Note: This post was written nearly a week before Mary Cain published her experiences with Alberto and the Nike Oregon Project in the New York Times. This post deals entirely with the doping ban. My thoughts on Mary’s revelations are in a separate post.
Six years ago, I shared a bus ride with Alberto Salazar. It was the 2013 Chicago Marathon and we both had runners in the elite field. Security was tight, and the only way to and from the elite start was by bus. Going to the start, all went well, but on the way back, the bus driver got lost, winding up in a warren of underground parking garages. After several frustrating minutes, he halted. “Anybody want out?”
I’m not sure which of us was quickest to shout “yes,” but Alberto and I were first off the bus. I knew Chicago better than he did, and, with a bit of luck, led him through underground walkways and stairwells until we emerged near Michigan Avenue.
We were about a mile from the elite coaches’ viewing area, so we started jogging. Alberto was faster than me, but I’d spent the previous day scouting the finish, so I was the one who knew where to go. For about half the way, we ran companionably together. Then two black guys who’d gotten off the bus behind us passed by.
“Now the Kenyan coaches are beating me!” Alberto grumbled, and started to give chase—a problem, because the Kenyans were either going to somewhere other than the elite viewing area, or were going or were equally in the dark about how to find it. They overshot the turn in, with Alberto still trying to chase them until I managed to call him back and point him in the right direction.
Over the years, I’ve recalled this story many times. It is, quite simply, the quintessential Alberto Salazar story: funny at the time, but a microcosm of the hyper-competitiveness that would contribute, years later, to his undoing.Continue reading Alberto Salazar’s Legacy