ANTHONY SANDOVAL - Family Man, Medical Man, Mountain Man

by Marc Bloom

On a spring morning at 6 in Los Alamos, New Mexico, Dr. Anthony Sandoval enters the path to Bayo Canyon in the Jemez Mountains at 7,300 feet for his daily run. In the summer, he'll run at 5. Sandoval runs early, 50 to 75 miles a week, in order to start tending to his cardiology patients by 8.

Spring is a tease in Los Alamos. The afternoon promises warmth but it's 40 degrees as Sandoval covers frosty ground and angles through a tunnel to the rutted back-country trails of the mesas, which stretch as far as the eye can see. Sandoval, 49, wears a hat, gloves, long-sleeved shirt, windbreaker and tights. He has no hips. Never did. Sandoval's stride is a whisper. He runs lightly off rocks and over fallen branches while hailing the land that nurtures him and his six children-two running on college teams, two running on the Los Alamos High School team and the two youngest sure to join in when they're ready.

"Running affects my relationships with my wife, kids, my friends all around me," Sandoval says. "While my running is personal, it is also something I give. Running can be given."

Sandoval's winter clothes seem to swallow him and he appears as elf-like as when-at 5'8", 112 pounds and one percent body fat--he won the 1980 U.S. Olympic Marathon Trial in Buffalo, New York, in 2:10:19. Had Sandoval not slowed in the last few miles to protect his lead, he surely would have run in the 2:09s. And at the time, Sandoval was in medical school and unable to train to the limit.

Sandoval said after the trial that with full-time training he "could get a lot fitter." But he was stopped in his tracks. In the cold war politics of the day, Soviet aggression in Afghanistan had led President Jimmy Carter to order a U.S.-led boycott of the Moscow Games. Americans would be Olympians in name only and Sandoval lost his chance for a medal. Many running followers felt he could have won the gold.

While the boycott receded into history, the void inflicted wounds that perhaps have never fully healed. Sandoval's contemporaries, like Bill Rodgers, who did not run the trial as a protest, could fill the vacuum as foot soldiers in the nascent fight for professional running. Sandoval was not a fighter. He was destined to nurture and went on with his medical studies.

Growing up in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, in the village of Truchas 40 miles north of Los Alamos, Sandoval learned from family the duty of his Spanish heritage: to live off the land, help those in need and be a model to his children.

"Living life in an appropriate way," says Sandoval, as though it's that simple. "Loving the environment. Respecting your body."

Skirting the ridge of the mesa with the canyon deepening below, Sandoval, who still weighs only 120, reaches the turnaround point on a fingertip of mesa shelf. The sun begins to rise over the Sangre de Cristos, shading the canyon with chocolate browns. "That's where Truchas is," says Sandoval, waving to the distant peaks.

Inevitably, Sandoval returns his conversation to Truchas. He tells how the other day he made his weekly trip to the home he grew up in, where his father, Presiliano, still lives with his second wife. Sandoval ventured to land he owns with his wife Mary. He planted choke cherry trees, or "capulin."

Sandoval leaves seeds everywhere. With his youthful good looks and boundless energy, he's like a fairy tale character spreading good will. When Sandoval spoke recently at the funeral of a friend's father, a former local sheriff, a mourner wondered aloud, "Who's the teenager giving the eulogy?"

Sandoval's running path takes him back into the valley. A pungent, woodsy fragrance is given off by the remediation of trees burned in the fire of 2000, which devastated the area. Sandoval glides over brush as though on a track. "Eye-leg coordination," he says, explaining his soft stride. "A fast pace in wilderness terrain forces efficiency."

Training here in the mountains for the '80 Olympic Trials, Sandoval was joined by marathoners Jeff Wells, John Lodwick and Kevin McCarey. "One time," Sandoval recalls, "Kevin said, 'Sandy, can't we find a flat run?' I said, 'Kevin, this is a flat run.'"

In the old days, Sandoval trained amid grazing elk at altitudes of up to 10,000 feet. Most of it was done alone. "I used to do tempo runs at the bottom of Guaje Canyon, where it levels out for four miles," he says. "There are long columns of sandstone that the local Indians consider sacred. When I did my hardest workouts, I would put out my hand, to acknowledge the Indian spires and draw strength from them."

Sandoval finds connections in the middle of nowhere. When he takes his 16-year-old daughter, Marisa, a sophomore on the high school team, to run Bayo, he tells her, "That boulder is one of my friends." Father and daughter both touch the rock for empowerment.

Ascending the last steep pitch to a clearing, Sandoval observes, "The morning light is just perfect." Indeed, perfection seems to be a Sandoval hallmark. Except for one thing. "I think I'm content, but not perfectly..." He pauses. "I never ran all out."

Growing up in Truchas, Sandval got his kicks driving the family tractor at age 10. His parents divorced when he was in junior high and Sandoval moved with his father to Los Alamos. Sandoval was too small for basketball and went out for track as a high school sophomore. He became state champion in track and cross-country his junior and senior years. Sandoval's grades were good and he got a scholarship to Stanford, where he majored in engineering.

Sandoval had one crowning moment in college. As a senior in 1976, he won the Pac-8 conference 10,000 meters over a trio of Washington State Kenyans. Sandoval ran his last lap in 62 seconds to outkick Samson Kimobwa, who would set a world 10,000 record the next year. "They took 2-3-4 against me," Sandoval recalls with relish.

Sandoval's running led to an interest in physiology and anatomy. "At first, I didn't know I would do medicine, but I knew I would eventually return to New Mexico. I saw my relatives struggle and I wanted to care for people," he says one morning between patients at his medical office in Espanola, an impoverished town 20 miles from Los Alamos.

On a track runner's mileage, Sandoval took a crack at the '76 Olympic Marathon Trial. He'd run a 2:19 debut at the Fiesta Bowl in Phoenix the previous December. In the trial, held in Eugene, Oregon, Sandoval ran well but it was his first near-miss: fourth-place in 2:14:58.

Without professional running, Sandoval's path was clear. In 1977, he entered the University of Colorado Medical School in Denver. His next marathon, on 35 miles a week, was a 2:14:37 for second at the Nike-Oregon Track Club Marathon in Eugene in 1978. After that, he ran 2:15:23 for 15 th at Boston in 1979. Then, back at the Nike event in Eugene in September, 1979, Sandoval made his breakthrough.

In one of running's most heralded ties, Sandoval came across the finish holding hands with Jeff Wells in 2:10:20. "We were running together," says Sandoval, "At the finish, I just put my arm out and Jeff put his arm out. No words were spoken."

Sandoval had taken a break from medical school to train. He was married by then and lived with Mary in Eugene on a small stipend he received for being a member of the Nike-sponsored Athletics West Club. He also trained in New Mexico. For his Nike/OTC victory, Sandoval's prize was a stained glass Nike swoosh.

With his running reduced in the early '80s, Sandoval did his internship and residency in Denver, followed by a four-year cardiology fellowship at the University of Utah Medical Center in Salt Lake City. "Heart function always excited me," Sandoval says as his waiting rooms fills in Espanola. "And I'm proud to say I bring state-of-the-art care to the poor, rural areas of New Mexico."

Sandoval made halfhearted attempts in subsequent marathon trials. He ran 2:12:42 for sixth in '84 and 2:22:37 for 27 th in '88. In the '92 trials in Columbus, Ohio, Sandoval popped an Achilles tendon at 8 miles and was a dnf. "That was the last time I ran hard," he says.

After returning to Los Alamos a decade ago, Sandoval helped create the New Mexico Heart Institute, now the state's largest agency of cardiac care. Sandoval sees patients in Los Alamos and Espanola and does surgical procedures like angioplasty in Albuquerque. He's on call virtually all the time. He runs with a pager and phone.

In Espanola, a patient, Betty, 53, tells Sandoval she senses her heart skipping a beat and feels drained. Mixing English and Spanish, Sandoval asks about other symptoms while putting the woman at ease. Is she having shortness of breath? Chest pain? She replies no to all including the question about exercising. Betty says that over the winter she could not get out and walk. Sandoval needles her and Betty promises to do better.

Then, the big one. Does she smoke? Yes, a half-pack a day.

" E guella !" howls Sandoval, and Betty laughs. "You're a knucklehead. We're going to have to beat you up about that."

Sandoval orders a stress test for Betty and concludes his exam saying, "If we get you walking, you'll be less likely to want to smoke." As Betty departs, the doctor calls to her, "I teased you but you didn't tease me back. Next time."

Patients request Sandoval and he's so booked up he may skip lunch. Another day, at his Los Alamos office, the apple on his desk will have to suffice. On his office walls, Ansel Adams photos share space with his kids' artwork and notes. A letter from teenage Marisa says, "Remember you are loved by hundreds of people including me."

Last fall, Marisa (roll the "r") was the fourth scorer in the state cross-country meet for the victorious Los Alamos girls, ranked second in the nation. The Hilltoppers swept the first five places for a perfect score. The meet, held in desert climate in Gallup, was marred by a sandstorm. Marisa's scrapbook has photos of runners whipped by winds. "We had dirt in our mouth and our ears," she says proudly. "It got stuck in my braces."

Marisa was preceded on the team by Magdalena, 20, a six-time state champion now running at Oregon, and Miguel, 19, now competing for the University of California at Davis. After Marisa, next in line is Analisa, a freshman who's come back strongly after foot surgery that had forced a nine-month layoff. At a home track meet this week, where dad serves as the official starter, Analisa takes second in the 3200 meters in 12:15, excellent for a freshman, and especially so at over 7,000 feet.

"The Sandoval youth have a genuine love of running as a lifestyle," says Rob Hipwood, who coaches Los Alamos with his wife Kathy. "Getting up at 6 to run is pleasurable to them."

The youngest Sandovals are sixth-grader Benigno and second-grader Teresa. All six children were chosen for the grade school's gifted-and-talented program and are involved in music and theater. Over dinner, a pinto bean-based meal, at the Sandovals' ranch-style home, 8-year-old Teresa asks questions like, "Where does language come from?"

The Sandoval children are as sweet as Mary's natilla pudding and as unpretentious as Los Alamos itself. The city of 19,000, 40 miles northwest of Santa Fe, makes no appeal to tourists, has no movie theatres, few decent restaurants and one Starbucks. What it has are the mountains and forests, outdoor living, and a reminder that nature can take as well as give. In the fire of 2000, the entire town and county were evacuated for more than a week. Four-hundred homes were destroyed, including a re-sale the Sandovals had purchased and were remodeling.

The emphasis on self-sufficiency seems to bolster the Los Alamos track squad, which has 130 members, an unheard-of 10 percent of the student body. Many of the runners' parents work at the city's signature site, Los Alamos National Laboratory, where the Manhattan Project created the first atomic bombs during World War II.

Nuclear fission and trail running would seem the ultimate odd couple, but the brainy scientists-"labbies," as the kids call them-convey an eccentricity that may find comfort in running's extremes. A track parent and lab scientist, Blake Wood, father of Heather Wood, who qualified for the Foot Locker high school cross-country nationals last fall, is an ultra-runner who trains with the high school team.

One afternoon, following a set of repeat 600s in which he keeps up with the top boys, Wood, a 44-year-old nuclear physicist, says of his work, "I'm in one of two groups that designs bombs." Then, with a Seinfeldian pause, he adds, "Almost everyone I know runs 100 miles and designs bombs. What's unusual about that?"

Truchas is an hour's drive from Los Alamos. In his '99 Honda Accord, Sandoval takes the mountain curves like a marathoner cutting the tangents. Truchas, which means "trout" in Spanish, has one street, small adobe homes, a general store and little else. Sandoval's ancesters settled in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains in the 17 th century. Today a few hundred people live in Truchas including many in the Sandoval family.

Sandoval exudes pride about every inch of the place: the home in which he grew up and did not have a phone, the barn he built with his father using discarded wood from school bleachers, the cattle his father still raises, the three Truchas mountain peaks at 13,000 feet that he's backpacked with the kids, the trails he's run countless times and, most especially, the remote Vallecito ("little valley) with 45 acres of Sandoval land.

"Movie stars have ranches in Aspen," he says. "The Sandovals have their piece of the earth in Truchas."

To show it off, Sandoval takes his battered '76 truck down a steep, rocky trail into the Rio Grande Valley. It's a wild, white-knuckle ride. On his expanse, Sandoval grows hay to feed his father's cattle. He has an apple orchard that bears help themselves to. And the fresh capulin , showing early shoots. "Perfect spot for them," says Sandoval. "One day I'll have choke cherries and Mary will make jam."

The landscape, says Sandoval, is most alluring in summer when the scrub oak trees blossom, forming protective canopies from the hard mountain sun. This is where he will soon bring Marisa to run. It's a blistering six-miler from his father's home to the Vallecito and back. Magdalena did it. Miguel did it. Now it's Marisa's turn.

With his truck lurching back up the hill, Sandoval says Truchas puts his life in balance, enabling him to "get away from the intellectual side," his medicine, and to land he can nurture and pass on. Even here, away from civilization, Sandoval gets beeped from his office. "She's going to need a pacemaker," he says of a patient. "I'll put her on the O.R. schedule."

On the day he will perform the procedure, Sandoval's out the door at 6:30 for what he calls his Breakfast Run. When he runs from home 17 miles into the mountains, Mary meets him with bagels and fruit on a clearing at a peak so he won't have to pound the downhills back. Now he does a shortened circuit on the same grounds, at Pajarito ski area, where the high school team trains in summer. Sandoval takes an old logging trail, passing patches of snow and a herd of elk, ascending to 10,000 feet.

Talk turns to the past, and future. "I was so comfortable in my running," Sandoval says of 1980. "I think I would have been vying for the gold medal. I wish I could have given my running the opportunity to completely blossom."

Sandoval says that his body fat is still about 5 percent and that every so often he runs repeat 200s for speed. "One of my goals," he says, "it to support the kids'running, to be their training partner on hard runs and interval sessions."

Another goal is to race again. Sandoval brings up masters track. Maybe start with the 5,000 meters and go from there. How about a marathon? Could he run 2:20? "If I trained for it," he says. But his plan is not for himself. "Competing, running hard, that would be a different example for the kids," he says. "Now that I'm turning 50, maybe I should do that."

Postscript: In December 2004, Sandoval ran his first race since his prime, placing placed 2nd in the USA masters cross-country 50-54 division in Portland, Oregon.

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