The Mayor Of Running Takes His Last Lap

Bart Yasso has punched in at Runner’s World US for 30 years. He started in the post room, rose up to rep RW at expos – some 1 280 of them – and went on to help edit memorable features, judge our annual cover contest, and naturally, test hundreds of shoes. He’s also held the most enviable job on our masthead: Chief Running Officer. In that role, he’s championed thousands of runners at events around the world (he ran Comrades in 2010). As one editor put it, “From Olympic medallist to beginner, anyone who dares to try is an important member of Bart’s running tribe.” On his retirement this month, our mayor, chief, and runner-hero leaves running shoes impossible to fill. Luckily, we’ll always have his good advice. Read it here, in this excerpt from Bart’s newest book, Race Everything.

- Erin Strout

Sorry your file was not uploaded. It may be the wrong filetype. We only allow JPG filetypes. It was the autumn of 1977, and I was a 21-year-old who had wasted my teen years on cigarettes, beer, and weed. I headed out for my first run in cut-off jeans held up by a belt, a Budweiser T-shirt, and a pair of old shoes. I ran straight to a bar about two kilometres away. When I arrived, I celebrated by downing two beers – then I walked home. It was an inauspicious start to a life forever changed by running, but it was a start nonetheless.

I had been inspired by my daily walks with my girlfriend’s dog, Brandy, who showed unadulterated joy when she was liberated from her leash, free to romp and play. Those walks eventually morphed into runs by myself, gradually enjoying my own sense of freedom from the dark days I had fallen into. My older brother George – one of six siblings – took notice of a kind of metamorphosis happening, and as a father figure to me, he encouraged this turning point in my life.

By 1980, George had goaded me into running a 10-K with him close to where we grew up. I had a giant, shaggy beard that covered most of my face, along with flowing, unkempt hair. I looked like a running caveman. I was reluctant and had no idea what I was doing, but as is the most important point for anything in life, I showed up.

When the gun went off that morning, I shot out in a 3:30 first kilometre, naively going with a group of seasoned competitors in the lead pack. By 3km, I was predictably suffering a slow death and a waning pace. By 5km, I wanted to vomit. George pulled away and never looked back.

But I crossed the finish line in about 40 minutes, and placed 40th out of 240 people. Not bad, I thought. Something inside was stirred.