One thing that hasn't been mentioned is Joanie's toughness.
I had the opportunity to accompany her on many long runs back in the early 90's and one run in particular stands out. I think it was 1990 and she was getting ready for Boston...
We set out from her house at about 9:00 am on a January morning when the temperature was hovering around -5 degrees Fahrenheit, with the plan to run twelve miles. There was a driving wind and I was wearing just about every item of running gear I owned. About 8 miles into the run (around fifty minutes) she said: "If we take a left here we can add on four and get in a solid 90 minutes."
Her marathon pr was a full ten minutes quicker than mine and I was clearly the junior partner, so I went along for the ride.
About a mile before I thought we were done, she said: "Look, we're out here now, that was the hard part, let's hack off down to the Muddy Rudder, and we'll get in a full twenty. It'll be good to get a real two hour run in so early in the year."
Again, not my place to argue. We hacked off...and the pace started to pick up.
Just as we getting back into familiar territory we turned into the wind, I was getting close to exhausted and I started to lose feeling in my hands - my face was totally numb. She was working pretty hard too, but kept chatting trying to keep me going. I was ready for it to be over, and, what was worse, the cold had completely frozen the family jewels. It started to get excruciatingly painful. A mile or two further and conversation stopped, as she kept pushing the pace. At one point she tried to encourage me by saying that last mile had been a 5:45. I was too beaten up to do more than grunt. All I could think about was the hot tub on her deck.
Finally, at about 19 miles, she said through gritted teeth: "Let's take the shore road home, that will give us 23."
I was too trashed to argue.
On the shore road, at about 21 miles and just over two hours, I broke. I said: "I know the way from here, you go on. I have to walk for a bit." She took one look at me and saw that I was serious. "Okay, but I'll come back for you," was her response.
She ran home, turned around, and came back for me. I had walked for a few hundred yards, and then got going again just before she showed up - I was in more discomfort than I had ever known on a run. By the time we got back to her place, my time for the 23 miles was 2:23, she must have run 24..
When we got in the house she made blueberry pancakes from scratch. I sat hollow-eyed and watched. I'm certain she was almost as trashed as I was, but she pushed herself through it. It was some of the most welcome food I can remember eating.
If this was a one off occurrence, that would be one thing, but it was a pattern that I learned to recognise on certain runs that she designated as milestones in her race preparation.
She simply worked hard as hard as she could, for as long as she could. And it is a bit disingenuous for anyone to say she didn't think about the opposition, on this run she had been talking about Lisa Martin, who was running really well. As we ate breakfast, Joanie looked at me and said: "Do you think Lisa worked as hard on her run today as we did?"
I said, in total honesty, "I sincerely doubt it."
A few years later, I had a good run at Boston (for a 40 year old) and the first person to find me after the race and congratulate me was Joanie.
She's a class act. And she implicitly understood that it was usually not enough to be as physically fit as your opponents in a race; you had to want it more, and sometimes you had to be prepared to go to a dark place in your soul to beat them. She had the ability to go to that dark place, and come back from it generous - both in defeat and victory - comfortable in knowledge that she had given EVERYTHING she had. It's only one of the many character qualities she has that I will always admire.
Altitude? Her point, I think, is that even if you could train on top of Everest, in the final analysis, it's going to come down to the race -and who wants it the most. And that was an area that she could control.
All the best,
Giles.