outside of a tour in Vietnam. We are off the bridge and onto a five-mile stretch on Fourth Avenue. Someone shouts, "Let's hear it for Brooklyn," and a roar goes up. There is a lot of nervous chatter the first few miles as people are setting in. It's a long race to start off too quickly. We have a good pace going as my partner has a watch and we figure we are doing eight-minute miles. Not a bad pace for us, but the leaders would probably fall asleep! The Brooklyn people are out today six or seven deep all along Fourth Avenue. The women runners, of which there are around 1300 this race, up 300% from last year, are getting most of the attention.

THE THREE MILE MARK . . . We'd better grab a cup of water at this first water station. The running magazines say drink before you feel you need it.

FOUR MILES OUT . . . I'm feeling fine and really enjoying the scenery around us. The neighborhood kids are touching us as we go by and asking up to "Give them five" as if we were someone important.

SIX MILES . . . Another oasis. I'm glad I practiced running and drinking. A spectator yells, "Only twenty more miles to go!" I notice the talking has died down and full attention is now being paid to the race. I see Rocco's Youth Center. Last year they had stereo speakers hanging out of the windows, playing "Rocky's Theme."

Still in Brooklyn, Gowanus Park section. It's here that George Washington's first engagement of the revolution was fought. It's hard to believe, to see it now.

"We're crossing Flatbush Avenue." Mel sounds like a tour guide. "There's the 1908 Brooklyn Academy of Music. Enrico Caruso sang here."

WILLIAMSBURG . . . ABOUT TEN MILES INTO THE RACE. Now I see my family strategically stationed. All I need is a little Vaseline for my foot as I feel a blister coming. Mel and I still feel good but it's getting hot. We discuss throwing our shirts away but decide if soaked down at the next water station, they will keep us cool.

A SPECTATOR SHOUTS: "BILL ROGERS HAS JUST CROSSED THE FINISH LINE" . . . and here we are, halfway.

All along the route, spectators are terrific, passing out water, ice cubes, fruit and encouragement. It's fun reading the runners' t-shirts. FATHER OF EIGHT . . . DEAF PERSON . . . RUN ALL DAY, DANCE ALL NIGHT . . . IF YOU'RE BEHIND ME, YOU'RE SLOW.

THIRTEEN MILES . . . Up ahead I can see a group of Hasidic Jews dressed in fur hats and black clothes. This is a male-dominated community right out of the 18th century. Now the water stations are more eagerly awaited, at which point, instead of one cup for the mouth, it's also one poured over the head.

I've heard of the infamous "WALL," when a runner runs out of energy, usually about 20 miles into the race. Mel says, "If he's going too slow, for me to take the pace." (Little does he know that I'm starting to fade.)

TWO MILES LATER . . .I tell Mel to go ahead and don't wait for me because I'm fading fast.

FIFTEEN MILES OUT . . . It is HOT. I take my shirt off and tie it around my neck. A mile later I'll throw it into a dumpster along the route. Some people are starting to pass me now. Luckily, the Queensboro Bridge is at the end of the 16 miles. The bridge is carpeted for us with blue carpet, about four feet wide. Someone next to me says the Queensboro Bridge is New York's answer to Boston's Heartbreak Hill. I agree with him!

My family and I were to rendezvous here, but in the pack of 12,000 runners, I miss them. Maybe they didn't recognize me. I no longer have my shirt on and my running number (6619) is pinned to my shorts. I can feel my left foot wearing badly and I've missed my 16-mile sock and shoe change.

For the first time I think about quitting, but quickly dispel it. I've had a few training runs of 20 miles plus 10 miles a day for three months, but the heat is taking its toll. Runners are starting to drop out now. I've trained for one year for this race, in snow and rain, and I can't quit now.

EAST HARLEM AND FIRST AVENUE . . .AS FAR AS YOU CAN SEE AHEAD, THERE ARE RUNNERS. The fire hydrants are open and if you want, you can cool off, but if you get your feet wet, you'll develop blisters al the sooner.

More and more runners dropping out, while spectators are yelling, "You're looking good," even if you're not.

"KEEP GOING BABY" . . . "WELCOME TO HARLEM" . . . There's no discrimination here. The people are clapping and yelling for everyone. It seems as though First Avenue will never end.

NINETEEN MILES . . . "LEGS, DON'T FAIL ME NOW . . . My family is to meet me at the 20-mile marker so I'll take a quick shower in the next hydrant. My feet are soaked now but dry shoes await me ahead.

TWENTY-ONE MILES . . . "MISSED THEM AGAIN." I will learn later that they did not see me at Queensboro and waited an extra hour, leaving no time to get to the 20-mile marker. Great! Now I have a "side stitch" (which is a pain in the side from not breathing properly). I try to walk it off but it doesn't work. However, two miles later it will disappear.

TWENTY-THREE MILES AND CENTRAL PARK . . . It hurts to pick my legs up. The race resembles a full-scale retreat. More often now you come upon a body sprawled in the street. The 600 police stationed at the 300 intersections have their work cut out for them today. Ambulance sirens are wailing all over the area. I hope my wife isn't worried.

SHOUTS: "YOU'RE IN THE PARK. NOW YOU'VE GOT IT MADE" . . . "ONLY THREE MORE MILES" . . . "THIS IS THE LAST HILL."

A hill, no matter how small, when met at 23 miles, is a problem. The course map lists it as "a gentle rolling hill." . . . Many people including myself walk to the crest and heading downhill, try to pick up the pace once more. The good runners are probably showered and on their way home by now. I only hope the finish line is still there when I arrive.

"ONLY TWO MORE MILES" . . . "YOU'VE GOT IT MADE" . . . Now, for the first time, you know you have. Then, after what seems like a mile, you come upon the 24th mile marker. Seems the "24th mile marker" that someone said you just finished was only the 23rd. Very disappointing. There are runners all over, some limping and others sitting or lying next to the road.

FINALLY . . . YOU SEE THE FINISH LINE . . .AND, IT'S ALL DOWNHILL . . . People are lining the last mile, 10-15 thick. Somehow, I manage a burst of speed and sprint to the finish. Above the finish line there is a digital clock that records your time. For me, it's 4 hours and 39 minutes. Terrible by marathon standards.

We are shuffled through three separate finish lines where our time is recorded. I wonder how Mel made out as his stress fracture was bothering him at thirteen miles.

At the end of the lane we are wrapped in a blanket resembling aluminum foil to keep us warm. An official looks me square in the eye and asks me if I feel alright. Each finisher is given a medal and a cold drink. Everyone who completes the marathon is a winner today.

At this point we are left alone to find our relatives and friends and a piece of green grass to lie on. Many are led to hospital cots. It's 80 degrees and the heat has taken its toll.

3:00 PM . . . THERE ARE STILL THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE HERE. My pre-arranged meeting place with my family is so crowded you can't get near it. Around me, people are embracing and congratulating each other. My legs are surging with pain but my mind is doing somersaults.

My brother-in-law finds me first. They saw me cross the finish line but couldn't get close enough to be heard over the crowd. Soon I'm surrounded by my family and friends and my two daughters hug me. They are glad to see me.



It has been a long day. The tears running down my wife's smiling face tell me she is relieved to see I'm okay. After all, it has been 3 hours since she saw me in Brooklyn at the 10-mile point.

THE REALIZATION IS SETTING IN . . . "I DID IT, I COMPLETED MY FIRST MARATHON." Now is the time to relax and reflect on today's happenings. We break open a bottle of champagne and stretch out in a shady spot in some green grass to rest.





As we leave Central Park an hour later, runners are still coming down Fourth Avenue and we yell encouragement to them: "ONLY ONE MILE TO GO AND YOU'RE LOOKING GOOD!"

“The act of driving your body, very occasionally, close to its limit of endurance, is for some reason one of life’s major satisfactions. And reflecting afterwards is one of life’s most luxurious rewards.”
-Anonymous

In this picture, you can see the numbers 1495.3. I don’t remember for sure, but that’s probably the number of miles I trained to run this first marathon. #6619, beardless, is me at 10 miles.































Post date:
100,000 will apply this year
38,000 finished in 2007

Bob Bacon ended up running 54,000 lifetime miles, with races four times the marathon distance and one solo 200 mile run across Massachusetts. When asked why he did the solo run, Bacon referred to the movie "The Magnificent Seven." When Steve McQueen was asked why he was about to do a crazy thing he replied, "I knew a cowboy from El Paso who took off all his clothes and jumped into a pile of cactus. When asked why he did it the cowboy's reply was, IT SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME."


Family legend has it that when we went to dinner after the marathon, Marnie fell asleep in her spaghetti. We've just discovered the photographic evidence!

Growing Up in Adams

Jesus Christ was big at my Mother and Father’s house. My brother Mike and I had a big cross on the wall in our room. Mike and I slept in the same bed in an unheated, small bedroom. Mom left the one window that faced north open for fresh air. In the winter, snow would drift in and stay on the window sill and not melt. To this day I still prefer 50 pounds of blankets to a heating pad or electric blanket. When I first got my driver’s license they put down “ruddy complexion.” I wonder why?

We lived on Howland Avenue. It is also Route 8. “Root,” we said, not “route.” Maybe that is why 8 is my favorite number.





Tractor trailers would use this route to get to New York City, and to this day I can fall asleep in minutes to the whine of large rubber tires and noisy smokestacks, red at the top, pumping out all that good carbon pollution.

“Well the I.C.C. is a-checkin’ on down the line.
I'm a little overweight and my log book’s way behind.”

That was from an album entitled “Six Days on The Road.”

Mom was a waitress at a truck stop called Eileen's and knew all the truckers. Mom also was the local bookie and she sold Victor Volpe's Italian Grappa from our little house. The stairs to the second floor were built special to hide the contraband. Saturday and Sunday were busy days at the Bacons’. No one would leave on Sunday morning without a Coffee Royal, which was a cup of hot coffee with a shot of grappa in it.

I sold cigarettes to the Adams people – well, Dad did all the selling from Burke’s Inn. At the Naval Base were I was stationed, you could buy a carton then for $2.00 and sell them for $6.00. Hey that is only a 3% markup! Thursday was dividend day, and if a sailor went to the store on the base for me and got two cartons I would give him $1. Hey! You only got $4.00 for standing someone’s midwatch from 12 to 4 a.m. A beer at the enlisted men’s club cost a dime. One thin dime.

On weekends I would drive or hitchhike, always in uniform to ensure getting a ride. I would have one or two sea bags full of Marlboros , Camels and Mom's Pall Malls. People would always ask where I was coming from and I would always tell them of some exotic port or place so as to not disappoint them. The guy could go home and tell his wife, "Hey Honey I gave a sailor who just spent a year in American Samoa a ride." I lied to them but I would never lie to you, Mi Amor. Sandy said, "I wonder where you got that idea from.”



I was in a gang called The Zylonite Smashers. Zylonite was a plastic product that was manufactured in this Italian section of Adams. I already had a membership tattoo and was heading for trouble. So when I turned 13, Mom got me a job with Rene Comeau Trucking. My very first job was walking around a visiting carnival or circus with a large stuffed animal that I pretended I had won. For that I got $5 cold cash for only one night’s work. Rene was a tall, good-looking man. He had snow-white hair and always had a good word for everyone. He always drove the newest Cadillac and his clothes were always clean and he didn't have dirt under his fingernails. His tractor trailers would haul 100-pound bags of lime to New York City. For $15 dollars cash money, I would ride shotgun for the 6 to 7 hour ride to the piers in New York.

The first time I went down, the driver said, “Sit back and relax," and I said, "I am okay leaning forward like this." His reply was, " You are in the way. I can't see behind us in the mirror." Whoops!

The first trip was unbelievable. We saw a cop on a horse get run over at a Brooklyn dock, and some girl came up to my window and asked me "If I would like to change my luck?" Change my luck? I was skipping school 2 to 3 times a week and clearing up to $45. Things were good. Gasoline was 35 cents then and a couple of years later, still driving to New York, I could tool around in my car forever on that much money.

My dark blue 1953 Studebaker, way ahead of the style of the time:


The actual work only took about an hour, but the job took 15 hours round trip. We would handcart the 100-pound bags to the end of the box and restack the bags on pallets, then the tow motor would take them away to some ship’s hold. One day the black tow motor guy said, "What you boys got in them bags, ceeement?”

Looking back, Mom and Dad held very loose reins on Mike and I. We didn't have a dog, but Coco who lived at the farm behind us would come over every single day and stay with us for the whole day. We never fed him and at night he would go back home. He was very territorial and protective of my brother and I.

In the summer, Mom and Dad would let us hike up the mountain past Georgia Marble Company toward Mt. Greylock, past split rock and the spring. Oh, the water in Adams is all spring water and it tastes like a beverage. That might be reason enough to live there year-round. We would pitch a pup tent, start a fire with potatoes dug down underneath the coals, and in the morning have baked potatoes for breakfast. How did we know how to do that? Coco would bark some time during the night, keeping us safe from whatever was out there in the pitch black. Can you imagine letting your 10 year old do that today?

Mount Greylock from our house. That's the limestone quarry in the foreground.












Some other views of Greylock:



















Fall is beautiful here.


One day I hitchhiked upstreet to Adams, went to Swartz Sporting Goods Store and bought a rifle, and hitchhiked back home with it. Adams is big with hunting and fishing and no one ever questioned me on it. Not the police, not Mom, not my grandmother Hattie, not the person I got the ride with.

Dad built an L-shaped porch with a lot of screens and windows and I would sit out there at night in the summer and read “Two Years Before The Mast” and “Last of The Mohicans” and wonder what life was like outside of the valley. I think I was the only one in my family who read books. Well, Mom loved the Record American from Boston. It came in the same size as today's Herald. That is strange, now that I think of it, because all our news came from Albany. Even today people say to me, " You’re not from here, are you?" No, in Adams we had the upper New York State accent. Hard R's for sure Aye! We didn't hate the Red Sox, we simply loved the Yankees. Who wouldn't back then, with guys like Pee Wee Reese, Yogi Berra, Whitey Ford and Mickey Mantle?

Jack Paar gave me my first incite to the outside world. Married, stuck in Adams, limestone employees would take me aside and say, "Get out of this valley; don't get stuck here." Then Johnny Carson, Lawrence Welk and The Ed Sullivan show, Ozzie and Harriet, Lucy and Desi would make me think, "Maybe life is better outside of this valley.”

Gramma Hattie Bacon (she ruled the roost as people used to say) and my sweet Grandfather Frank lived next door in the big house. Some relative always lived upstairs on the second floor. On Friday nights we would watch The Gillette Cavalcade of Sports -- boxing. Archie Moore and Rocky Graciano and Carmen Basilio and Kid Gavilan and Jersey Joe Walcott. We would go to Gramma’s to watch Ed Sullivan on Sunday night at 8. She always had M & M's. At nine o’clock we would go home and go to bed. I hope families still get together to do that sort of thing.

Nora Bacon, Hattie Bacon, and Francis "Joe" Bacon at my parents' 25th Anniversary party.


Grampa would always say, "You boys are more trouble than all my money." He didn't have any. He also said, "If you keep acting like that I will put a tin ear on you." What does that mean? I know the farmers would put tin ears on their cows.

Adams had many dairy farms back then. Milk in bottles was delivered by Reno Delmolino. Wow! What a beautiful name. It rings. Reno Delmolino. He used to say, "Drink Village Dairy Milk and you will ride the range all night." Mr. Kissel would come to our house on Saturday mornings to sell boys’ clothes out of his salesman’s suitcase. Mom (Nora Lemanski) always bought us nice shirts. “Here comes Mr. Kissel, faster than a whistle,” we would all say. Simple times, good times.

Mom had a skablunka. In Polish that meant a kitty or a slush fund. It was cash always set aside, hidden, to be used in an emergency. Mom kept it full with the grappa money. In the movie “I Remember Mama,” the Norwegian mother had a kind of skablunka, only it never had much money in it -- but it gave the rest of the family a feeling of security. We have a skablunka in our house but I am not going to say where it is. Not that I don't trust you.

“Big Shot” is a phrase used in mill town Adams, Massachusetts. Dad never wore a tie at supper as Ozzie Nelson did, and if you wore one at Chicks Bar and Grill you were likely to get your lights punched out. Mr. Big Shot. I took friends to Adams and we went to Burke’s Inn. It was the local Zylonite bar. It didn't matter how old you were, you could drink at Burke’s Inn. My Father said, "Work like a man, drink like a man." Dad and Mike took it to heart. Dad should have added, "Die like a man." Mike only made it to 36. You would have liked him. Everyone did.

Here's Mike with his truck:


From Mom's house you could see Burke’s side door, through the Moncheccis’, the Lawsons’ and the Bucceris’ back yards. On a visit from Boston, everyone was happy I was at Burke’s because I had escaped the valley and was a sort of celebrity that night. If you lived somewhere else, Adams people assumed you were doing well. One of my Dad’s friends offered to buy one of my city friends a drink, and my city friend said, "I would rather have the money." So the hayseed from Adams gave the city slicker the money without even thinking about it. My city friend chased him around the rest of the night trying to even things out. So who was the hayseed?

You knew when it was deer season. When Mike and I looked out our window looking north there were deer hanging off the Lawsons’ clothes poles. If you bagged one, you would tie it to the front of your car and parade it through town -- mostly through the center of town at Park Street. The only other section was the Polish section on Summer Street and the only thing they killed was a shot of rye followed with a beer chaser.

Hey, don't get me wrong. Adams was a terrific place to grow up. After school in the winter, which lasted from November to May, we would cut through Gamache's pastures and pull our sleds and jumpers up to the original quarry. At best you could only get in two slides down the abandoned, long, steep, curvy, limestone, snow-covered road of the old Georgia Marble Company, before it got dark. We always came back in the dark. We all just met after school for sliding and it was never planned. The Cichetti, Bongiolatti, Malione, Tomasini, Volpi, Dellagalpha, Sondrini, Smachetti and Bianchi kids. All of their grandparents came from north of Pisa and Lucca to work the limestone quarries here.

My younger brother Mike and me, ready for sledding.


New England Lime Company just south of there became really big and was eventually bought out by Pfizer. You may have heard of it -- the largest pharmaceutical company in the world. Maybe not. Dad worked there as well as Mike and my Great Grandfather. When I was a kid and working summers there, they said there was 50 years more drilling and blasting to do to get to all the limestone. That was in 1960 and they are still drilling and blasting today in 2008. The ocean was here and deposited all this calcium.That is when I started to believe in the evolution thing.

Mom died, Mike died, Dad died. In that order.

Sandy and I had a gathering here in Marshfield years later. We had Ms. Kitt over. Ms. Kitt was a psychic. There were three couples over that night. I was the first one to see her. She knew nothing about any us. We had to go and pick her up. She was elderly and could not see well. She blurted out to me, "He had all the blacksmith tools but he wasn't a blacksmith. Who am I talking about?'”

I answered, "My Father."

She said, “There is a cross in this house and it is hidden away. Where is it, and why is it hidden away?"

I replied, "My wife did not want the image of a man nailed to a wooden cross out so our young daughters could see it."

She asked again, “Where is it? Your Father wants it out."

I said, "It is in my walk-in closet."

She said, "Your Father wants it out."

It is the same cross that hung in me and my brother’s room. And yes, it is out now. I still do what my Father wants me to do.