Senior Marathoners Haven’t Run Down Yet

Be assured of this: The first marathons Norm Frank and Don McNelly ran in the 1960s were very painful. Lungs whined, leg muscles twitched, minds begged for relief.

Years down the road, physical conditioning, princely genes and mental toughness engendered in Depression-era childhoods must have kicked in--because they’re still doing it. Over and over again. Practically every week or two. Sometimes on consecutive days.

In April, Frank got through his 711th race of 26.2 miles or more, McNelly his 561st. That puts them first and third in the nation’s prolific-marathoner rankings. The distance each has trained and raced equals two trips around the world with thousands of miles to spare.

It’s become a numbers game played out in mind-numbing chunks. After all, didn’t Pheidippides drop dead upon running 26.2 miles and delivering his message--”Rejoice, we conquer”--from the Greek battleground at Marathon in 490 BC?

So, too, Frank and McNelly have conquered.

“We must have been to 100 marathons together,” the 79-year-old McNelly said during breakfast with Frank at a diner, a weekly ritual for the spry runners.

“No, no, more like 200,” said Frank, 68.

But enter their world, and the measure of their achievements magically begins to seem matter-of-fact. Hundreds of Americans have taken to this grueling pursuit, motivated by the encroachment of middle age, a touch of insanity and the addictive joy of grinding through pain to achieve an exhilarating sense of well-being.

“People are just going wild on this, they really are,” said Dean Rademaker, a retired school administrator in Springfield, Ill., who founded the 50 & D.C. Marathon Group for people who want to run a marathon in every state.

Enlistment has soared from 15 in 1989 to 250. Minimum eligibility: 20 marathons in 20 states. Already, 109 members have completed the national circuit, 16 have run two or three marathons in each state, and one man has gone four times around.

Close to 100 Americans have each run 100 marathons, and a dozen have gotten through 300. Far ahead of this swelling pack are Frank, McNelly and the out-of-towner who separates them--Denny Fryman, 52, of Dayton, Ohio, who has run 608.

Germany’s Horst Preisler, who claims more than 950 marathons, snatched the world record Frank held from 1994 to 1996.

Being nowhere near as swift as they once were and not caring much about it seem to be the keys to longevity. Frank’s best time of 3 hours, 22 minutes in 1970 has grown to an average of nearly six hours. McNelly has increased from 3:50 to nearly seven hours.

“No one can embarrass me or put me down because I’m into this,” said McNelly, a hearty 6 feet and 215 pounds, who looks like Santa Claus when he lets his white beard grow out. “Even if they try, I shrug it off. I know I’m right and they do too, down deep in their hearts.”

It’s probably no coincidence that the two live only a few miles apart and have been friends for 31 years. With good-natured ribbing and an occasional flash of competitiveness, they keep each other going.

There are enough differences to keep it interesting. They wrangle over politics and pre-race food--McNelly’s a pancake Republican, Frank a spaghetti Democrat. McNelly’s personality is more often glass-half-full to Frank’s half-empty.

Frank gets more media attention by virtue of being America’s No. 1. But McNelly picks up his share since he’s usually the oldest entrant and homing in on 300 marathons as a septuagenarian.

To keep boredom at bay, they’ve gotten into the habit of doing their quantity-over-quality stuff far afield, from Antarctica to Greenland and Jamaica to Japan. Sometimes, strictly for fun, they run “ultras”--91 of McNelly’s marathons and 140 of Frank’s have ranged from 31 to 66 miles.

Despite muscle knots and cramps, hallucinations and fatigue, their first marathons were unforgettable thrills.

After years of enjoying basketball and racquet sports, the 6-foot-2, 185-pound Frank tried out the hallowed Boston Marathon in 1967 on the urging of a fellow runner. He came home hooked.

Nowadays, “I wouldn’t say it’s a thrill--it’s just the satisfaction of saying, ‘Jeez, I did it again,’ ” he reflected.

Frightened into action at 47 when an old fraternity buddy died of a heart attack, the no-time-for-sports McNelly also started at the top in Boston in 1969. In his first competitive race, he went with the crowd and got burned out by mile 4. He still managed to run and walk his way to the finish in 5 hours, 1 minute.

It takes them maybe a half-hour to loosen up. Some 10 miles out, McNelly said, “My brain goes into neutral and I just cruise along, and I kind of come to and the race is over.”

The oldest of seven children, McNelly was left in charge of the family farm in Brookville, Ohio, from age 14 while his father worked at General Motors. “We didn’t have anything, everybody had to work, and it was a culture that just rubbed off on you,” he said.

He went on to become an industrial engineer and an executive at a corrugated box company. He invites his wife of 58 years, Phyllis, to each race. She skips all but the more exotic locales. But each time he leaves, “she gives me permission to quit,” he said.

Frank built up a landscaping business, Marathon Lawn, that he recently turned over to his daughter. Twice divorced, he acknowledges that mega-marathoning explains in part his bachelor status. “It’s hard on somebody when you’re gone every weekend,” he said.

They’ve had their share of health troubles: Frank had a heart valve replaced in 1998, McNelly survived prostate cancer in 1988.

Frank believes many runners “make it too hard” by overtraining or trying only to beat the clock. He doesn’t train too much, and only when the weather is fair. In winter, he moves into his Florida condominium, the McNellys rent a place five miles away each January and February, and the Tuesday breakfasts continue without a hitch.

Neither of them knows what keeps them motivated, apart from loving to run. “If I knew the answer I’d probably quit,” Frank said with a characteristic burst of laughter.

As they get older, marathoning undoubtedly gets harder, even if they’re both blessed with sturdy knees. Frank uses mind tricks to make the remaining distance seem shorter, and the dream of finishing the race remains uppermost.

“I’ve thought a lot of times, ‘God, I can’t wait to get to that hotel room and lie down and have a beer,’ ” he said with sudden exuberance. “You think ahead, yes!”

His goal is to reach 1,000 marathons and keep racing until he’s 98.

So, McNelly deadpanned, “I’m going to run till I’m 99.”