A little more than a year ago, the e-mail arrived. I was one of 116 people to receive it, according to the attached list. Looking back this morning, re-reading the bleak message it contained, I realize that everyone who received it probably reacted the same way I did.

I can nearly hear the far-flung whispers.

No. Not him. Not now. He’s too young. Too nice. Too good.

Fred Merriam was dying.

And in typical Fred Merriam style, he wanted to be the one to tell us so.

You probably didn’t know Fred. He was the man behind the scenes at many of the area’s top road races. He ran the computer for the Sub 5 Track Club (and for his own business, How’d I Do Race Results) when he wasn’t running the course.

He smiled at everyone … knew everyone … was liked by everyone.

And I’m not just saying that because Fred died Tuesday night.

I’m saying it because I’m pretty sure no matter who you ask, you’ll be hard-pressed to mention Fred Merriam’s name to anyone who won’t immediately smile.

Fred Merriam grew up in Rockland, served in the Coast Guard, made his home in Bucksport and worked at Maine Distributors for 30 years. According to his obituary, he enjoyed running, kayaking, island hopping and playing the steel drums with Steel Appeal. He was married. He had three children.

Those are all pieces of his life’s story.

So is this: Fred Merriam was one of the good guys. He was loved. And he’ll be missed.

That first e-mail arrived on June 23 of last year. Fred told us all what was happening … delivering tragic news with his trademark sense of humor.

“I know many of you are aware that tests revealed a tumor on the left side of the old noggin last Thursday,” Fred wrote. “[My wife] Joan and I have just returned from the Doc’s office with the bad news – the tumor is large, malignant, and probably fatal within the next six months to a year.

“I have decided to be reasonable about the options present to me and take comfort in the decision to maintain a good quality of life for the short period afforded me.

“The running community has been a very important part of my life and I’m thankful to have shared it with all of you. Keep me in your prayers and be strong for Joan and my children.

Fred.”

I wrote back to Fred – a man I’d come to know both through growing up in a running family and through covering plenty of road races – and told him my thoughts were with him.

I also told him some of the same things I’ve already told you: That people like him. They respect him. They look forward to seeing him.

Eventually, switching hats from friendly acquaintance to writer, I told him if he ever wanted to sit down for a bit, I’d be honored to tell his story. And if he didn’t … and just wanted to call and chat some time, I’d like that, too.

Fred did call … just to chat … one morning at 7 a.m. He’d been up all night. He had been thinking. Later, he told me the medicine he’d been taking had likely done much of the talking. But we talked. And talked. And talked.

I was glad he called.

Before that, though, Fred had sent another e-mail. The date was June 25, 2003.

“I’m so touched from your message to me that I feel it necessary to respond immediately,” Fred’s message began.

He had just returned from his mother’s funeral, he said. He had been doing some thinking. And he had decided that he had to fight.

“I have spoken with someone who has followed a similar path as I and have already decided to go to Boston as soon as possible and see if we can lick this thing. Besides, you really do need me to keep things in order,” he wrote.

“I do want to talk with you about my thoughts and perhaps think about publishing something. But for now, let’s just let time do some healing for myself and [my] family.

“With great respect,

Fred.”

A day later, with more time to think, Fred wrote again and told me that he had truly appreciated the e-mail I’d sent him.

“I have been trying to discover what it is that you have written that has moved me so deeply and have found as I write these words that your life and mine have the same strength: Our parents,” Fred wrote.

“We are the same. Just reading some of your stories involving your mother, father, brother and sister and you’d be writing about my family. What a special gift you have to be able to capture their lives, to make this time on earth so positive and to share it with the rest of us.”

Later in that e-mail, Fred told me, yet again, that eventually he’d like to sit down in person and share some thoughts.

“We are two very fortunate voyagers traveling on the same roadway of life at the same speed. I look forward to sharing some of our adventures together – in due time.”

A month later, Fred checked in again. His message was short and sweet.

He was back.

“Hey gang,” he wrote to his lengthy mailing list of road-racing friends. “I’m finally out of all the hospitals and have begun my recovery.”

Then he told us that his hometown race was coming up … he’d be there … and he expected to see us.

In November, Fred ran in Brewer’s Turkey Trot 5K, with a sizeable group of friends at his side. He ran slowly … but he ran.

He didn’t e-mail again until February. The news wasn’t good.

“Dear friends,” he wrote. “I haven’t been able to communicate via e-mail since last September – you know, the same old brain thing.

“After surgery I spent four months of chemo – that failed – started radiation two weeks ago and will conclude this phase about the end of February.

“I feel so fortunate having Joan by my side – my children are the best – my close running friends have continued to support through thick or thin.

“Would love to hear from you.

Fred.”

That was the last message I received from Fred.

On Wednesday, I found out he was gone.

Fred Merriam was 56.

He played steel drums. He ran. He directed road races. He was a father and a husband and a kayaker.

And he was one of the good guys.

I just thought you should know that.

John Holyoke can be reached at jholyoke@bangordailynews.net or by calling 990-8214 or 1-800-310-8600.