Fans worry losing track-and-field range could leave a big hole

Between preserving Hangar One, the massive Ames Arc Jet Complex or a fleet of vintage aircraft, Moffett Field has myriad landmarks deserving some protection.

Tore Gustafsson, a barrel-chested Swede with a striking handlebar mustache, is spearheading a very different kind of preservation campaign. He and his colleagues are rallying to save what looks like a dirt lot, distinguished only by its many potholes. In fact, the site is located right on a toxic plume of industrial pollutants left from the area’s past semiconductor factories.

A three-time Olympic athlete, Gustafsson agrees that the location might not look like much, but this 1-acre field is the only training facility of its kind in the Bay Area. On most days, a scrappy club ranging from amateurs to pros from across Northern California gathers here to practice the hammer throw, the track-and-field event focused on hurling a hefty ball on a chain as far as possible.

“This is pretty much the only training spot we have in Northern California,” Gustafsson said. “Who knows now what’s going to happen?”

The cause for concern is the practice grounds are marked for future development by NASA. Earlier this year, the federal agency announced plans to help house its growing workforce by building 1,930 homes along Moffett’s southeastern side, an area that includes the club’s hammer throw range. While Gustafsson and his fellow athletes recognize the area’s significant housing needs, they fear they won’t have anywhere else to go. And with the 2020 Tokyo Olympics fast approaching, many of the club’s aspiring athletes worry they could lose their only training facility at the worst possible time.

On a morning last week, Gustafsson arrived with two of the athletes he’s coaching at the Moffett practice range, located just north of Highway 101. For a site used by elite athletes, it’s a spartan facility with little more than a storage container, backstop and a set of metal bleachers in front of a dirt field. Terry Noyes, a spry 55-year-old athlete, pointed out to Gustafsson that overnight the wind had partially knocked down the canopy over the bleachers. Everyone pitched in to do some quick repairs before they started the day’s exercises.

Before long, Gustafsson was watching from the sidelines as his two pupils began hurling hammers down the field. Sophie Hitchon, a 26-year-old Brit who won a bronze medal in the 2016 Olympics, spun her hammer around in a whirl, building up momentum with what is essentially a 4-kilogram iron wrecking ball. She instinctively released her grip at the precise split-second to send it sailing in a graceful arc downfield, instead of crashing behind her into the backstop.

“Good throw!” Gustafsson cheered. The hammer landed just beyond 73 meters, a good distance, but still not quite the 78 meters that it would likely take to win a gold medal. Closing that gap would take all two years of training left before the international games, he said.

There’s a long story behind how a niche athletic club found its home at Moffett Field. For that, the club’s members point to Edward Burke, a retired hammer-thrower and Los Gatos native, best known for carrying the U.S. flag in the 1984 Olympics.

Back in the mid-1980s, the hammer throw club practiced along a dirt strip north of Highway 101, before that land was needed to build Highway 85. Ever since, the club has led a nomadic existence, cycling through South Bay community-college fields, public parks and leased private sites. Unlike other prestigious Olympic sports, hammer-throwing generally doesn’t have much clout; many landowners see only the potential for property damage and liability. Universities aren’t an option because NCAA rules explicitly prohibit paid coaches and Olympic athletes from training alongside students.

By 2006, the hammer-throwers came to Moffett Field around the same time that a U.S. Army track-and-field program at the property was winding down. There were concerns that the Army officials would also tell them to scram, Burke said. But then environmental regulators discovered the toxic groundwater plume from nearby pollution had leached into the site. As it happens, that toxic waste was “the best thing that happened to us,” Burke said, since the Army officials told the group they could stay during the cleanup effort.

As NASA took over management of Moffett, it has been unclear how much longer the hammer-throwers would be allowed to remain, he said. With hundreds of acres of open land at the former air base, Burke and other members hope they can just move to different area.

“We’re hopeful that we can negotiate with them to get another slice of land,” Burke said. “Whether it’s Google or whoever else, we’re hoping that maybe we can go to them and get a small space as a community contribution.”

And if NASA asks them to leave Gustafsson and other members have a hard time saying what might happen. They don’t have the money to buy or lease a plot of land, given the hefty real-estate costs in the region, they say. The only recourse might be to find a spot somewhere in the Central Valley.

“All we need is a good field that no one needs for anything,” Gustafsson said. “Also, we need no one to mind if we make some big holes.”

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