Bill Rodgers crosses the finish line in the 1979 Boston Marathon. Associated Press

Boxborough, Ma.

I wanted to go see Bill Rodgers, because when I was a kid growing up in Massachusetts, Bill Rodgers was what I thought of when I thought of the Boston Marathon, not that acrid wickedness still under lockdown on Boylston Street. The hours since the bombings had been traumatic for the city, and in the aftermath there had been unimaginable grief. A joyous day, so meaningful to New England, had been devastated by cowardice. That's why I wanted to see Bill Rodgers, the floppy-haired flier from Connecticut, who'd lifted this race like nobody else before him, winning it four times between 1975 and 1980—once, eccentrically, in a Snoopy stocking cap. Along the way, he helped transform distance running and became an improbable local sports legend, "Boston Billy" alongside Orr and Bird and Ted. Like anyone who ran and loved the Boston Marathon, I was sick about what had happened, and so I came to see Rodgers, and I had a big ask.

I wanted to go for a run.

He met me Wednesday morning, at his house 30 or so miles outside the city, up a twisty hill from a long stretch of pasture. Rodgers is 65 now, but the hair is still blond and robust, and his frame remained feathery, athletic. Rodgers said he weighed 140 pounds, a sliver more than in his racing prime, when he hovered at 128. He wore a long-sleeved black shirt, and black sweatpants, and on his feet were a pair of shiny pair of green and blue running shoes. Rodgers said he'd picked out a running route in the neighborhood—a brief spell on pavement, and then a country trail with grass and soft earth. He smiled. "The older you get," he said, "the more you run the trails."

Rodgers had missed Boston this year. He'd been all around the race in the days leading up to it, as he almost always did, making appearances and so on, but this year he decided to watch this one from home. He'd found out about the bombings from a friend. He didn't believe it. "I was like, 'What?'" he said. He called his daughter, whom he knew was in the city. He called his brother. Both were safe.

In the living room, Rodgers's television continued to update the agonizing reports of deaths and mayhem at the finish line. That finish line had changed Rodgers's life when he crossed it first in 1975. Now it was a crime scene, marked with blood.

"It's a sad thing, in so many ways," Rodgers said softly.

Tragedy was the opposite of what a marathon was supposed to be. Rodgers had come of age as a racer during that exuberant '70s running boom, and though he was a great competitor—he also won the New York Marathon four times—he loved the inclusiveness of a marathon, how anyone could line up with the trained professionals (Rodgers doesn't like the term "elite," considering it too standoffish). A marathon packed together so many skill levels and life stories. "We're on the same road," Rodgers said. "We sweat the same. We struggle the same."

That scope was something that the attacker or attackers of Boston did not comprehend, Rodgers said. This marathon was global and universal, bigger than one city. "It's such a human sport," he said. "I don't think these bombers get that—that when they attack the Boston Marathon, they don't just attack America. They attack all the countries with runners in the marathon."

We set off from the house, nice and easy. Rodgers said he still ran six times a week, about 40 miles. His strides were light and effortless; he talked easily. He spoke about his longtime friendships with fellow runners; his famed running centers, the last of which closed in October; his new book, "Marathon Man." He mentioned the three-time winner Cosmas Ndeti of Kenya, who had given his son the middle name Boston. He stopped to say hello to a pair of unleashed dogs. (Rodgers usually stops for crazy dogs. He said he's only been bitten once.)

The road wound down to a barn and an open field, and then out of the sun and into the woods, where we ran over tree roots and pine needles. "I think next year I should run Boston," Rodgers said suddenly. He'd been considering running in 2015, the 40th anniversary of his first win. But this felt right. "I think I am going to do it, no matter what. I want to do my part. Make a statement."

It had been a painful week, in the sport and beyond. Everyone felt it, including Boston Billy. But he was hopeful. "The beauty of the sport is always there," he said. "You can't take that away. You can't."

Back at Rodgers's house, where his New York Marathon championship plates were stacked neatly in a Tiffany & Co. box in the kitchen, Rodgers went into another room to search for a photo in the newspaper of Martin Richard, the 8-year-old boy who had been killed after coming to watch his father finish the Boston Marathon. In the photo, little Martin was holding a poster he'd made last year in school.

No more hurting people, the poster read. Peace.

"What he's saying is really the story," Bill Rodgers said. "That's everything. Nothing else needs to be said."

Write to Jason Gay at

Corrections & Amplifications
Bill Rodgers met with the writer Wednesday morning. An earlier version of this article said Thursday.