By Greg Meyer, 1983 Boston Marathon champ (2:09:00), last American to win Boston

My interest in running in and trying to win the Boston Marathon probably started at the old Eliot Lounge, home to Boston's noted bartender and marathon host, Tommy Leonard. After I moved to Boston in the fall of 1979, I quickly learned that Boston-area runners only talked about one thing: "the marathon." I was hanging out at the Eliot one night when Tommy started telling me that some day I might be as good a marathoner as John Doe (I don't want to offend him by using his real name). John Doe had run a sub-2:15 in the marathon, but I remember thinking that I was a better runner than he.

My motivation increased after the 1981 Boston. That was the year that Seko, Virgin and Rodgers nailed me in the hills after I have been leading for a while. I ended up dragging to the finish line in 11th place in 2:13:07. But I remembered the feeling of leading and the frustration of not being strong enough to run with the leaders through the hills. And I learned. For the next two years, I did 90% of all my long runs on the course. I wanted to know the hills, and to become so comfortable on them that they became a tactical advantage for me.

By 1983, I was ready, and Marathon day was beautiful—overcast, with temps in the upper 40s and a slight wind off our shoulders. I had been running very well heading into Boston, and had been picked the favorite by many journalists and marathon experts. I think this played to my advantage, because one of my competitors, Benji Durden, wasn't happy about it. He and a few other "marathoners" seemed to resent the fact that a recently reformed college track runner would be picked ahead of them, with all their years of high-mileage training and marathon experience. Several people told me that Benji and several of the other veteran marathoners couldn't wait to put a little hurt on me over the 26.2 mile distance.

The race, like most marathons, was uneventful for the first few miles. Just a big pack, with all the suspects in attendance ... including Billy, who I still saw as the guy to beat. Mostly, we were talking about a guy up ahead of us, Abraha Aregha, who was running with head phones. When he dropped out, we figured he must have gotten to the end of his only tape. No one had a hundred hours of iPod tunes in those days.

We had our first bit of real excitement at about six miles. Up ahead we all saw a big German Shepherd on one side of the street and a Doberman directly across the street on the other side. Somehow the Doberman broke free, charging across the road about 20 meters ahead of us. In my mind's eye, I can still see the person holding the German Shepherd's leash. He just dropped it; he wanted the two dogs to have a fair fight. Our entire pack moved to the far right of the road as the two dogs converged on the left side. We were too intent on racing each other to pay attention to the dog-fight outcome, but it was a scary situation for a few moments. Advertisement - Continue Reading Below

I felt slightly "off" and sluggish the first 10 miles. We were running well, still in a pack with Billy, Benji and Paul Cummings. Paul had been running well and his leg speed could make anyone nervous. Just after half way, which we passed in 1:04:10, Benji started to move. He ran the gradual downhill through Wellesley and then the steep downhill into Newton Lower Falls at record pace. The field strung out, with me in second about 90 meters behind him. Once we got past the Newton Hospital, I remember starting to lock onto his back, trying to pull him in. We didn't know it at the time, but we were on world record pace now ... all to Benji's credit.

When we made the turn onto Commonwealth Ave. at the firehouse, and started up the first of the Newton hills, I was closing the gap and feeling good. This was home turf for me. I lived on these hills. Somewhere between the first hill and Heartbreak, I pulled even with Benji. He made some comment about running fast and the weather ... but it was a short conversation. Bill Squires had prepared me to throw in a few surges, just to test the field. Nothing more than moving to the front of the pack, increasing the pace slightly, then pulling back and letting someone else continue the pace. I had done this at around 10 miles, and heading into the bottom of Heartbreak Hill, I did it again. When Benji didn't respond, I made the decision to go for it. I was feeling good—under control.

I opened up a good lead over Heartbreak, and down past what Squires called the "cemetery mile". The name came from it's position beside a cemetery after Boston College, but also because it was a pounding, downhill stretch where a lot of runners died after running the hills too hard. I didn't visit the cemetery that day. Bill had told me that this was a great place to hit any competition with a surge if in fact someone was with me. But I didn't need to. I was running alone and feeling great.

In the last few miles, three important things happened. First, while Bill Squires often tells people that I would have set a record that day if I hadn't spent time waving to the crowd, this isn't true. I didn't wave to anyone, and surprisingly, I was not aware that I was still on record pace. Our only discussions leading into the race had focused on winning. That was the big goal. We never talked about running a fast time.

I remember that I hit 5:08 for the the 23rd mile (from checking my splits later), and I was looking over my shoulder, thinking someone's got to be taking a run at me ... probably Billy. He was such a sandbagger. I figured he was just sitting back there waiting for me and Benji to run our legs out. I was looking back over my shoulder, trying to see Bill or anyone else, when someone on the press truck yelled to me, "Relax, no one's coming."

It Doesn't Get Any Better Than This

You have to understand that I couldn't see very far behind me, because the crowds weren't controlled back then. They would part when the leader came through but then they swallowed the press truck and me like a snake eating a rat. When I heard that no one was coming, I did finally relax. Maybe too much. I went from a 5:08 to running the last three miles all in over 5:20 pace.

That little press-truck comment caused a slight loss of concentration that cost me 40-50 seconds in the last three miles. But I wasn't thinking about that at the time. I was just trying to relax and enjoy myself. However, I never waved!

The two other things that happened late were almost disasters. My training partner and great friend Tim Donovan came charging out of the crowd at around 24.5 miles, screaming, actually swearing at me and pointing that I had to "run that away". As he came charging out, he actually ran into me, then ran along side me for a few strides. I remember telling him, "Tim, you gotta get outta here." He was part of my water-stop crew (Boston only had one water stop at half-way back then), and his friendship and training companionship were a big reason I was there leading the race. But I didn't need his over-eager help at this point.

The last incident involved a horse as I turned onto Hereford Street. By now the motorcycle cops had formed up ahead of me (for once, it wasn't because they were nailing me with a speeding ticket) ... and as they came together, they tended to rev their engines. This startled one of the horses that a mounted policeman was riding, and just as I was turning onto Hereford, this horse rears up. I remember thinking: "Great, just over 2 tenths to go, and I get taken out by a horse!" I swerved a little to the right, got past him, and settled back in for the run down Ring Road.

That was a thrill but also very humbling, with the huge crowd and all the noise they made. Finally, a block from the finish, I heard the BAA announcer, Tom Grilk, saying, "And here comes our 1983 BAA Boston Marathon winner, the father of Nicolle Meyer ... " In running, it doesn't get any better than that!