Fred Lebow loved to give away T-shirts. Wherever he went, whether in London or Helsinki or Marrakech, Fred put smiles on people's faces with his cotton-and-polyester largesse. Of course, the shirts carried the logo of the New York City Marathon or other events he had created during his long tenure as the impresario of running.

Fred gave his T-shirts to more than just runners. Six weeks before his death last October 9, he walked through the chambers of the New York City Council distributing "In Training for the 1994 New York City Marathon" shirts to some of the city's most hardened pols. They grasped his hands and patted him on the back to thank him for creating New York's finest day.

Fred and I had a close friendship that dated back to our first running encounter in Central Park 25 years ago. It was a friendship that spanned successes, failures, breakups, countless trips to other cities and foreign lands, and thousands of T-shirts handed out to the famous and powerful, but mostly to rank-and-file runners.

I had a direct-dial button to Fred's office, and we talked virtually every day in person or on the phone. We talked about various things, but usually it was about running--the politics, the gossip, the athletes, the events and the business of our sport. Fred kept his finger on the pulse of running like no one else. He constantly cited the latest race participation figures. And when the running boom began to level off, Fred, a true promoter and eternal optimist, always put the best spin on the numbers. "The real running boom hasn't even begun yet," he'd say. Or, "Last evening there were more runners in Central Park than back in the '70s, and most of them were women." In the accent of his native Romania, that last word came out as "vimmen."

Fred's story is intriguing and well-known: he grew up in Arad, Romania, near the Hungarian border, in a large, Orthodox Jewish family that fled the town after World War II. As a teenager, he lived by his wits, smuggling sugar and diamonds from the Continent to England and Ireland. After immigrating to the United States, he settled in Cleveland, where he ran an improv nightclub, The Left-Handed Compliment. Finally, he moved to New York City and made a good living in the garment center by manufacturing knockoffs.

Fred's life changed after his friend and tennis partner Brian Crawford challenged him to a race around the Central Park Reservoir. Despite an 11-minute pace over the 1.6-mile loop, Fred beat Crawford. Soon Fred was running everywhere and at every opportunity. Since he had kept his life stripped to a minimalist existence, with no hobbies, no serious romantic commitments and no interest in acquiring personal possessions, he was free to pursue his new obsession.

In the late 1960s, Fred joined the handful of runners in the New York Road Runners Club (NYRRC) and began entering club races, which were often held on the streets and sidewalks outside Yankee Stadium. Unlike the rest of us, Fred realized that running had the potential to play in the big leagues, and he set out to change things. In 1970 he organized the first NYC Marathon on a four-loop course around Central Park, digging into his own pockets to buy soft drinks for the finishers and cheap watches for the winners.

The race grew over the next few years, and in 1976 Fred made the boldest move of his career: he took the race to the streets of the city's five boroughs. Now he needed to round up sponsors--a daunting task. Just three years earlier, General Motors had turned down his proposal to finish the Central Park marathon in front of GM's new headquarters on Fifth Avenue for a mere $2,000.

While the new challenge was far bigger than any he had yet faced, Fred tackled it with great enthusiasm, and I got a close-up look at his skill, guile and energy. He managed to secure Frank Shorter and Bill Rodgers, massaged city agencies, fought over myriad details, attended endless meetings and worked the press without letup. He succeeded in signing up several sponsors, including my own New Times magazine, which contributed $5,000. The race was a tremendous success, but Fred was not satisfied. He told us it could be much bigger and much better. From then on, Fred had found his life's work.

Fred was the perfect person to put running on the map, a blend of priest of our sport and P. T. Barnum--style promoter. One without the other would not have worked. As Fred began to push running forward, he sometimes faced resistance from old-timers who liked the low-key, amateurish ways of the past. But Fred stayed the course, paid little heed to the criticisms and kept on running. Wherever he went, to other races around the United States and the world, he looked for new ideas he could bring back to his beloved marathon: street banners from Los Angeles, long-stemmed roses for the women finishers from Berlin and post-race party activities from everywhere.

Like any great promoter, Fred understood the importance of the media, which he constantly courted with a mix of finesse and gamesmanship. He knew the press needed real stories and good quotes, and he gave them what they wanted. He enjoyed the personal attention and his growing celebrity, and ignored those who said he was on an ego trip. He knew full well that all the attention helped the marathon.

In 1983, Fred and I were invited to a small private audience with the Pope at the Vatican. The Pope greeted each person individually. When he heard that Fred directed the New York City Marathon, he commented that it was a marvelous event known throughout the world. Later that day, Fred and I were preparing to go out for a run when he mentioned that he had called in the story about meeting the Pope. "It should get good press tomorrow," Fred said with a twinkle in his eye.

As the NYC Marathon gained popularity, an entry became a hot ticket, but Fred knew how to make it hotter. "Just today I had to turn down requests from Koch and Cuomo," he might say, sounding pained. He told of runners who offered bribes and women who offered themselves, allowing that from time to time a good story might require him to alter the facts.

When it came to his own running, however, Fred followed a strict honor code. Years ago he told a reporter, "I feel running is the oasis in life, the one area, unlike business or relationships with women friends, where one does not cheat or exaggerate. I will never write in my log that I ran a mile more than I really did. Running is my area of total honesty."

Fred has been called a visionary because he could imagine things that others couldn't. One time I thought he was dreaming too big. In 1980 he decided that the barely solvent NYRRC should buy a townhouse on New York's expensive Upper East Side to house its growing organization. The risk seemed too great. But, as it turned out, the move was one of Fred's masterworks. It allowed the club to expand its promotion of races like the women's Mini, the Trevira Twosome, the Chemical Bank Corporate Challenge, the Fifth Avenue Mile and the Midnight Run.

A visionary is never fully satisfied, and Fred suffered most in the days after each annual marathon, as he wondered how the event could keep getting bigger and better. His worst year was 1981, when Alberto Salazar and Allison Roe had both set world records. I remember his day-after-the-marathon voice, strained and raspy, as he asked, "How can we ever top this?"

His depression lasted weeks rather than days. Finally, Fred's typical upbeat mood kicked back in, and he began talking about a marathon in which a head-to-head duel to the finish was more important than new records. Sure enough, the next two years saw two of the greatest marathon finishes of all time, first Alberto Salazar battling Rodolfo Gomez, and then Rod Dixon going against Geoff Smith.

Fred's work was not free of feuds and controversies. Some of them became public dialogues. Bill Rodgers lambasted him for not paying athletes enough, and Bob Bright of the Chicago Marathon tangled repeatedly with Fred, as did the USATF (TAC at the time), the International Management Group and even his own board of directors. Sometimes things got pretty hostile, but Fred could never hold a grudge. Before long, he was having a friendly dinner with his adversary. Try as you might, it was impossible not to like the man.

Meetings in Fred's office often took on a zany Laurel-and-Hardy style. People were constantly walking in and out to say something, and Fred would start flipping through the newspapers when he got bored. One time I brought Marc Cannon of Alamo Rent-a-Car to Fred's office to discuss a sponsorship idea. Among the numerous interruptions was a man on a ladder who fixed a ceiling light while talking with Fred. "It's like Grand Central Station in there," Marc said later. Still, he was charmed, and by the time we left, the Alamo Alumni Runs had been created.

Very few entrepreneurs become successful managers after they have built an institution. Fred was an exception. A classic control freak in the early days, he alone talked with sponsors, the police department and city officials, not to mention personally picking up invited athletes at the airport. Over the years he came to realize that the NYRRC and its crown jewel, the marathon, had gotten too big for any one person. Against hisinstincts, he delegated more and more responsibilities to his technical director, Allan Steinfeld.

A few weeks before Fred's death, Mayor Rudy Giuliani held a reception at Gracie Mansion to honor the marathon's 25th running. That evening the mayor announced that 89th Street between Fifth and Madison, the block where the NYRRC is housed, would be named "Fred Lebow Place." Allan, who for years had worked behind the scenes and avoided the limelight, spoke with conviction and confidence. When I visited Fred the next night, I told him Allan had done extremely well. Fred pulled me close to him and whispered "Truman," referring to Harry Truman's emergence from the long shadow of Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

When Fred learned of his brain cancer in 1990, I was deeply moved by his personal courage and fighting spirit. As soon as he could get out of bed, Fred asked for a cane and began walking the corridors of his hospital, which he calculated at 12 laps to the mile. It seemed he willed the cancer into remission. His tour de force 1992 marathon, with Grete Waitz at his side and throngs of adoring fans waiting hours to see him, easily ranks as the emotional high point of the NYC Marathon's 25-year history.

Early last year, the cancer returned, but Fred fought to maintain his work routine. When he could no longer run, he would walk 2 or 3 miles a day. During the final weeks, with the strength draining from his body, his spirit never diminished. I visited Fred each day during this period and marveled, as I had many times in the past, that he had never learned to complain. When I asked him if there was anything I could do, he nodded his head, smiled and whispered, "Be nice." He enjoyed the many visits from friends, some, such as Salazar, Waitz and Carl Lewis, coming from long distances for a final good-bye. His sister, Sarah Katz, was in constant attendance, making potato latkes and giving massages.

Salazar came in from Portland, Oregon, on Friday, October 7, as Fred was slipping into a deep sleep. As if speaking for all runners, Alberto told him, "You've changed my life, Fred. You're a real inspiration. I love you."

On Saturday I went to visit Fred but wasn't sure that he could hear me. I told him that the 25th Anniversary Marathon was shaping up as the best ever. His blue eyes opened, and he put both thumbs up. The next morning, while the Marathon Tune-Up 30-K was being run in Central Park, Fred Lebow passed away.