LOS ANGELES MARATHON : The Losses Get Old : Nostalgic Time Isn’t About to Satisfy Rodgers or Shorter in Masters Division

When they cross the finish line these days, it is more often in the glow of nostalgia than the fire of competition. Frank Shorter, No. 72, didn’t he single-footedly start the marathoning boom with his 1972 gold medal in Munich? And didn’t Bill Rodgers, No. 14, come to stand for those now-fashionable institutions of civic pride, winning the Boston and New York marathons four times each? Of course, that was then, this is now, and stand aside, you legends, for another Mexican.

These legends are both 40 now, the wear and tear of all that mileage finally showing through. Their Olympic days are well behind them. They are no longer threats to win cars, bonuses or laurels, cities or even small towns. In fact, their familiarity, which has been reconstituted for the masters--over 40--division, so that fans can keep them in a kind of movable trophy case, is now all they have going for them. This is the great athletes’ equivalent of pasture; high appearance fees and low expectations.

It’s odd then that they’re still such bad losers.

You may as well know that they did lose. Bill Rodgers, who had once won 20 of 24 marathons for the greatest knockout percentage this side of Mike Tyson, failed to put Robert Schlau away in the masters competition. And Shorter, who was looking forward to his first head-to-head meet with longtime nemesis Rodgers (they first raced against each other in 1967), dropped out briefly before returning to finish well back in the pack.

But for being 40, mellowed by all this time away from Olympic standards, they seemed kind of driven. Graduated into the masters division for a happy semi-retirement, they nevertheless seemed, well, un-retiring. They still looked and acted like entrants, not at all like corporate-sponsored novelties. They will not go gentle into this good night, OK?

Look at Bill Rodgers, poor Bill Rodgers. He screams down the finish line at 2 hours 20 minutes 29 seconds and he’s holding up two fingers, looking for confirmation. It is some 20 minutes before he gets it, before he learns that Schlau has beaten him in the masters competition with a time of 2:19:27. In the meantime, he doesn’t know what to say. “If I was second,” he is saying, “I feel expletive.” He actually uses the word expletive. “If I was first I’ll celebrate all night.”

Eventually a race volunteer tells him he was second. It’s what he was afraid of. He shakes his head. “My brother told me, at mile 22, that he was about 40 seconds ahead. I was depressed, I thought about walking off the course.”

Rodgers, looking tiny and frail when not in motion, shakes his head some more. Somebody tells him his time, all the same, was very good. He looks up, says, “Time means nothing to me. I wanted to win. The next time I race . . . I revise everything totally.”

Then there was poor Frank Shorter, who finishes screaming, you might say. A David Steinberg look- and sound-alike, Shorter goes straight to a buffet table after the race. He is not suffering from any post-race anxiety but simple hunger and leg pains.

“My time? It was 2:44, but that included an extra mile.” He chuckles, building a monumental sandwich. “Funny thing. I stopped at mile 8 and 12, taking my shoes off, playing around with my feet. On Sunset, I said the heck with it and started back toward the finish line. But I realized I just didn’t want to quit. That might have made it that much easier the next time.”

So Shorter reverses field again and proceeds at a training pace, a six-minute mile rate, and goes ahead to finish, however disappointingly. Like Rodgers, he is left to think he must revise totally. “I’ve been doing a lot of track training,” he says, referring to preparation for the indoor mile, “and maybe I just haven’t done enough longer running. I’ll be back in there.”

Shorter and Rodgers seem doomed, by the emergence of masters marathoning, to continue shadowing each other. Their rivalry was once more meaningful, with much more at stake. It was once less friendly, we are led to believe. But this rivalry continues to sell tickets and we are likely to continue seeing them race against each other. This could be fun, and not just for the folks who remember them in their prime. It’s interesting to see that appetite is not much satisfied just in the passing of time. They both remain hungry, athletic afterlife or not.

As we leave Rodgers, he is remorsefully replaying the race. “I was keeping my eye on Frank,” he is saying, “and also (U.S. masters record-holder Barry) Brown. I caught Frank at 10 miles and Barry at 12. I caught up with (Lasse) Viren on some big grade and he fell back. But I never saw Schlau. I’d think I’d see him and then he wouldn’t be there. I tell you, next time I race, I’ll be right next to him.”

As he sits there, the disappointment seems to sink deeper in him. “And another thing, no more promo, I just can’t do it. I want to win the next one.”

Shorter, having dropped out of contention early on, has managed to dismiss this performance. “I was just proud of myself for finishing,” he says. But he is looking forward to the continued competition with Rodgers. “I’m more up and down and when I’m peaked and ready I’m better than him. But he’s more consistent than I am. Every once in a while we’ll be there at the same time.”

When that happens, in some masters race somewhere, try not to mistake those competitive embers for that warm glow of nostalgia. They’re not that old.