Even 50 years after his death, Steve Prefontaine remains connected to Spokane and entire track and field community

In the winter of 1969, between miles of training and hours of classwork, Rick Riley was thrown an odd job by Washington State track and field coach Jack Mooberry.

Recruiting Steve Prefontaine.

Rarely has there been so succinct a definition of “fool’s errand.” The Cougars were one of 40 colleges making entreaties to the best high school runner in the land, and Prefontaine didn’t particularly want to attend any of them. His heart was set on Oregon, whose imperious coach, Bill Bowerman, didn’t so much recruit as nod, “OK, come along,” especially to dreamers within a couple of hours’ drive.

But as a senior at Ferris High School three years before, Riley had set the national prep record for 2 miles. The Cougs thought he could make their pitch with some additional cachet, and so Riley dialed the number at Prefontaine’s home in Coos Bay, Oregon. Here’s how the conversation went, in a nutshell:

Prefontaine: “I’m going to break your record.”

Riley: “Uh, well, I hope you do.”

And, of course, “Pre” did.

Pre did just about anything he said he was going to do, and even if he didn’t it always seemed as if he did. It happened right here in our city, too. As an Oregon senior in 1973 on the frosty turf of Latah Creek Golf Course (then known as Hangman Valley), he said he was going to run down the elite field in the NCAA cross country championships in the last mile and a half and – almost impossibly – he did.

On the one notable occasion he wasn’t able to back up his plan – finishing off the podium at the 1972 Olympics – he returned from Munich more popular than ever because of the way he went down swinging. Even by then, he was the face, the heartbeat, the soul of track and field in the United States.

And then – on May 30, 1975 – he was dead, crashing his MG on a curve not five minutes from Hayward Field where he made his legend.

It’s track and field’s Day the Music Died.

Yet 50 years later, for generations still passionate about a sport that struggles to stay relevant in the national consciousness, Steve Prefontaine remains that face, heartbeat and soul. Even LeBron might be too aged to be the teenage basketball player’s hero; Joe Montana isn’t even an afterthought to Patrick Mahomes.

But high school runners still have Pre posters on their bedroom walls, even if their fathers were likely born after his death.

“There has never been another,” said Gonzaga coach Pat Tyson, Prefontaine’s long-ago teammate and housemate. “It’s hard to think there ever will.”

Prefontaine was definitively one of Bowerman’s “Men of Oregon,” but strands of his history curl around Spokane. Not only was Tyson a teammate, but so was Randy James, another Ferris grad who became a beloved science teacher at North Central. Cougar legends Gerry Lindgren and Riley from Spokane became treasured racing rivals, as did Don Kardong, in his Stanford days and after, before he birthed Bloomsday.

And Pre’s last collegiate race in Spokane was a clear window into the man’s makeup.

More than 4,000 spectators lined Latah Creek‘s fairways despite the 35-degree chill on that November Monday morning. One of them was Tyson, who had run with Prefontaine on Oregon’s 1971 NCAA champions and graduated to a teaching job in Shoreline, Washington. He’d finessed a day off, then managed to fill up his tank despite the ongoing gas shortage and bunked with Kardong and Bob Isitt before heading to the course – with a stop at the behest of Bill Dellinger, now the Ducks’ coach.

“He told me to get some Wesson oil,” Tyson laughed. “He believed if you rubbed Wesson on your legs, it would keep the heat in. It was probably just a placebo, but I stopped at Rosauers for a bottle of Wesson.”

Western Kentucky’s Nick Rose didn’t need any Wesson. He jumped to the lead and steadily increased it to 75 yards in the fourth of 6 miles. Just a mile later, Prefontaine had pulled even, then inched ahead. Rose was still close enough for a strike – until they looped around the second fairway and made for home in front of the glut of spectators.

“They started yelling, ‘Go Pre!’ Rose said, “and he went, like a shot!”

Across the fairway, James was immersed in his own race, but could see what was unfolding coming back his way.

“It was all in Steve’s face,” he recalled. “As a runner, you tend to hold back something, hoping you’re just going to be able to finish. Steve was willing to risk everything, all or nothing, and push himself to run as fast and as far as he possibly could.”

And the spectators – even those pulling for the host Cougars – responded.

“That’s what he did to you,” Tyson said. “He pulled people in, whether it was a miraculous finish like that or most of his races where he would bury people early.”

That was the trademark – daring the competition with guts running. But fans loved the spectacle – the Pre effect – too. Just after setting foot on campus, he ran a time trial – not a meet – that drew 1,000 people. He won the first of four NCAA titles at 3 miles or 5,000 meters as a freshman. He was already on the cover of Sports Illustrated. There were the “Go Pre” T-shirts, the ultimate in Eugene style.

And then the “Stop Pre” shirts that debuted as a joke at the 1972 Olympic Trials – and modeled cheekily by Lindgren himself. After setting an American record in the 5,000, Prefontaine asked for one and donned it for his victory lap.

“We would tease him and call him ‘World’ and he’d get so (mad) at us,” James said. “What you have to remember about Steve was that as much as he loved those big races, there was no arrogance to him. Confidence, yes. And I think living in that trailer over in Springfield allowed him to get away from a lot of the attention.”

Ah, the trailer. Tyson had been on a campus visit with Prefontaine as a high school senior (“He was ‘the man’ and I was definitely not”), and as a senior was invited to share that humble mobile home.

“There was a Hell’s Angel who worked at the Kingsford plant who’d come home with charcoal all over his face,” Tyson said, “and Pre would greet him and his wife and have him over for barbecues. And then the next day he might be going with Bowerman to see the governor.”

Riley saw the everyman side rooming with Prefontaine on a tour of Europe – “an ordinary guy,” he said. “Just not ordinary when you raced against him.”

He was a full-in participant in a runners’ prank in Germany when Riley, Prefontaine and others didn’t want to part with their USA singlets in the typical goodwill jersey swap. Instead, they spray-stenciled “USA” on JC Penney T-shirts. The Soviets got those, Pre and Riley got the real thing in return.

“A minor victory in the Cold War,” Riley said.

That’s one of the warm memories, which were hard to summon in the immediate aftermath of his 1975 accident. James, Riley and Tyson – teachers all – heard the news on the radio getting ready for school. The two Ducks headed to Eugene immediately to participate in the memorial, where they walked the track in front of a packed Hayward crowd in a silence that echoed across the nation.

Riley has pondered the parameters of the loss.

“The only thing comparable to the impact of that loss in sports is Kobe Bryant,” he said. “He had so much charisma and at 24 so much ahead of him. In the last 50 years, there hasn’t been anyone with that charisma – great runners, but no one who has captured the imagination of the public like Pre. And I hate to say it, but there is something that is added to your legend when you die young.”

It certainly adds to the sadness.

“I would have loved to see what he’d become,” James said. “Not on the track, but as a leader, a husband and father. He would have been sensational wherever it led.”

But for all the what-ifs, the what-weres remain an inspiration.

“He was such an alive person,” Tyson said. “I know he elevated my personality and my confidence, and that’s what he wanted to do with whoever he was round – even his competitors. He wanted them at their best.”

To take away their victories and records, just like he said.