Marathons

In the 1977 New York City Marathon, a friend and former colleague of mine was disappointed by his worst performance in five years. But there was an excuse. He had spent a sedentary year gaining stomach flab and losing cardiovascular fitness, writing a book that was to be published that day.

His name was James Fixx, and the book, "The Complete Book of Running," was to become one of the best sellers of all time. Less than seven years later, he would die at age 52 of a massive heart attack after his daily run on a rural road in Vermont.

The pang that comes with each year's running of that race is more acute today after news of the collapse and death of a 28-year-old marathoner, Ryan Hall, during the Olympic Trials in New York's Central Park yesterday.

When Jim Fixx and I were atop the McCall's Magazine masthead in 1967, he was an easy-going man who weighed 214 pounds and smoked two packs a day. A decade later and 60 pounds lighter, he became rich and famous for The Book that, along with its sequel, sold more than a million copies.

One of the smartest people I ever knew (a Mensa member who had written books of games for the "super-intelligent"), Jim was also far from being or becoming a driven type-A. After the running books, he wrote a memoir mocking his sudden success and fame.

But in an age that insists of an explanation for everything, deaths such as those of Jim Fixx and Ryan Hall are jolting reminders of how thin the crust of earth on which we walk, or run, every day really is and how easily any of us, even the most highly conditioned, can fall through and disappear.

As we admire the winners and marvel at the grit of all those who run the course, the Marathon can be a moment for forgetting differences and savoring our fragile common humanity.