Riley McLincha
There I stood in a herd of more than 600 runners on Horrigan Drive on Flint's Mott Community College campus. I suddenly realized I was in way over my head.

I looked around and saw real runners with real running shoes; they were wearing singlets emblazoned with names of track clubs. I looked down at my Kmart Trax and thought, "What the hell am I doing here? I can't run 10 miles and keep up with these people."

I had never run a race before. What was I thinking? I was so naive about running that one month prior I was asking the owner of the Ski Haus to be my sponsor.

"The money goes to Special Olympics," I told him.

"Do you think you will win?" he asked me.

I shrugged my shoulders and considered the question before answering, "I don't know. Maybe."

It was close to noon and the start of the very first Crim Road Race. Before arriving at the starting line I sat alone in the shade of MCC's Prahl Center trying to get relief from the 95-degree heat and humidity also in the nineties.

I was looking for a familiar face among the hundreds of runners moving to and from Ballenger Field House, where race numbers were being picked up. I did not recognize a soul. Why should I? None of my friends ran and I had only recently begun out of fear ...

*** A few months earlier - March 5, 1977, to be exact - I 'd come home from work to hear my wife yelling as I left the van, "Go to the hospital. Your mom has taken a turn for the worse!" Mom had been admitted one week earlier with heart problems.

I'd arrived at the hospital as fast as I could and went to her room. It was empty. A nurse took me to where she was.

"Has the doctor talked to you?" she asked before opening the door.

"No. Why?" I answered.

"Oh! You better wait here then," was all she said.

When the doctor arrived, he told me Mom had a massive heart attack and was dead. I went numb. He kept talking, but I heard nothing else he said.

She was only 53, the same age I am as I write this ... way too young. In the weeks that followed, my mind kept comparing her age to mine. I was more than 26 years old and haunted by the fact, "my life is half over if I die at her age."

Mom had been obese and sedentary. Scared, I told myself I wouldn't end up that way. But like most Americans, I couldn't get into exercising regularly. Fortunately for me, that soon changed.

That June I heard there was to be a 10-mile road race later that summer and anyone could run. Joggers like me could run with the famous Bill Rodgers. "Who's he?" I wondered.

Little did I know in a year's time Rodgers would replace Al Kaline as my favorite sports figure.

Ten miles was five times further than I'd ever jogged before, but I made it a goal to be at the starting line that Aug. 27. I did not know anything about training or anyone to ask. There were no local running stores then you could go for expertise.

So I made up my own two-step program. First, see if I could run the distance. I went to the Hamady High School track and ran as slo-o-o-ow as I could...for 10 miles! Second, wait a week to 10 days for my legs to stop screaming, "You stupid ass, don't do that again." I would then ignore their pleas and repeat the 10 miles with a slight increase in speed.

It was hard psyching myself up to train, as I'd never liked running. But at least I now knew the distance was doable and left the track for the open roads.

The contact person on race application forms was John Gault. I called this stranger for course directions and wrote them down. One week before the race, I ran the course and was amazed at the improvement in my time. One week to recover, then the real thing ...the first Bobby Crim Road Race for Special Olympics.

***

I stood up slowly and moved from the shade of the Prahl Center into the hottest and muggiest late morning I remember. I could not get over the feeling of being so alone, although hundreds of people were around me. At the starting line I met a married couple.

"Is this your first race?" the husband asked me.

"Yes," I said. "How did you know?"

"You look scared," the wife answered.

I think they were being kind. My Kmart shoes, Three Stooges tank-top and high school gym trunks left over from the '60s were the real giveaways. They gave me advice (about racing, not dress): Go slow and take all the water available.

I had met my first runners, from Lapeer, and they made me feel better. "What wonderful people," I thought - much like the thousands of runners I would meet in years to come.

The throng of runners snaked down Horrigan Drive to Court Street, then downtown to Harrison. The heat did not seem a problem. I felt pretty good when we turned onto Third Avenue and past the two-mile mark at the old Durant Hotel.

A mile later at GMI (now Kettering University) I slowed a little but kept plugging. Water was not as available as in today's Crim events, and no one carried water with them, but the heat did bring out a few spectators with hoses. Through Mott Park and the Bradley Hills I soaked myself whenever possible, but by the time I turned on Chicago Avenue and headed towards the six-mile mark, my body temperature was soaring.

As I crossed Miller Road I was hit with a bombshell: the course turned on Hawthorne. When I had run the course in training I'd gone straight to Parkside, cutting off nearly a mile of the course. Now I knew why my practice time last week had been so good.

My heart sank. It was then that I starting walking. I didn't know you were allowed to walk, but others were doing it so I copied my new brethren.

On Hawthorne I watched people in their yards drink beer and shake their heads at us. I wanted to join them, despite having never drunk beer before. But I'd started this race, now had to finish it.

I Galloway-ed (walked/ran) the last few miles, though this was years before anyone would have heard of the Galloway Method. Near the nine-mile mark was a hose hanging from a stepladder; I stood beneath it and drenched myself. The weight of my shoes afterwards slowed me down even more (no mesh uppers back then, just padded leather).

Hitting the bricks of Saginaw Street and crossing the finish was anti- climatic: I just wanted it to be over. My time was about 92 minutes; I was 411th out of 576 finishers. The first thing I said when my family found me was, "I will never, ever do that again!"

I made it to the sidewalk, sat down and took off my saturated Trax shoes, which must have weighed six pounds each. The cheap insoles were made of cardboard and had disintegrated into pulp.

As I mourned the loss of my shoes, cheers went up for a haggard old finisher who was wearing, of all things, white dress shoes with platform heels. I was witnessing the birth of a Crim legend, Ed Wiberg.

I threw my shoes in a trashcan and walked barefoot, a Crim unknown but a hero to family members at my side. They looked at me like I was nuts when I said, "I can't wait until next year."

Writer Riley McLincha has indeed overcome his aversion to running Crim. He has finished all 29 - in recent years "drubbling" (dribbling/ juggling) three basketballs for 10 miles - and plans to make this year's Crim his 30th. He is also composer of the race's official song. A version of the above essay first appeared in "Running the Crim: Stories from the Coolest Race in Michigan," and is used with permission of its publisher.