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100th Boston Marathon with The Hamills

by Alf Field

It all started to go wrong in August last year. I received a fax from Alex Hamill while I was working on a project in London. Did I wish to join a group going to the 100th running of the Boston Marathon in April 1996? As a special concession, one could buy an entry rather than qualifying by running some incredible time, as is the normal case in Boston. Spaces were filling up fast. I would have to hurry if I wanted to go.

Of course I said "Yes", never realising the horrific adventure that this was going to give rise to.

This is how I came to be sitting on a deck chair on a ferry to an island resort off the coast of California called La Costa Plenty. Alex had suggested we spend a couple of days playing golf there to help get rid of the jet lag.

In the deck chair next to me was a serious faced man with piercing dark eyes. The strange thing about him was that despite the balmy weather he had a blanket over his knees. In the idle chatter of such moments, I confessed that I was headed to Boston to run the Marathon. Strange coincidence, he was also going to run Boston, but he had been invited.

Just then Brenda Hamill arrived and perched on the edge of Serious Face's chair. SF (as I will call Serious Face hereafter) seemed to take exception to this. In a flash the blanket was over Brenda's head and SF was pummelling her with his fists.

"Let her go, you moron," I yelled at him, but SF continued hitting Brenda, a mad gleam in his eyes.

I swung a round arm punch at him, but my fist just glanced off SF's chin. It seemed to bring him back to his senses and as he looked up, Brenda escaped, with me in hot pursuit.

"You punched him?" Alex asked incredulously when Brenda and I had tracked him down and told him the story. "Don't you realise that's assault. He will sue the pants off you. You will be poorer than a Lloyd's Name!" Alex strongly advised that I go and apologise to SF and try to smooth things over.

So I went in search of SF and found him at the bar. "Sorry about that, mate," I muttered apologetically. "Can we shake hands and forget about it?" I stuck out my hand.

SF said nothing, but when he took my hand, his hand was cold, hard and squeaked. I looked down. It was a prosthesis! I looked at his left arm. Another prosthesis! Two artificial arms!

"What happened to your arms?" I gasped.

"Eaten by a shark," he replied laconically, "but I lost my legs in a car accident." I looked down. Two artificial legs! I felt faint. A man with no legs and no arms!

"Sorry, but I can't forget about it" said SF. "it's like winning the lottery for me, your slugging me like that. I've already phoned my lawyer and the police. They will be out on the next ferry. You sure are in the deep dirty. Assaulting a man with no arms and no legs is going to cost you plenty."

I staggered off to find Alex and Brenda. By this time we had arrived at the island of La Costa Plenty and I found them having a drink with Bryce Courtenay, who had arrived the day before. I poured out the details of the nightmare that I found myself in.

"I know this guy," exclaimed Alex. "The Boston Athletic Association are paying him half a mill to run the Marathon on his prostheses. And an advertising agency is paying him another half a mill for a new client. Fortune 500 company. Great campaign.. Unlimited budget. They've got his picture on billboards all over the country."

I felt even sicker.

"Never mind," said Bryce. "You'll be famous. You'll be able to write a book about it." Bryce always looks on the bright side of things. "Oh Bryce," I sobbed, "I wish I hadn't punched him."

"Hindsight!" snapped Bryce. "Just hindsight. Can't look back. Always got to look forward. Think positively."

Bryce was right. I had to look forward, I had to get out of La Costa Plenty before the law and lawyers arrived.

"Charter me a helicopter, please." I pressed a $100 bill into the Concierge's willingly receptive hand. "Certainly, Sir. It will be here in 45 minutes." I had barely enough time to collect my bags and say farewell to Alex, Brenda and Bryce.

"Where to?" asked the helicopter pilot, a pleasant smile on his face. I said the first word that came into my mind: "Boston." I guess that I still wanted to run the Marathon. The pleasant smile disappeared from his face. I could see that this was going to costa plenty more. I was right.

Helicopter is not the ideal way to cross the USA, but it kept me ahead of SF, his lawyers and the police.

The first thing I saw on the taxi ride from Boston airport was the billboard! There was a picture of SF on it, sans his prostheses. No arms. No legs. Just a torso. The copy read "I'm going to run the Marathon, too" and then some blurb about the company sponsoring the ad also never giving up.

I had told the taxi driver to go directly to the Marathon registration centre. I figured that it might be dangerous to register as myself. I needed a new identity. As I entered the hall I picked up the list of competitors and ran my finger down it. There it was. "Moses Tanui - Kenya." That's it, I thought. I'll become a black man. Great disguise.

Having been a boy scout, I'm prepared for every emergency. I ducked into a loo and pulled out my Kiwi black boot polish. Five minutes later I emerged blacker than the best Kikuyu. I gave thanks for not having bright blue eyes and can vouch for the fact that Kiwi does wonders for grey hair.

Getting Moses Tanui's number took a bit of persuading as I had neither registration card nor passport in that name. What clinched it was a bold: "Surely you recognise me. I am one of the élite, invited runners." I even got admission to the preferred start area!

As I left, I gave my registration card to another official and asked her to give that number to anyone who claimed to be Moses Tanui. That is how I came to run the Boston Marathon as Moses Tanui and how Moses Tanui came to run as Alf Field.

I met up with Alex, Brenda, Bryce and some of the other Sydney runners - Geoff Taylor, Danny Culbert, Geoff Doubell and Brian, (whose surname I have forgotten) in a pleasant, grassy clearing in the woods near the start. All my exposed skin was covered in black shoe polish, but I had to wear my Sydney Striders' gear. Neither love nor money could get me a Kenyan outfit.

I delayed my entrance to the start to the last possible moment and only pulled off the sweater I was wearing to cover Moses' number when we were well under way.

These guys started quicker than the 6.30 group (now the 7.30 group) and after 2 miles I found that I was dropping off the leading pack. Just then two policemen burst onto the track and aimed straight for me, yelling: "Now we've got you. We'll teach you not to bash up guys with no legs and no arms!"

Adrenalin spurted and I surged away from the policemen, managing to regain the leading pack. I figured that if I could stay in the middle of the pack, that the policemen would not be able to get to me. I noticed a police helicopter overhead. It helped to keep the thighs pumping.

I was running faster than I had ever run before. It's amazing what fear can push one to do. I found that drafting off these quicker runners helped to suck me along in their vacuum. What a wonderful feeling it was.

Suddenly the pack diminished to five and I began to feel naked and exposed, but the crowd was so thick that it was impossible for the police or anyone else to get in to apprehend me.

A sudden sharp right hand bend and there were only three of us left. Another sharp bend, to the left this time, and the finish was in sight. I realised that this was probably the only time I would ever have a chance of winning the Boston Marathon. I put my head down and went for it.

The crowd was yelling excitedly: "Moses. Moses! MOSES!!" The two runners in front of me parted like the Red Sea and, in a flash, I was through the gap and breaking the tape. I heard the announcer shouting over the PA: "Moses Tanui wins it in 2.09.16."

I can remember thinking: "The boys at home aren't going to believe this. A 49 minute PB! That should be good enough to win the Improver's prize in the under 3 hour category at the Striders' Awards this year." My troubles weren't over yet. Men with TV cameras on their shoulders, reporters, policemen and officials were converging on me. I just kept running, yelling over my shoulder "Got to get to the loo," as I grabbed a space blanket from a pile on the sidewalk.

I sprinted towards the multi rows of Portaloos which awaited the 40,000 runners behind me. I could hear the people chasing me yelling: "Stop! Stop, you idiot!"

I ducked into the third row of portaloos and slipped into a cubicle before the following pack were anywhere near. I ripped off my Sydney Striders singlet and used it to wipe off the black boot polish. I could hear portaloo doors being opened and slammed shut as the hunters looked for me.

I threw my lovely coolmax singlet, now a grubby black instead of its usual brilliant emerald green, into the loo, wrapped the space blanket around me and stepped outside.

"Hey, you" someone yelled at me. "Did you see a black man in a Sydney Striders outfit run past here?" "Sure," I said, "He went that way."

The crowd of pursuers surged off in the direction of my pointing finger while I went to sit under the letter "A" (for Australia) in the meeting area to await the arrival of our group.

Geoff Taylor, looking spruce and ever comfortable, without a hair out of place, arrived in 3.20; Brenda Hamill in 3.55; Alex Hamill, Danny Culbert and Brian in 4.15, while Bryce Courtenay managed to arrive smiling despite the pain in his foot, in 4.50. SF, I believe, finished in 6.12.

The verdict: One of the greatest marathons we have ever participated in.

(Author's Note: Most of the above is true. PS: Moses Tanui had a most enjoyable, quiet run, finishing in 3.37.35, recording a negative split).