Running's Everyman
A tribute to a
runner who made the sport better.
By Don Allison
December, 2003
It's no secret that long distance running attracts
achievers, those seeking to make their mark through effort, the hallmark of the
sport. It's one of the great allures and attributes of running,
that one can reach great heights, not necessarily through superior
innate talent and skill, but simply by trying harder than others. Not everyone
is blessed with God-given talent, but anyone can work hard and reap results. So
it is that thousands upon thousands of running achievements have been crafted
through the years.
It's also true that those who reach the finish first accrue
most of the accolades and attention. But this article is not about a long
distance runner who made a name by winning races. In fact, this runner did not
do anything out of the ordinary that attracted the running world's attention.
This article is however, about a long distance runner who made the sport great;
not through his amazing achievements, but rather through his effort, which was
most graphically displayed by his contributions to the sport he loved.
Like most who grew up in eastern Massachusetts
in the long shadow cast by the Boston Marathon, Walter Burgess never thought he
would actually run in the race himself. As a youngster during the late 1960s
and early 70s, he viewed those who ran Boston
as distant heroes capable of the superhuman feat of running the 26 miles from
Hopkinton to Boston. To youngsters
of that era, the Boston Marathon was synonymous with Patriot's Day, a strange
Monday holiday that was all about the race, finishing on the heels of an
early-starting Red Sox game. For a kid like Walter, the chances of his actually
running in the marathon seemed about the same as his shot at patrolling center
field for the Red Sox—remote, to say the least.
But a strange phenomenon occurred in the late 1970s. A
running boom swept the nation, opening the door for many so-called
"average" runners to actually run marathons themselves. And as the
sport evolved further, many of those runners also trod the hallowed roads from
Hopkinton to Boston.
So it was that Walter came to run the Boston Marathon
himself in April of 1988, at age 24. Like many before him, he came to love the
race and all that went with it: the training, the planning, and most of all the
camaraderie with other marathoners. That kinship led Walter to immersing
himself in the sport, primarily as a member of the Parkway Running Club in West
Roxbury, Massachusetts.
Typically, Walter threw himself into the organization, never missing a Saturday
morning workout and gladly taking on the thankless task of producing the club's
newsletter. He became the club's most ardent advocate, telling anyone who would
listen what a great group of people the club was
comprised of.
Walter's passion for the sport did not end with the
marathon or his running club. He soon broadened his horizons, traveling to
faraway running destinations such as New Zealand
and China. Even
further, he immersed himself in the world of cycling and triathlon. He used his
passion for these sports and trips as a vehicle for supporting charity.
Typically, he did not do it for his own aggrandizement, but simply to help
others, something he learned as a youth, when each January he could start collecting
extra coins in a big jar, which filled by December, would be donated to the
Boston Globe Santa Fund, a charity to support the downtrodden.
As Walter's 40th birthday approached this past October, he
decided to celebrate by attempting his most difficult athletic challenge yet:
an Ironman triathlon. He was confident in his cycling
and running abilities, and was even ready for the heat of central Florida
where the race was to be held, but the 2.4-mile swim loomed as a daunting
obstacle. "I just need to get through the swim and I will be all
right," he told anyone who would listen. He had no great aspirations of
setting records or winning his age group; he only wanted to cross the finish
line inside the 17-hour time limit.
Perhaps the finest tribute to Walter was the fact that
eight members of his running club traveled from Boston
to Florida to support his Ironman race. And after nearly 16 hours on a Saturday in
late October, Walter Burgess saw his dream come true—he became an Ironman. He felt so good that he went out and ran three
miles the next day.
As you may have intuited by now, this story does not have a
happy ending. Or perhaps it does, depending upon your perspective. Walter
Burgess passed away on November 10, suddenly, unexpectedly, and tragically, far
too soon at just 40 years of age. And so, the world of running will be a lesser
place for that loss. On the other hand, it became a better place for the years
that he was here. That is not because of Walter's achievements in running and
triathlon, although they were considerable. Rather, what will be sorely missed,
and what was greatly appreciated, was Walter's passion for the sport and his
contributions, which were more than considerable—they were extraordinary.
The world of running moves forward not though the
accomplishments of its stars, but through efforts of the "everyman,"
who does the little things that often go unnoticed but are crucial for the
betterment of the sport. The everyman is the glue that keeps a diverse and
decentralized assemblage of individuals, such as make up the unwieldy world of
running, from falling apart. The everyman is anxious to take all he or she has
received from the sport and pass it along to others, so they too can experience
the joys of the sport. Walter Burgess was the ultimate "everyman" in
running. You would never know that by reading race results or record books. You
would easily learn it however, by asking anyone who came in contact with him
during his years of running. Many of those people filled a church in Quincy,
Massachusetts recently, their outpouring of
love and tears showing just how much he meant to them. He was running's everyman, and he will be missed.
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