Dodgy method makes marathon route a gas

Iwalked into Peter Leo’s Squirrel Hill home and he didn’t try to hide his disappointment. He was wearing gray sweat pants topped with a gray “Pittsburgh Post-Gazette 1786-1986” sweatshirt. I was all Mr. Chips in my jacket and slacks. As a veteran of the Pittsburgh Marathon course, he couldn’t believe my lack of preparation.

“These are the road grays,’’ he said. “What are you thinking of here?’’

Our intention was to beat Peter’s time of May 1986, when he completed the 26.2mile course in 2 hours, 13, minutes, 41 seconds. Peter wrote a legendary PG column about it: “Marathon’s no sweat if you’re driven and good in the clutch.’’

Peter ran the marathon in a Buick Skylark. I was determined to try it in a Dodge Stratus, hoping that this time there would be an endorsement deal. Peter would drive, just as Bob Patla, official artist of the Peter Leo column, drove him.

As we rode through the Strip District toward the Downtown starting line of the race set for next Sunday morning, Peter liked our chances.

“The weather couldn’t be better. No, sir. I would say midway we’re going to want a little rain to cool us off.’’

His confidence was infectious, and I silently complimented myself for employing this seasoned veteran.

Soon, we were at the Liberty Avenue starting line. Peter gave a double-take when I told him I hadn’t brought a stopwatch. We waited for the minute to flip on my cell phone, and we were off.

“I’m not seeing the crowds,’’ he said driving down Liberty. “It’s early, though. Is the air conditioning right for you?”

Even with red lights, we did the first 1.3 miles in five minutes. We made the left at 30th Street and then another on Penn. He lamented not having a pace-setting opponent.

“We could use a rabbit,’’ he said.

“I don’t think Volkswagen makes them anymore,’’ I said.

“Roxanne’’ came on the radio, which seemed to put Peter back in his 1980s prime. We crossed the 16th Street Bridge — the first of five river crossings — and headed down East Ohio Street. When we made the left on Cedar Avenue, I saw a baby carriage entering the crosswalk and feared a “French Connection’’ collision. Peter deftly dodged the dawdler, only to be slowed by a man enjoying his Pittsburgh birthright to jaywalks.

“Does he know what’s at stake here?” Peter asked.

Even with those obstacles, after 6.2 miles we’d exhausted only 24 minutes. Talk about an adrenaline rush. That put us more than six minutes ahead of his ’86 time.

Peter warned against cockiness with a score of miles to go. We rumbled through the West End — the city has cured its pothole epidemic since, I’m assured — and headed for the South Side. East Carson Street was a breeze. We crossed the Birmingham Bridge.

The main Carnegie Library in Oakland was nearly the halfway point and we stopped for a bathroom break, having used only about an hour.

“I’m smelling a record, right?” Peter said.

Ten minutes later we were back in the car. About an hour and 20 minutes in, just shy of the 16-mile mark in Point Breeze, we hit construction.

“You seem pretty cool about this work zone,’’ Peter said admiringly. “It’s almost like you’re just sitting in a car.’’

By mile 22, about that point where old Pittsburghers argue about where the Friendship-Bloomfield border is, we felt we could coast to the record.

“If somebody had to break it,’’ Peter said, “I’m glad it was you.’’

Nearing the finish line on the Boulevard of the Allies — using Wood Street instead of Smithfield, as next week’s coddled runners will be allowed to do against the usual one-way rules — Peter eyed the oblivious passers-by.

“These people have no idea all this is going on,’’ he said as we leaned into the finish. “They think it’s just another day.’’

One hour, 57 minutes — we had shattered a record that stood for 29 years. Driving in Pittsburgh is now officially faster than running. Proud? Betcha! Peter rolled down the window and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, you have seen and shared in one of driving’s great moments.’’

“All the training was worth it, I guess,” Peter said as we made the suddenly pressure-free trip back to his home. “To think that people actually run this. I mean it’s bad enough driving it.’’