Breaking My Dad's Track Record And Learning Something About Myself

It’s December of 1978 and I am halfway through my freshman year at the University of Maine at Orono. I am running track because it is the only thing that I think I am good at, and it keeps me focused enough to pass my classes and “almost” stay out of trouble.

As much as I am willing to work harder than anyone else during track practice I am also willing to party harder than anyone else when a keg of beer is tapped.

My efforts and dedication during track practice have started to pay off. In a time trial meet, early in December, I run a 1:55.1 800 meter. Pedestrian, by today’s standards, but at the time it was actually the fastest 800 recorded on the UMO indoor track.

The next weekend we have a home meet against UNH and I am entered on the 600-yard dash.  UNH is running the "1978 New England Indoor Champion" in the 600 hundred. UMO coach, Ed Stryna, tells me to stay with him for 300 yards and then "go like hell." So that is exactly what I do. At 300 yards I surge and take the lead. As I round the last turn I feel my whole body begin to go numb and I do my best to relax but in the last 20 meters, the UNH runner catches me and surges past me to win. Although I have lost, I am very happy. This senior is good and my dad, as usual, is there to watch me run.

After the race, dad tells me he won’t be able to go to Vermont the next weekend to watch me run because of prior commitments. In reality this is a big relief to me because I am running more than I ever have and I am tired and just want to relax.

The next Friday, I board the bus headed for the University of Vermont. Christmas break is about begin and I can’t wait to be away from school and away from running. I’ve made a calculated choice to sit with a senior triple jumper, who I know is ready for fun. 

As the bus pulls away from the UMO campus for the 6-hour ride to UMV, that senior triple jumper hands me a beer (yes, we were on a college athletic bus) and we begin one of the most interesting trips of my life.

I’ve never been one to sip a beer, and as each can is handed to me I drink faster and faster. There is no effort to hide the indiscretion. As as the beer is consumed we simply tuck it overhead in the luggage rank and pretty soon the clank, clank, clank of beer cans begins to rumble, as the bus negotiates each turn.

Several hours into the trip we are given our “per diem” meal allowance, in cash,  and the bus stops for dinner. As the other, dutiful athletes, head toward the local diner for their pre-meet meal, the triple jumper and I head to the local package store, across the street, to purchase more beer, in cash.

By the time we hit the Vermont hotel, close to campus, I am ready for the night ahead and the idea of preparing to run the following morning is simply ridiculous.

I get my bag, the key to my room and then head off into the night with the triple jumper, to enjoy the UMV night ambience.

By the third or fourth fraternity party my mind is getting bleary, but I do remember anxiously stepping into a circle of fraternity brothers to share a joint.  After several hits I turn around and find a fraternity brother passed out behind me. The first thought that comes to my mind is to tie his shoelaces together, and that is exactly what I do.

As I stand up from this joyful task, I turn around to find every brother, that has ever pledged that fraternity, standing over me and…. well pretty much, they were threatening my life.

As I untie the “wasted” brother’s shoes I start to realize the error of my ways and head back to the hotel at 4 am.

Normally, we would meet for breakfast and as tough as I thought I was, swallowing eggs at 7 am after the night I had just experienced was not in the cards for me. In fact, getting to the crappy, 176 yard, old school, UVM track in time to compete was as big a challenge as I had faced.

I remember walking into the UVM indoor track facility and thanking God that dad was not coming to the meet. I just wanted to lie on the track and die.

I began to stretch, as I held back dry heaves. This 880-yard dash, is going to suck and I deserve it. At least no-one that I care about is going to see how bad I am about to run and I’ll be able to sleep on the long ride to Orono.

There I am, smelling like alcohol and pot, feeling like shit and simply thankful that my indiscretion will go unnoticed..........when my dad walks through the doors of the UVM indoor track facility.

For those of you reading this, who know what it is like to throw up in your mouth and swallow it, that is what I did.

I know what I must have smelled like as I gave dad a hug and then something hit me in that moment that I have used several times since then. “I had to perform, regardless of what I felt like."

I pulled myself off the ground and started to slowly jog and assess how I felt. I quickly came to the internal consensus that I felt like shit and kept jogging.

Slowly, I began to loosen up.

When the time came for the start of the 880-yard dash I toed the line and, out of fear more than anything else, I decided to just run like hell and see what would happen.

Remarkably, I felt much better than I anticipated and no one challenged me. As I crossed the finish line and heard the time I knew I had set a track-record.

Dad was delighted that I had won.  I told him that I had set a new track record and he responded in his proverbial Maine accent with “Are you showa”?

“Yes dad, I am sure.”, I responded.

I should have known that this would not be the end of the process. My dad was a town manager and he had to verify “everything”.

This was 1978 and there was no email or internet and Os Bonsey was going to make sure that he confirmed that his son had a set a track record.

On Sunday he hand-wrote a letter to the UVM track coach asking if I had set a track record, and put it in the mail on Monday.

Two weeks later Dad received a letter from the UVM track coach that said, “Yes, Osmond, you have set the 880 yard dash record for the UVM track facility. You are off to a terrific start in your career.”

Somehow the UVM coach thought that I was writing to him and that I was Osmond!

Of course, this was probably dad’s ultimate plan.  The record was recorded as “Osmond Bonsey” and placed on the wall of the UVM indoor track facility.

Two years later I returned to UVM and broke my dad’s “track-record”.

This time, I didn't drink.

What I Learned From A 10-Year-Old " Gross Boy"

I was ten years old when I met Steve. He was twelve and his family owned a camp, two cottages away from my family’s camp on Crescent Lake in Raymond, Me.

I was a scrawny, shy and insecure kid. 

For some reason Steve took an immediate liking to me and even though he was older and smarter we became fast friends.

After a few days of hanging out together Steve asked me to sleepover at his camp.

I immediately said, “ I don’t think you’d want me to”

Steve gave me a curious look and said, “Why?”

“Because I’m a gross boy.”

"What’s a gross boy?”, Steve laughed.

 “I pick my nose and fart a lot.”

I always laugh when I tell this story but as I think about this I realize that I do the same thing, when I am at my best, in business and personal relationships today.

I believe it is important to be who you are and set the parameters for the relationship up front so that everyone knows what the expectations are.

Even as a 10-year-old I was aware of this.  Steve knew what he was getting into and that has allowed us remain and grow as friends for almost 45 years.

Besides, it allows me to still pick my nose and fart a lot.