The legend of Pre won't be forgotten

What is it about Steve Prefontaine that his legend won't die?

It is hard to believe it will be 30 years tomorrow since he died, his sports car slamming into a rock in the leafy residential neighborhoods above Eugene, Ore.

To this day, high-school runners slip their race numbers between rocks at a memorial where he perished. Flowers are scattered about. A town doesn't forget.

Neither do those who care about distance running in America, who saw in Prefontaine their maverick hero in the '70s, and still do.

"Maybe it was the James Dean thing," said Chet James, the owner of Seattle's venerable Super Jock 'n Jill running store by Green Lake.

"He had an unbelievable magnetism about him. There was nobody quite like him and maybe never will be."

His short life — he was 24 when he died — was not only the inspiration for stores like Super Jock 'n Jill, but the subject of two movies and a documentary. He remains the most popular distance runner in American history even though he never won an Olympic medal or held a world record.

"He was the reason I ran at Oregon," said Alberto Salazar, the former world-record holder in the marathon. "I got there a year after his death and he was bigger than life, still is.

"I am absolutely certain that a higher percentage of high-school runners today know about Pre than did when I ran. He is to them what Marilyn Monroe is to the baby boomers."

I know I'll never forget that morning 30 years ago, the phone call at 6 a.m. telling me that Pre had been involved in this terrible accident.

"What hospital is he in?" I asked, trying to wake up.

"You don't understand," I was told. "He's dead."

The lights of reality never shone brighter as I quickly dressed and drove to work. I was sports editor of the Eugene Register-Guard, which was then, fortunately, an afternoon paper.

I drove past where I had seen Prefontaine routinely train, past the Pad, the tavern where he had worked. I thought about meeting him for the first time in Berkeley in 1971, shortly before I took the job in Eugene. He had competed in the U.S.-USSR meet as an Oregon sophomore.

He was standing on a balcony overlooking a swimming pool at Cal. I introduced myself, and he told me, "I'm not talking to reporters anymore. I've decided I'd better keep my mouth shut around newspaper people."

I started talking about the race. I asked about his strategy, his pace. His eyes twinkled. He leaned back against the balcony and started talking about running in Europe.

"I thought you weren't going to talk to writers anymore," I said.

"You haven't asked me any stupid questions yet," he said.

None of us who knew him could deal with the reality of his death, though in the hours after it I had no choice. The night before, Pre had staged a track meet in Eugene with athletes from Finland. During the competition, Mac Wilkins, who would a year later win the gold medal at the Montreal Olympics, got off a terrific discus throw.

Wilkins brushed me off as I tried to interview him. He said all I ever wrote about was Prefontaine, that Eugene had lost its zest for other events in the shadow of Pre's accomplishments and it wasn't necessarily good for track and field.

So I wrote a column that questioned Pre's place in Eugene. Had the Register-Guard been a morning paper it would have run hours after his death. Thankfully, it never ran at all.

In the next few hours I would trade it for thoughts on a young man's short but sensational career.

From the tough port town of Coos Bay, Prefontaine was a linebacker in a track suit, somewhere between thug and matinee idol. He said he didn't run to win, but ran instead to see how fast he could go and how tough not only he was, but those who tried to keep up with him were.

For five years, he never lost to another American distance runner in races 2 miles or longer. He held 15 American records. He gained such status that he was able to successfully take on America's athletic establishment.

He was dashing, daring, head cocked to the left, one eye on the scoreboard clock, the other on those who might challenge him, but never really did.

After graduating from Oregon, he lived in a trailer and on food stamps. He thought athletes deserved better. He pushed politicians the way he pushed himself.

His greatest race may have been one he lost. Caught in a slow pace in the Olympic 5,000 meters at Munich in 1972, he courageously stormed to the lead with a mile to go. Tripped up in the final lap, he faded to fourth when he had told the world he would win.

I waited for him after the race. He was devastated.

"I'm not talking," he said as he passed by.

I quickly reminded him of his loyal legions in Eugene, the so-called Pre's People. I was as desperate for an interview as he was disappointed in his performance.

"Just how old are you?" I asked him as he walked away. "You ran to win, not just place. Man, you're 22 and fourth best in the world. How bad is that?"

Pre, like all of us, needed to be told things were OK. He needed an arm around his shoulder. Ten minutes later I couldn't shut him up, as full of bravado as he ever was.

We often speculated that Pre would have ended up running the marathon and been the toughest SOB who ever covered 26 miles.

There is a trail in Eugene named for Pre, as well as an international-class track meet. But his real legacy lives in those who understood his irrepressible spirit.

And those who will run with it.

Salazar, who works for Nike, trains young distance runners in Portland. His protégé, Galen Rupp, recently set the University of Oregon freshman record for 10,000 meters.

"The comparisons have been made," said Salazar. "Galen is something special."

He'll have to be.

Comments for Blaine Newnham can be sent to sports@seattletimes.com