LIGHTING THE FUSE

It was 49 years ago, today, 22 May 1976, that the U.S. staged its Olympic Trials Marathon to determine the three-man team to represent the nation at the XXI Olympiad in Montreal, Canada.

Here is a recollection of that event from 19 years ago.

Boston, Massachusetts – April 18, 2006.
The Bill Rodgers Running Center, tucked into the historic Faneuil Hall Marketplace downtown, pulsed with post-race reverie the day after the 110th Boston Marathon. Customers filtered in and out—some beaming, others walking downstairs backwards to protect shredded quads—all freshly minted from their own 26.2-mile odyssey. 

At the far end of the store, Bill Rodgers was doing what he always did best off the roads—connecting. One by one, runners stepped up for autographs, snapshots, and a few grateful words. He offered each a handshake, a smile, maybe a wry line or two. 

Opposite, sat a small TV perched on a chair. Its flickering light went mostly unnoticed, save by a few who lingered—watching two younger men in the heat of competition.

No commentary. No volume. Just the hum of VHS, the muted churn of footsteps caught in time.

The old footage captured the first marathon-distance clash between the old and new American record holders in the marathon: Frank Shorter and Bill Rodgers. Rodgers, the insurgent pushing against the established order; Shorter, the stoic emblem of Olympic grace—two paths to greatness converging under Oregon’s open skies.

Rodgers, the Boston champion of 1975, had snatched Frank Shorter’s American record (2:10:30) with his 2:09:55 win. But on May 22, 1976, in Eugene, Oregon, more than bragging rights were at stake—the coveted chance to represent the United States at the Montreal Olympics hung in the balance.

The running boom—a seismic shift in American leisure that continues to reverberate today—teetered on the edge of that Oregon morning. The 410,000 marathon finishers of 2006 (a number that would swell to half a million by 2015) stood in stark contrast to the mere 25,000 who crossed finish lines during America’s Bicentennial year. Much of that growth, one could argue, sparked from the compelling rivalry between Rodgers and Shorter.

Coming as it did on the heels of Shorter’s masterful Olympic gold in Munich four years prior—a race where Kenny Moore’s gritty fourth and Jack Bacheler’s solid ninth hinted at America’s distance running resurgence—there was a palpable expectation for medalists to emerge from the talented field assembled in Eugene. Eighty-seven men had qualified. Seventy-seven toed the line. But up front, the smart money knew where the first two Olympic berths were headed.

“People just figured that Frank and Bill should make the team,” recalled Spokane’s Don Kardong, the eventual third member of the Montreal-bound squad. “A couple of guys like Kenny Moore and Gary Tuttle were either under the weather or sidelined by a cruel twist of injury. So, the real question became: who would grab that third spot?”

Even in the early miles, the unmistakable sign of Bill Rodgers in full flight was clear—that distinctive right-arm whip, a metronomic pulse of determination. Shorter, the epitome of cool confidence—the Brahmin doctor’s son with his prep-school pedigree and Yale sheepskin, now armed with a University of Florida law degree—dictated the terms in his iconic Florida Track Club singlet. Brunette versus blond—the contrast was stark. Yet both seemed to float atop the road.

With Rodgers shadowing his every move, running shoulder-to-shoulder as they often did, Shorter seemed to inhabit his own space. He moved with effortless grace atop that slightly pigeon-toed stride, the reigning king wearing his crown with detached aplomb. His strategy in Eugene echoed his Munich triumph, a reflection, perhaps, of Dashiell Hammett’s Continental Op in Red Harvest:

“Plans are all right sometimes. And sometimes just stirring things up is all right—if you’re tough enough to survive, and keep your eyes open so you’ll see what you want when it comes to the top.”

Frank, you see, never shied from stirring things up. And he’d proven his mettle time and again—not just seeing what rose to the top, but engaging it head-on and ultimately prevailing. That calculated approach had already earned him Olympic gold—and would soon net him a silver to add to his collection. Though, by rights, it too should have been gold.

“Frank threw down the gauntlet at eight miles,” Rodgers remembered. “Barry Brown latched onto it, and instinctively, so did I. It was a decisive move, a real statement. Boom! Then, around the ten-mile mark, Barry faded, and suddenly it was just me and Frank. The pace was relentless—like a hammer.”

Rodgers, still navigating the amateur landscape, wore an unadorned white singlet stretched taut against his lean—though not yet fully hardened—frame. Despite his bronze at the 1975 World Cross Country Championships in Morocco (where Shorter finished twentieth), Bill still carried the air of an underdog—an everyman challenging the established order. As they ran, his gaze often flickered toward Shorter, silently probing for any sign of weakness—Rodgers the tenacious pursuer, Shorter the seemingly unshakeable frontrunner.

Rodgers had used a more direct tactic the previous year at the Virginia 10-Miler in Lynchburg—their first head-to-head encounter. Initially dropped by Shorter at the halfway point, Bill clawed his way back, then audaciously offered a mid-race truce: a tie. Shorter, initially dismissive, relented when Rodgers repeated the offer as they ran stride for stride for several more miles. That particular tactic, however, wouldn’t resurface in the high-stakes arena of Eugene.

“We ran together—a tacit agreement to secure those Olympic spots,” Rodgers recalled. “Frank’s focus was laser-sharp on winning, but he knew I’d broken his American record the year before. In his mind, I was a clear and present danger. He was going back to defend his Olympic crown—and the fastest marathoner in the world was right there beside him.”

Yet Shorter ran with unnerving calm—detached and impervious, the undisputed alpha exuding impersonal precision. He offered no acknowledgment, no flicker of recognition to the man at his shoulder. The track-honed speedster turned marathoner was a clear and formidable favorite, three times ranked No. 1 in the world by the sport’s bible, Track & Field News.

“We clocked 1:37 at the twenty-mile mark,” Shorter recalled—a pace translating to a blistering 2:07 marathon. “Then, with our spots seemingly secure, we eased just a touch.”

(Message from A CLOSE READER: “Shorter’s memory is a bit off. The history of the Olympic Trials book: “Shorter and Rodgers, the two best American marathoners of their era, 20miles, reached in 1:39:32 after 5 mile splits of 24:41/24:54 24:51/24:56.” (2:10:20 pace)
Let’s call it a reporter’s error, rather than a rose-colored memory of FS). In any case, their pace represented elite marathoning.

Behind them, the drama for that final Olympic slot unfolded. Don Kardong and Tony Sandoval, both Stanford alumni brimming with potential, traded surges and fought tenaciously until Kardong’s resolve won out. But up front, the narrative remained fixated on the unyielding rhythm of Bill and Frank.

“We hammered each other out there as much as anyone in a race,” Shorter later admitted, a grudging respect in his tone.

“We weren’t the close friends we are today,” Rodgers added. “That rivalry was real—not some manufactured drama cooked up by the press. We’d begun a genuine clash of wills. He’d beat me, I’d beat him. That back-and-forth defined our early careers.”

With their Olympic berths in hand, a subtle easing of pace marked the final 10K. Yet Shorter found another gear—unleashing a final-mile surge that Rodgers, perhaps slightly complacent, didn’t anticipate and then couldn’t match.

“It was a masterclass in strategic racing,” Rodgers admitted. “Frank was a brilliant tactician, and he caught me a little off guard. It wasn’t a devastating burst—just a gradual edging away. But on that day, he simply had a little more in the tank.”

Shorter crossed first in 2:11:51, just seven seconds ahead of his rival—a not-so-subtle reminder of the established pecking order. Kardong, digging deep, claimed the final Olympic berth in 2:13:54, nearly two minutes behind the leaders—a testament to their relentless pace.

“Frank was a winner, pure and simple,” Rodgers acknowledged. “He possessed that unwavering drive. On that particular day, he was just a touch fitter, a fraction stronger. For me, making the team was a euphoric victory in itself—especially after grinding out a 2:11 on a surprisingly warm Oregon morning.”

Shorter would go on to claim silver in Montreal—out run by East Germany’s Waldemar Cierpinski, later confirmed to have used performance-enhancing drugs. Kardong, peaking perfectly, finished just off the podium in fourth. Rodgers, hampered by a nagging foot injury that cropped up at the track trials in the 10,000m final, hobbled home in 40th after pressing the pace through 25K to ensure Finland’s Lasse Viren wouldn’t medal in his debut at the distance after winning double gold on the track at 5000 & 10,000 meters.

But the sting of Olympic disappointment wouldn’t linger. It would drive him. Less than three months later, at the inaugural five-borough New York City Marathon, a healed-up Rodgers unleashed his frustration in a powerful display of marathon excellence. His 2:10:10 victory, a time that remains competitive decades later, left Shorter three minutes behind. In that single race, the balance of power shifted decisively. The king was dead. Long live the king.

The instant, visceral appeal of New York’s five-borough experience sent another powerful shockwave through the Running Boom, ushering in the era of the big city marathon as a global spectacle. Rodgers would ride that wave to four consecutive New York City victories, grace the cover of Sports Illustrated twice, and earn three world #1 rankings of his own. He’d add three more Boston titles and break his own American record in 1979, as well.

Tony Sandoval, after his near-miss in Eugene, would triumph at the 1980 Olympic Trials in Buffalo, New York. But President Carter’s boycott denied him what might have been another American Olympic medal in Moscow.

Frank Shorter—though still aflame with competitive fire—would never again reach the dizzying heights of ’72 and ’76. A cascade of foot injuries and surgeries by 1978 curtailed his training. But his legacy was already secure.

Both Shorter and Rodgers ascended to, and maintained, iconic status—their names forever etched among the most celebrated in American running. That tense duel in Eugene—perhaps the only time they met on truly equal footing in the marathon with the undisputed mantle of #1 at stake—remains a defining chapter in their storied rivalry, earning a lasting legacy in the annals of American marathoning.

END