Charlie Marquardt’s moment of internet fame was short and not altogether flattering. It was June 7, and he was alone, sprinting down the back straightaway of a 400-meter track at Emerson Field in Concord, Mass. He was on the way to an easy win when he suddenly collapsed, a full-body shutdown brought on by four arduous laps at limits-testing speed.
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His crash has been seen more than 90,000 times now — like a Twitter version of America’s Funniest Home Videos. But the video adds no context. There are moans from the crowd and defeated runners passing Marquardt by as he lies splayed out on the red rubber beneath him. He is a winner, for sure, but the stakes are unclear.
Yet, as he lay on the polyurethane, the spill was immaterial. He listened for the PA announcer to read out his time — 4:00.38.
Marquardt had spent the previous two years chasing the sub-four-minute mile. He had put his career on hold, had endured countless solitary runs, had convinced himself that running under four minutes over four 400-meter laps mattered so much that he was willing to take two years out of his life to chase it.
And now he had missed it once again.
There, on the track, Marquardt ran his hand through his blond, pillowy hair. He had set a personal best, but that was little consolation. Hours later, as Lalo Diaz, his high school coach, listened to Marquardt on the phone, recounting the latest attempt, he heard the anguish.
“Coach,” Marquardt told Diaz, “I was so close.”
Fifty-four years after Roger Bannister broke the threshold for the first time, the sub-four-minute mile remains a holy grail for runners. It is no longer the altitude of the most exclusive among them, but it retains its luster. Only 50 American runners ran the mile in under four minutes last year, and just 521 American milers have ever done it. There have been three times as many chess grandmasters.
Bannister, who died in March, gave the accomplishment impressive context six years ago: More people, he said, have climbed Mount Everest than matched his feat.
The appeal of the sub-four mile cannot be summed up in any one reason. There is its elegance — four laps of 400 meters raced in under 60 seconds. And its historical weight — before Bannister, there was some misled belief that the human body might not be capable of such an achievement.
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“It is a psychological threshold where you know you’ve arrived at that elite level,” said Diaz, who has coached three sub-four-minute milers in 31 years at Loyola High in Los Angeles. “Even though 100-plus people can do it, it’s still the mark of achievement in terms of saying, ‘I’ve now gone from a very, very good runner to an elite runner.’ It’s still the threshold for calling yourself an elite runner, the footprint of an elite runner.”
Marquardt picked up running as a freshman at Loyola High after searching for an extracurricular activity; he had little fondness for the debate team. His Pasadena home was filled with medals his father, Clayton, had earned running marathons, and Charlie was intrigued by the sport.
A collegiate career didn’t seem possible until the summer before his senior year. Loyola had a strong tradition of milers — the late David Torrence became an Olympian — but Diaz did not see that kind of potential in Marquardt. When Marquardt would claim that he would join their ranks one day, Diaz humored him by agreeing. Marquardt left Loyola with a 4:16 mile as his best mark, and Diaz was absolute in his belief that Marquardt would never break four.
There are two ways to become a great runner, the coach believes: to be born with great talent or to will it. Marquardt would have to will himself into one.
“He was always dreaming,” Diaz said. “He was dreaming in the sense he wanted to do things that were almost impossible.”
Marquardt became a five-time All-American at Haverford College, a Division III school in the Philadelphia suburbs. But before he even got there, he set a goal of breaking four minutes. He had read “Training Distance Runners” — written by Peter Coe, who coached his son, Sebastian, and helped him become a two-time Olympic gold medalist in the 1,500 meters — and found inspiration in it. Every year, Marquardt would take off a few seconds from his time, 4:16 to 4:10 to 4:05, setting his goal at 3:59 by the end of his college career.
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As a senior, he ran 4:02.24 in the winter as he seized up over the final 200 meters; that was the fastest he’d go at Haverford. But in June 2016, a month after graduating, he finished the 1,500 meters in 3:42 at Princeton. The time converted to sub-4, just barely — an indication he should keep trying.
“I just couldn’t give up on it — I was that close,” he said. “If I had maybe not run that sub-4 equivalent maybe it would have been a different story, but having run that sub-4 equivalent I knew I can do it. I ran the conversion. I didn’t want to go on living a life where so-and-so says, ‘Oh, did you ever break 4 in the mile?’ ‘Oh, I ran an equivalent but I never actually did it.’”
Marquardt decided to spend the next two years training to get under four minutes. The notion was audacious in its simplicity. He would not become a hermit but would construct his life around that quest.
Marquardt moved in with a former Haverford runner, a friend who had shown it was possible to continue running at a high level outside the manufactured conditions of a college program. They shared an apartment about a quarter-mile from campus, close enough to still get to the track often and to train with his old team.
He intended to work for the first 18 months, save money rapidly, then live off it in the summer, mimicking a professional runner’s schedule in his pursuit. He held a degree in biology but took a job as a real estate property manager. He could take time off in the afternoons for workouts and days away for races as long as he got his work done.
He put in three-mile runs in the morning and longer ones in the evening. He worked out with the Haverford team regularly, coordinating workouts with his old coach and his new bosses, and putting in some 80 miles weekly. He inserted 3’s into his passwords to remind him of his aim.
“I was defining myself by it,” he said.
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The pursuit, however, could be isolating. He was no longer pushed by a team and prodded by a coach. He was faster than his old teammates, so Tom Donnelly, the Haverford coach, constructed workouts to make up the difference when Marquardt trained on campus. He tried to run with Eric Arnold, his roommate, but they came home on different trains and Arnold was often out the door by the time Marquardt returned from work.
When Marquardt hit an oft-run nature trail encircling the school, he ran it clockwise in hopes of running into others he knew. He missed running with friends and was forced to manage the loneliness that running can bring.
The winters tested him. Philadelphia can be brutally cold, and it’s exacerbated by the short days. Marquardt would come home, his roommate out for his own run, the sun down for nearly an hour, already tired, a ski mask waiting for him so his lips wouldn’t freeze over a 10-mile jaunt.
“It’s hard to run alone sometimes and to motivate yourself in the dead of winter,” he said.
I'm not in LA anymore pic.twitter.com/KcfQOgnkKs
— Charlie Marquardt (@cmarqq) January 7, 2017
The results weren’t always uplifting, and it was difficult to find races because most meets ran the 1,500 meters outdoors in the summer. The indoor season wasn’t set up well to break four minutes, either. He couldn’t pile up enough workouts to get into top shape while pacing at Haverford events to train. His times, in the races he did run, lagged behind his best.
Last February, he bought a bus ticket last-minute to Boston for a meet, taking the overnight bus and hoping to sleep through the drive. Instead, he stayed up for some six hours, leaving him fatigued and with the lesson that he could no longer sleep on buses.
The race, however, was promising. Six runners crossed in under four minutes, giving him the competition he sought, but Marquardt fell into the back of the pack from the starting gun and never recovered. He was forced to choose between embarrassments — a slow time or not finishing — and dropped out.
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Marquardt’s fitness was off, and he was psyching himself out against better runners. He had reached a nadir. He called Diaz, trying to find a way out of the gutter. Marquardt, the coach says, was holding himself back. The break point in the mile, Diaz says, comes with about 600 meters to go. It’s the moment when runners must decide how much they want to push themselves and how much pain they want to endure. It was around that mark where Marquardt dropped out in Boston.
What makes a great miler, Diaz explains, is “the willingness to hurt.”
The Adrian Martinez Classic was a revival. It was the strongest sign yet that Marquardt was again on the right track. He planned to run in as many as five races this past summer, and that was the first.
The conditions were almost perfect. All he was missing, he says, was a competitor to push him and a big crowd to energize him.
The fall across the finish line became a blessing. Marquardt wasn’t trying to dive to propel himself or even do anything intentionally. “It was like my legs were shutting down,” he said. “It felt like someone cut off my legs, scooped out the muscle and filled it with Jell-O.”
The video went viral and eventually made its way to the promoters of the Sir Walter Miler. Sandy Roberts, its founder, saw Marquardt and decided he was perfect for their race in Raleigh, N.C., in August.
Roberts was drawn in by Marquardt’s story because he had once been in his place. He was a 4:01.24 miler in college and yearned to break four minutes. In 2013, he asked his brother to pace him at a local track in his attempt to get under the barrier and asked people to come out to watch him after the high school football team finished practice there. The outpouring surprised him, though he missed his goal. The next year, he started the Sir Walter Miler, trying to cram in as many sub-4 miles as he could into one race, including his own.
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Roberts never broke four but now empathizes with those chasing that goal. He hopes that his race is the one where nearly-there runners can come to each year to do it for the first time. If they do, the race organizers fete them no matter where they finish. Every breakthrough is celebrated, and the runner receives $400.
Roberts hasn’t given up, either. He’s 30 now and still training, hoping his body can hold up to his demands.
“I still desire to break four minutes,” he said.
Marquardt grabbed a flight to Raleigh with his father’s airline miles and stayed with family. The trip seemed worthwhile not long after he hit the track. The Sir Walter Miler does not keep its fans at a distance from the runners; they’re packed in by the lanes. Marquardt felt the crowd pulse as he strode along the back straightaway before the race, his nerves turning to excitement as his name was announced to the horde. He had been seeking the perfect race, and here he had found it.
Lined up on the inside, hugging the boundary, Marquardt merged into the pack from the outset. He ran his first two laps in about a minute each, keeping pace but not focused on it. He heard a time bellowed at the 1,000-meter mark but couldn’t decipher if it was for him or someone else. At the Adrian Martinez, he felt he had made a move too early, leading to his collapse. This time, he entered the last lap with verve, committing to a hard tempo and sticking to it, enough fuel in reserve if he needed it.
His arms, his knees, his legs responded to every requirement his mind asked for, fed by adrenaline. It was a sensation he had never felt before. When he hit the final straightaway again, he was beaming. He felt a smile on his face for the final 100 meters. He reminded himself to stay on his toes.
Usually, Marquardt relies on his kick to finish races. He likes to feel another runner near his hip, pushing him to the finish line. He can rely on running the last lap in 57 seconds, pouncing on the speed he keeps available.
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This time, on a warm North Carolina night, he didn’t need it. With floodlights staring over the finish line and a fervent crowd bubbling together in the fifth lane, runner after runner sprinted to the end, all in a close pack. Lopez Lomong, a former Olympian, in first at 3:53.86, taking the race in at a blazing clip, with seven more finishing behind him in under four minutes, and then Marquardt in ninth, his arms raised above his orange jersey as he crossed the line.
In his mind, he would clock a 3:58, maybe a second faster, maybe two seconds faster if everything had been just right. But as the scoreboard turned over, finally showing his name, a 3:55.9 sat next to it. He was one of 13 runners to break the line in under four minutes.
He was nearly delirious. He couldn’t stop smiling. He tried to run some cooldown laps but stopped every quarter-mile to call a friend or a coach with the news.
“It’s not achieving your wildest dream,” Marquardt said. “It’s exceeding it.”
For years, he had not let himself appreciate his success in full. He had pursued a time and not stopped until he had banked it, rebuffing friends and anyone else who wanted to give him credit for all his hard work. For runners, each second is valuable. To cheat it, even passively, can seem like an affront on the ones who have earned it.
Marquardt will keep running. He can’t really stop. He hopes he can nab an agent who can land him a shoe deal and help place him in better races, which can help him run even faster. He has given himself another year of this manner of living, before regular life and other responsibilities set in. His father, Clayton, says that if Marquardt doesn’t run in 2020, an Olympic year, and doesn’t chase a spot in Tokyo, it would be a mistake.
The future will play itself out, but Marquardt has already achieved his primary goal. Sometime after he crossed the line in Raleigh, Marquardt changed his Twitter profile. He needed a new description:
“sub 4 miler.”
(Top photo courtesy of Jason Honeycutt)
