Before I tell you this story I would like to assure you that 98 percent of it is true. It attempts to adhere to Native American writer N. Scott Momaday’s belief that a memoir is our best idea of how it was, but the other 1 percent perhaps leans toward novelist Barbara Kingsolver’s definition — “Memory is a complicated thing, a relative to truth but not its twin.”
Bob Bartling. When words of Bob’s passing began to find their way out in the community last week, my memory began its usual scramble to recall and define the person I had known for more than 50 years. Sixteen years separated us: 97 and 81 at last count. But with Bob Bartling, age was never an issue, no matter if you were 6 or 90. I don’t believe any of us will ever forget Bob’s smile, a “Gatsby” smile that author F. Scott Fitzgerald described as “He smiled understandingly — much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with the quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced — or seemed to face — the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor.”
Bob Bartling — how easy that name glides through our smiles when we say it. If you saw Bob approaching you at the furniture store or on the street, you were likely yourself to be smiling in anticipation of a conversation which had not even begun.
My friendship with Bob probably began with a tip from someone that the best running shoes to be found in Brookings were in the basement of a furniture store. So I checked it out. There were many facets to our friendship. I was always impressed with Bob’s willingness to help anyone become a runner or jogger. I was the latter. I have often wondered what Bob was thinking when my 6’, 1”, 215-pound, somewht amorphous frame stood in his shoe store asking for a pair of size 13-14 Nikes. He didn’t know at the time that I loathed any race beyond a 220. But there I stood before the local God of Running. My goal was maybe working up to a mile or two somewhere in the distant future. Imagine my disbelief when in a couple of years I was running lots of 5-miles and some 10s and 12s, along with the killer 15.2 practice run from White to Brookings — Bob with me every step, including those long five minutes it took me to cross the Old 77 and bypass intersection. But the Campanile was in sight. For the last couple of miles Bob kept repeating, “Pick up your feet. Lift your feet.” It worked, but when I stopped about 30 feet short of the finish line, Bob was quick to inform me I still had a ways to go. Everything was official to Bob. I loved it! He made a miracle of my limited physical ability. Bob’s running knowledge and enthusiasm for the sport is what I call the Running Missionary side of Bob.
But there was another side to Bob Bartling that was equally beneficial to me — Bob was the “Master of Mischief.” He loved a little mischief, and so did I. Only one day, a Monday, after my 15.2 mile run from White to Brookings, Bob got in touch with me and wondered if I wanted to be part of an elaborate ruse which would involve our mutual friend, John Lasher, president of Brookings Norwest Bank at the time, and the person I ran with in preparation for the official Jack 15, which was just a few weeks ahead. John and I were competitive rivals of the best kind — lots of humor. But John was out of town the Sunday I ran my practice 15.2. Bob had a plan: We would synchronize our watches Tuesday afternoon, and early Wednesday morning Bob would drive John out to White for his practice run, since, well, Dave had already passed his test on Sunday, and John would want to see if he could do it, too. My role in the plot was to drive to the interstate overpass west of White, park my car under the overpass, and, at 6:23 a.m. — watches synchronized, remember — I would be running west about halfway across the overpass: Two ships passing in the night, if you will.
So early Wednesday morning, I got on the south lane of I-29 (it was not open but was nearing completeion and at the early hour, finish crews were not at work yet). I was dressed in running shorts, a gray T-shit and Nikes. The gray T-shirt was a must because I took along a bottle of water to pour down the front of me to create an authentic “he is sweating” look. I climbed up the bank of the east off ranp, surveyed the logistics of this elaborate caper, did a practice run to the middle of the overpass, and began listening for the sound of Bob’s blue 1963 Ford 300 2-door sedan, coming from the west. There were three false alarms that May 14, 1972 morning — 52 years ago. Bob would have liked those details. Ideally, the sun had just risen at 6:07 a.m., complicating the vision of east-bound vehicles.
On the fourth approach of a vehicle that morning, I started my run once again, this time meeting Bob and John at the optimum spot. Bob’s Ford whizzing by only four feet from me, my teeth were clenched to thwart a grin, so as to not betray the plan. John’s visor was pulled down, his head leaning to the right to get a glimpse of someone walking or running next to the overpass safety rail. It was a perfect execution. Bob and I should have been bank robbers. Still, Bob had to deal with the next chapter, particularly John’s startled burst, “Who was that?” But Bob, Master of Mischief, was ready employing the old debate tactic of answering a question with another question: “Was that who I thought it was?” John instantly answered “That was Dave Walder.” The rest was easy. Bob now employed the doubt factor. “Oh, no, no. Dave just ran the 15 on Sunday. He wouldn’t be out here on Wednesday running it again.” John, relieved, welcomed Bob’s doubt, eager to confirm that his running and training friend, but also rival, Dave, could not possibly be running another 15 that soon. John’s summary words for the experience were “Yeah, probably just some farmer,” and then he added “He was running too fast for Dave Walder.”
In the ensuing weeks, however, Bob and brother Lorne and a few other runners informed of the ruse, kept the embers glowing for a few days by asking John if it could possibly be Dave Walder running that morning. As part of the plan, I avoided John until the following week at our scheduled run. As we got out of our cars, John’s first question was “Were you out running by White last Wednesday?” I summoned my best acting knowledge from the two courses I have in college, feigned hesitation, threw in a “let’s seeeeee” asking, “Last Wednesday?” and then shaking my head. “No,” I told him. “I had a late date Tuesday night. Went to the second movie. Late.”
John and I headed north on the bypass for our run, I purposely set a good pace, waiting for him to ask, as he always did when he was 3 strides behind me: “Did you forget someone?”
A few days later, I told John that, yes, it was me running that Wednesday morning.
He immediately replied, “I knew it!” But he didn’t. The Master of Mischief had prevailed. Again.
Folks, in the remaining years we have left on this planet, let’s not forget to stop occasionally and say the name “Bob Bartling.” The memories, stories, smiles will flood back. We were so lucky to know such a wonderful and complex person. Just the right balance of Running Missionary and Mischief Master.
