Author: Admin

CHAPTER XIII

MY  LONGEST  RUN

I WAS in Canada in 1931 with my racing partner Gavuzzi. We had been competing in snowshoes over some two hundred miles between Quebec and Montreal, coming in second and fourth, after which there were no major events in sight until the midsummer 500-mile relay. I had already collected the records between twenty-seven and a hundred miles yet there still remained one item I thought was needed to complete the list : the ” 24 hours.”

Races of this sort are not promoted nowadays, though before the motor age they were by no means rare. Besides, the number of men who are sufficiently trained today for such a distance is so small as to be almost non-existent ; it takes years of hard work to qualify for a run of hundred miles and upwards. All the same I had long since made up my mind to have a shot at it before I faded out and as I was now nearly fifty it was evident I couldn’t put it off much longer. Once before I had suddenly made an enormous jump in mileage when I raised my maximum temporarily from fifty to hundred without any special preparation. As my theories for extending the distance’ had worked all right I decided I’d chance it again and add another fifty, which would just about cover the ground necessary to obtain a, new record.

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Gavuzzi, too, wanted to have a shot at the game though, as he had not yet tried actual racing over the greater distances, he felt forty miles would probably be more to his liking. These two track records, then, forty and hundred-and-fifty miles, were the ones we decided to attack.

I knew that the figures then in the books for the twenty-four hours were unreliable, as there had not been enough officials to check the laps ; but after talking things over with one of the actual competitors in those far-off races – they had taken place almost half a century earlier – I got a fair idea of what was required. One thing was certain ; if I wanted the goods I should have to buy them, i.e. provide the funds to stage the event and chance whether it was run at a loss or otherwise.

The 500-miles relay, for which Gavuzzi and I formed a team, was still six months ahead and this would allow us to stage the 150-miler in the Spring, thus giving us plenty of time to recover from the temporary exhaustion it was bound to cause. You don’t recover from racing of this sort in a day or two or even in a week ; to be quite at my best I needed rather more than a month. You might feel perfectly fit a few days later but another trial, if you were foolish enough to risk such a thing, would prove at once that you were still far from top form.

For a start w^e cast around to find someone who could attend to the actual details of organisation. We were much too busy with hard training (my own work was around 800 miles per month) to see to it ourselves, and were fortunate enough to find Tom Orompton enthusiastic over the idea. We both knew him well, for he had convoyed one of the Transcontinental racers across America with us the year before. He was a resident of Hamilton, which place would suit us perhaps even better than Montreal, as winter conditions there were not so severe or so prolonged. Where­upon we went there by train and took up our quarters at the Stafford House Hotel.

Crompton had made a mark as a walker in the North of England in his younger days and was now well established as an estate agent. As things turned out we couldn’t have made a happier choice, for Hamilton is one of the keenest athletic centres—weren’t the first of the Empire Games held there ?—and everyone knew him and volunteered to help.

Jacques Girling, another resident, mustered a posse of young men from the local University and took charge of the lap-scoring. There were four scribes to each runner, two ” on ” and two ” off.” Then the City Surveyor came along and measured the track both immediately before and immediately after the event to make quite certain that no mistake in the distance could possibly occur. Xever have I known a more perfectly arranged competition.

In the meantime Crompton was insisting on publicity to ensure success from a business point of view and suggested that we tackled the existing Toronto-Hamilton road record of approximately forty-four miles which then stood at 6h. 56m. 50s. You could see by the time that this had been put up by a partially-trained man and, as Gavuzzi and I were just then among the best-trained in the world, we knew we could manage the job and yet take it quite easy all the way. So easy in fact that we allowed the local newspapers to announce that we were likely to knock off an hour, though we did NOT tell them that no racing would be required to do this. We were obliged to go easy, for otherwise we might tire ourselves when the attempt at the record lay only ten days ahead.

I saw Crompton almost daily and soon got to know that things were being planned with unusual care. I stood for the athletes while he represented the general public. I knew that unless runners competed under reasonable conditions they wouldn’t stand much chance of putting up records, so the track was one of the first things to be considered.

The Arena, where ice-hockey and skating are held, was Crompton’s choice, and arrangements were made to lay a square track immediately after a hockey match finished. Crompton supervised every bit of the work in connection with this and it can’t have been a light job. We runners were very particular : we considered that wood was too tough and too noisy for such a long run ; we wanted something which was softer and wet which would not break up altogether. Crompton’s energy was amazing, and it wasn’t long before he produced a builder’s composition, a sort of mixture of felt and paper, which appeared to provide exactly the conditions we required, and a surface of this was laid down.

Why a ” square ” track ? Well, perhaps it needs some explanation. All we long-distance men practised on roads, rarely indeed on a track, and in consequence when we were called on to race round a circular course we became giddy after a time, and if we still went on with it, actually sick. The only way to prevent this was to use a square track with comparatively sharp corners, since it would do away with the perpetual turning of a circle.

The corners however would be awkward to negotiate unless they were well banked, and that involved climbing and descending a few inches four times each lap—a matter of some 1,500 ft. during 150 miles—but there was no way of avoiding it.    Again, approximately twelve laps went to the mile, which meant that among men racing respectively 40 and 150 miles there would be endless overtaking.    If the faster men had to run continually round the slower ones it would seriously increase their distance without altering the course measurement,  and you  can’t afford to keep on running yards out of your way when you go for world records.    The com­petitors recognised this and all agreed to step aside when a faster man approached from behind so as to give him a reasonable chance. I may say that this was carried out both in the letter and in the spirit throughout the entire race ;   even when fellows were desperately tired—and you’re apt to get that way after a hundred miles afoot—they made a passage for anyone they heard  overtaking them.    That such methods should be willingly and intentionally observed by professionals makes one wonder when amateurs, who are definitely taught by amateurs to make way for no one, will learn what unadulterated sport ought to be.

Presently the day came for our Toronto-Hamilton run, which had been arranged and advertised by the Hamilton Herald. At five a.m. on March 24th we got into a car and were taken to the City Hall at Toronto for the start of our return journey. Except for a short visit to a teashop for re-fuelling purposes, no time was lost and we soon got away. For the sake of appearances we did not run together ; once we were outside the city one of us would keep fifty yards or so behind the other for a few miles and then reverse the position, each careful to see that an average of not more than 7½ miles per hour was exceeded.

Somewhere about halfway one of the leading cars took a wrong road—we were to run through Dundas—and we went a mile out of our way before being called upon to stop and turn back. Even then we were so comfortably ahead of schedule that when we got to the tape at Hamilton we had cut more than an hour (5h. 52m. 15s.) off the previous record. Without waiting a moment we hurried round to our hotel to get a bath and change and only heard afterwards that, unknown to us, the Mayor had intended to give us a civic welcome but was frustrated by our hasty disappearance.

That run taught us two things : (a) we were in real good fettle for our attempt at record in ten days’ time and (b) at a later date we could, if we wanted to, certainly cut off another half-hour. But that would have to wait of course.

As the track in the Arena was somewhat small and also because it was useless having a lot of ” also rans,” we limited the number of competitors to a selected few of the best long-distance men in the States and Canada. McNamara, who I knew was as good as any of us, came up from New York where he then lived—he had formerly been farming in Queensland, Australia. Granville, the Canadian champion walker, who was also a runner, was a resident of Hamilton. Lin Dilks was the 100-mile running champion of the States and hailed from Newcastle, Pennsylvania. Salo and Richman, the six-day-record team, couldn’t manage the trip, so Simpson from Burlington (Vt.) was included. One more local man. Tom Ellis, and the list was complete.

T suppose we were all a bit dithery and anxious to get to work wheri the day arrived. Crompton had arranged for a cycling exhibition by Peden, the international racer, and others ; and also for several boxing competitions which took place in a ring inside the track. These lasted until nine p.m. when we Were due to start on our long run and, after we were going, continued till about ten p.m.

We had to make arrangements among ourselves as to how to carry out our programme. Rarely did any of us break down during a race, but precautions had to be taken. If Gavuzzi failed at his forty miles either McNamara or I could certainly manage it provided we were not too far behind him. So we two agreed to keep within two or three miles until we considered him “safe” after which we could slow down, as of course we should have to, or we shouldn’t last out for twenty-four hours. If it became necessary, a word or two as we ran round would decide which of us was to go for forty and the other could settle down for the longer distance. 

What with photographs and a trot round the track following our introduction it seemed a long time before we got the signal to start. The new surface was ideal for running—we were all wearing crepe-rubber-soled canvas shoes—and Gavuzzi let out in convincing style. Each time he came round we all widened out and let him through, and the same applied to McNamara and myself who were doing only about half a mile an hour less. We dare not do more because if we did we should never last out for the full distance, and were afraid to do less because if Gavuzzi failed we should be too far back to collar the record. It was bad business for both McNamara and myself but the best we could do.

Once we were well on the move we had plenty to occupy our minds what with turning corners and passing other men. Then our times and distances were posted up every half-hour so that everyone should know where we stood. Gavuzzi was keeping his end up in right good style averaging just under ten to the hour and both McNamara and I were hoping he had his record ” in the bag,”‘ as the Americans say, when we were dismayed at just over twenty miles to find he was no longer lapping us. Another round or so and we were overlapping him and we slowed temporarily to get information. A leg was giving trouble which would necessitate his retiring immediately ; there was no hope of his being able to carry on.

At the time McNamara was just over two miles behind him while I was a mile further in the rear, and he said he was quite capable of taking over the ” forty ” as he was going strongly if I would concentrate on the longer journey.    That suited me all right and I stopped speeding at once and travelled round at a comfortable and leisurely pace—something in the region of seven miles to the hour.    McNamara however,  ” trod on it,” and to such purpose that he gathered in a new record at thirty miles ;  the way he con­tinued to overtake us all seemed absolutely amazing, especially when you remembered that he had already done so much.    At forty he was even further ahead of record, his time being 4hrs. 31m. 31s.    After which no doubt he felt it was time to sober down if he was to have any  hope  at  all  of lasting for  twenty-four hours.

By that time I was between three and four miles behind him and the others were many miles behind me ; for along with Gavuzzi, McNamara and I were quite the most strenuously trained runners there. Granville could easily ” put it across ” any of us at walking, but you can’t be a record walker and a record runner at the same time. He was three-quarters of a mile behind Dilks who was now in third position : Simpson followed making a close fifth and at the rear came Ellis, who had not tried these enormous distances before. Ellis finally ” gave it best ” between sixty and seventy miles.

After Ellis had gone Simpson started walking, a game he was distinctly better at than running. What’s more he kept on walking and ran no more. That of course prevented him overtaking any of the others, for Dilks and Granville stuck to running.

Each six or seven miles, sometimes perhaps even more frequently, a man would stop for half a minute to put away a drink of hot tea or coffee. Much more rarely we had something to eat—in my case my only meal was a fruit salad, though some of them had cheese-sandwiches—when we would either trot round at about six miles an hour while we devoured or (as I found I had to) actually stop and shovel it down hurriedly. There was no fear of indigestion : men as well trained as we were didn’t suffer from that, though I had known all about it before I started training. The running kept us comfortably warm and no more, for the temperature of the place couldn’t have been much above 40 F.

With Gavuzzi and Ellis gone and Simpson slowly but steadily losing ground through walking, though he kept up a really fast pace right to the end, Dilks and Granville settled into a battle royal for position. McNamara and I were beyond their reach unless something quite unforeseen occurred, but these two were so evenly matched as runners that after the first few hours there was still less than a mile between them. Granville, who was probably physically the stronger, evidently reckoned he could outpace his rival if he stuck to hard work, and Dilks, who was a runner and no walker, was determined not to be outclassed by another American.

The duel became obvious and quite interesting. At first, when one of them stopped for a drink or anything, the other put on the pace and tried to make the most of the opportunity, but after a time they learned that nothing was to be gained like that, for it was merely squandering energy which they could ill spare. So they gave it up and instead, when one stopped the other immediately did so too, both moving on together afterwards. By this means they were able to avoid sudden spates of energy which would have knocked them out had they tried to keep it up.

After what seemed like an almost interminable stretch of time the officials announced that McNamara was nearing the hundred miles and that a new record was being set up. His time at this point was 14h. 9m. 45s., which was all the more wonderful since he had, en route, annexed the 30-mile and 40-mile indoor-track records ; in fact it was the most brilliant long-distance running I had ever seen. Before the start he and I had agreed to retire for a quick hot bath after we had completed a hundred miles, leaving the track one at a time ; and the second man was to take as long as the first, when his turn came, so as to forestall any attempt to gain by this means. A short and really hot shower at this stage is more refreshing and re-invigorating than any food or drink, probably due to the fact that it cleans out all the refuse with which prolonged

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exertion has clogged the pores of the skin. Whatever the cause the effect is almost magical, as we knew from previous experience. Just then however the photographers stepped in and asked for pictures : I suppose they wanted the public to see what men looked like after they’d completed a hundred miles on foot—perhaps they thought they’d be safer if they took one while the going was good in case we fell to pieces in the near future without finishing the job. Anyway, we were warned that two or three laps farther on we should be asked to stop at a chosen spot where the pictures could be taken, after which we could all move off again.

We were duly halted in front of a battery of camera fiends but one of the press men seemed to be in difficulties. I don’t know what was wrong and didn’t trouble to inquire afterwards, but his troubles lengthened out until we were really dismayed—it was nine minutes before we got going again. That spelt the loss of about a mile, due only to our wanting to oblige the photographer, though we certainly considered records more important than pictures of the runners.

McNamara then went off for a bath, while I travelled around with the comforting thought that in a few moments I should get mine.    But another shock was in store for both of us.    Just as he was about to return—he had been absent some five minutes—he was attacked by cramp and had to get assistance from a masseur. This caused so much delay that it was nineteen minutes before he could appear again, and when he did it was to discover that the earlier speeding in the day had to be paid for and that increasing cramp would put an end to further work.    It must have been a terrible disappointment to him.    But he kept going while—very much  against  the  grain—I  spent  a  similar  period  of nineteen minutes at my bath.    He even ran a mile or two after I returned. But he had reached his limit;  another attack, due to the enormous mileage since his earlier efforts, put an end to his hopes and he was obliged to retire.    So, quite unexpectedly, I was left alone to try for the twenty-four hour title, for I had confidently reckoned on a fierce battle with McNamara over the last twenty or thirty miles. I daren’t look at the big clock too often—I chanced it about once an hour—because I was getting very tired myself.    But I knew that if I just kept up a gentle seven an hour or thereabouts I’d  collar  the  coveted record  all  right.    When  you  get  really desperately tired you can’t keep your mind off your condition ;   it won’t answer to the helm as it does when you’re fighting fit, and I remember thinking that never again would I dream of risking such punishing discomfort though, having already undergone so much, I’d have to battle through the few remaining hours.    Even while this was passing through my mind I knew I had thought the same thing every time I’d had a really big race, and knew too that as soon as I had fully recovered from the effects I should be perfectly ready to have another and (hopefully) more successful “go” at it. But I had only one job just then, and that was to travel along with the most perfect rhythm I was capable of:  anything else and

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I might fail. In spite of being so abnormally tired it seems I was partly successful, for the local newspaper subsequently reported that it looked like “the nearest approach to perpetual motion”. Every mile seemed a weary long way—ten miles was too tiring even to be thought about. Yet I knew that if I went on and on the ten would turn up, and another ten after that, and still another, till the actual 150 was in sight. After all, it was only once in a lifetime and I had been working years to get to such a stage, so I’d just got to hang on no matter how tired I felt.

Well, that’s how things were going. I continually tried to divert my mind from the aching discomfort but wasn’t very success­ful, because will-power was weakening along with physical ability. Yet at long last there came a time when Jacques Girling informed me that I was within a mile of hundred and fifty and at that I knew for a certainty that I was safe. The news gingered me up considerably and I increased the pace to eight, then nine, and finally ten an hour in an effort to crowd a few more yards into the final total. For the last lap or two Girling was running round with me, telling me just how long we had to go, and then I heard “TIME ” and knew that at last it was all over. I had covered 152 miles 540 yards in the twenty-four hours.

I pulled up at once, but noticed that Dilks was still plugging stolidly along. Officials went after him and stopped him—he was so far gone that he had lost all sense of everything except that he had to run and keep on running. A hot bath revived him considerably and so did the news that he had managed to keep his lead of three-quarters of a mile on Granville—they ended up second and third with 117 and 116 miles and the same gap that had separated them twenty hours earlier.

Our side of the affair had turned out all right except for Gavuzzi’s misfortune ; we had annexed the records we had aimed at and McNamara had gathered in quite a few extra ones. But in spite of all Crompton’s good work and the generous assistance (absolutely free of course) of so many amateurs, the show was a financial flop and I lost about £200 over it. Yet I still think it was worth it.

The various runners, instead of the percentage of ” gate ” profits they were entitled to, had to be content with all expenses paid and a trifle of $10 (£2) apiece as a “douceur,” and within a few days they were on their way back to their respective homes.

CHAPTER XII

AN  INDOOR  MARATHON  RACE

EL OUAFI, hailing from the Argentine, had recently won the Olympic marathon ; Joie Ray, of New York, had waltzed off with the Irish event, and both men had returned to America. I was training in the Catskill Mountains at the time, a part of New York State where there were good roads and excellent scenery. There came a letter from Hugo Quist, who had been Paavo Nurmi’s manager in his tour of the States, asking me to compete against these two men at Madison Square Garden, Boston. It suited me all right and I accepted.

I had a pretty long journey in the train to get there, and put it off until the last moment because I knew the atmosphere of a large city would have a cumulative and adverse effect on my lungs ; smoke and dust penetrate the air of all big cities and there’s no escaping them.

I was up against two of the world’s best at their own distance, not at mine ; for I had specialised consistently at fifty miles. 

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I knew, then, that my chances of a win were not too good, and of course knew that the race was to be run round an indoor track. From my point of view this was quite the worst of the whole business, for having done all my work on open roads the continual circling of a small indoor track made me giddy and actually physically sick. Still, you never know : I could at any rate try to put up a decent show and, if my luck were very much in, for I was every bit as well trained as either of my two rivals, might even win. Anyway, it was worth trying.

When we started off I was unexpectedly pleased to note that both my opponents were content to begin with a very modest pace ; in fact it was so modest that I found I was distinctly putting on the brake more than I thought wise in order to keep at their heels. This went on for two or three miles till I began to feel that if we kept it up much longer the spectators would get impatient and begin to think we were not really racing but merely—which we actually were—playing a waiting game. After about four miles therefore, I considered it would be wise to make a change by opening up to ten miles per hour ; if it took me ahead so much the better, for it might(?) give me an easier time later on.

The other two men however had no intention of letting me go, and after a single lap we were in a bunch again, though I was now in the lead. This went on for many miles until, when about half the distance had been covered, I felt the usual symptoms of giddiness and nausea, which always spoilt my running on a small track, slowly coming on. To fend it off as far as possible I reduced the pace. Not so the other two ; having disposed of me they held on to their ten an hour and after a mile or two both of them lapped me. The further I went the worse I got, and I lost a couple more laps to both of them during the next half-hour.

About this time I noticed that the pace was beginning to tell on them, for I ceased to lose ground, and before long, in spite of feeling so bad, actually began to pull up again. I still had plenty in hand, but was so groggy that I daren’t attempt to go any faster.

How greatly they had overdone their effort—they were keen rivals and had evidently been doing their utmost to ” kill ” each other—became apparent when, to my surprise, I began to lap them. But I was nearly a mile in the rear and as there was no more than a quarter of an hour to go I felt my chances of a win were slim indeed. My hopes brightened for a moment when the leader dropped into a walk and Ray went to the front, but El Ouafi soon struggled back into a trot again. No, I just couldn’t do it ; I lapped both of them and tried my best to make up for lost time, but it was too late.

Near the end Ray also took to alternate walking and running, keeping an eye on El Ouafi all the time, while I still carried on at about eight an hour. We finished with Ray in the lead, El Ouafi a fairly close second, and me a bad third. Didn’t I just wish they would challenge me to a similar race on the open road !

I gathered afterwards that both men suffered from bad blisters, which largely spoilt their running, though I felt sure that had they not kept up such a hot pace for three-quarters of the journey their troubles would have been less severe. I had no foot or leg troubles at all, but no sooner did we stop than my stomach vented its displeasure and my lunch at the same time.

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Once more I had had the lesson rubbed in—run your own race regardless of all others. Commonsense should have started me off at about 9¼  an hour and after a mile or so. when thoroughly warmed up, increased it to 9¾, taking no account of whether the others followed or left me. Ten miles per hour was my maximum racing speed ; if I wanted to exceed that it meant altering my natural stride, and any change of that would take it out of me unduly, unless it were for a very short period.

Remember, too—and this is where so many go wrong – it is a mistake in these races to start off with the pace you intend to rely on ; you should always begin a trifle below and work up quite gradually to your reasonable maximum.

There can be no doubt that had I acted more wisely I should have made a better job of this run ; even the giddiness of continual circling would probably have been somewhat mitigated, or at any rate postponed, for I should not have developed the ten miles per hour gait till later. So next time you go for a marathon remember these mistakes of mine and see they don’t spoil your chances.

CHAPTER XI

HORSES  VERSUS  MEN

AFTER Paavo Nurmi’s record-breaking trip to America, Hugo Quist, who had arranged his tour, organised long-distance races in the States ; and for some months I worked with him to learn the ropes. One of his ideas was a six-day-and-night contest between teams of horses and teams of men—two to form a team—which was arranged to take place at Philadelphia.

There were five teams of runners and we had five teams of riders to contend against. No particular procedure was laid down and we could please ourselves as to how we carried on, whether with long periods of running or with short ones. The plan generally adopted was for one man to run for four hours on the track while his partner rested.

John Salo, the Finn who had won the second Transcontinental Footrace, and Joie Ray formed the first American team; Gavuzzi from Southampton, who had all but beaten Salo across the conti­nent, and I were partners in the British team. Among the other runners were McNamara, the hundred-mile indoor track record holder ; Granville, the Canadian walking-record holder (he was also a runner) ; Lin Dilks, who had put up the best time for hundred miles on the road in America, and others of the Transcontinental Footraces.

The course was an indoor track in the centre of which were tents where the competitors could, when they wanted to, sleep, rest or refresh as they liked. Outside this and railed off from it was the horse track w^rhich had been specially prepared. I don’t know what the remuneration of the riders was, but the first two running teams were offered $500 (£100) per man to compete, and the others in proportion down to $100.

I gathered that public opinion generally favoured a walk-over for the horses ; but I, who had raced against riders on more than one occasion and knew pretty well what they could do, was quite satisfied that we could take things fairly comfortably and still emerge easy winners, but it wasn’t my business to publish that. I may say here that none of the runners betted a cent on any of their races, though we knew well enough that many of the public did so.

My confidence was based on the distance that had to be travelled. Had it been for twenty-four hours only we should almost certainly lose by a good bit ; a forty-eight hour race might have been a toss-up either way, with the balance on the side of the runners ; but when it came to a matter of hundreds of miles the horses just hadn’t a hope. What made it even more certain was that the horses were ordinary riding hacks from a local stable which were not in any way trained for such an exhausting ordeal, whereas the men, without a single exception, were.

We all arrived at the stadium ” rarin’ to go.” After the usual preliminaries—each of us was ” introduced ” and had to run an exhibition lap—we were lined up and given the signal to start. Salo and Gavuzzi opened the ball for the American and British teams while Joie Ray and I, after giving them a good ^tl once over,” went outside to a restaurant and had a good feed so as to be ready for our turn when it came four hours later. The riders were apparently in good fettle and when we returned we found them trotting steadily and already a mile or two in advance of the runners. Presently we went on to the track and our partners retired for their four-hour stretch. Always the horses increased their lead, yet we were quite unconcerned : we just kept to a steady 7½-8 miles an hour, knowing full well that we should eventually come out on top.

After twenty-four hours the riders had some fifteen miles in hand and began to take things more easily ; occasionally they’d drop into a walk fcr a few rounds. We couldn’t be sure of course, but guessed that they did so because they had to—the horses had already had more than enough of it. The walking periods became ever more frequent until, at the end of forty-eight hours the runners, without ever having altered their tactics or raced, had just about caught up.

This must have shown the stable hands what to expect, and with the permission of the authorities all the horses were withdrawn and a fresh lot substituted, though of course the public were not informed of the change. We runners didn’t mind a bit ; we still had plenty of vim and went on quite serenely. The second bunch of horses were evidently not as good as the first, which had probably been the pick of the stable, for they started tiring after only twelve hours of it, and the runners began to take the lead. It was evident that what obsessed the horses was nothing less than sheer boredom ; they could not see the object of circling and everlastingly circling that limited track. They lost heart completely and towards the end of the fourth day relapsed to a dejected walk and nothing the riders could do would snap them out of it.

The first batch of horses, which had by now enjoyed a forty-eight hour rest, were then brought back, but as they hadn’t entirely recovered from their former bout, the runners continued to pile on their lead. That was the finish so far as competition was concerned, the running teams ending up many miles to the good.

Presumably the failure of the horses had, however, its effect on the ” gate,” and for the last two nights the attendance had been so greatly reduced that the management foresaw a loss on the promotion. So after it was all over Quist called us together and explained the situation, asking us to be content to waive 25 per cent, of our earnings. I, too, pointed out that as professional runners we were dependent on promoters, and unless we met them reasonably and even generously, we could not expect them to arrange contests for us. This was so obvious that with very little discussion we all willingly agreed to accept the reduction.

It might interest you to know that the chief sufferers—physically —were the jockeys ; they told us it would take them all of a week to recover !

CHAPTER X

I  EARNED  MY  DEFEAT

and again recollections from my races occur to me as ( watch younger men competing, and I daresay some of the lessons I learnt will be useful to the rank and file; if they.do nothing else they may save them from perpetuating similar mistakes. I remember one marathon I made a shocking bad mess of, and judgment had a lot to do with it. I started off carefully enough and found I was going well, so well in fact that after a dozen miles ] felt I ought to be putting a gap between my chief rival, Harry Phillips of Maritzburg (Natal) and myself while I had the vim and inclination to do it. So I purposely extended a bit and before long was a hundred yards or so to the good. I didn’t look back to discover what my lead was for I had already learnt the folly, of

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that sort of thing ; it was the spectators along the route who told me the position. Yet at the time it occurred to me that the gain was not as much as I expected it to be. Phillips was a more experienced runner than I, and not much younger either—both of us were in the forties—and I’d have done well to pay more respect to his methods and conduct. He had just carried on at about the same gait without seeming to take any notice of what the other fellows were doing.

For all of a dozen miles I kept in the lead, but the score mark and Harry Phillips arrived together, and I found I could no longer-keep pace with his steady gait. I had to let him go.

Before I had gone another mile it was rubbed in again ; another man, Steytler, caught up and almost immediately left me behind. By this time I was badly tired and could do little more than crawl dejectedly at about seven miles to the hour, but not so tired that I could not curse my folly and make a note that I must never again chance things in this way.

Steytler, however, presently proved to be in even worse condition than I was, and with only a mile to go I was surprised to discover I was rapidly gaining on him. I soon passed him—he was staggering along and finally collapsed at the post—and thereby managed to secure second place, more than a mile behind Phillips. Except for the winner the condition of the competitors was deplorable : five-sixths of us had literally run ourselves to a standstill.

The mistake I made on this occasion (and, I regret to say it wasn’t the first time or the last) is still all too common ; even today more than half the runners in most long-distance events show thoroughly bad judgment. While I was fresh and fit I allowed myself to squander energy to no good purpose and failed to realise that much of it had to be conserved if I wanted to stay the course. Once a fellow is absolutely ” beat,” anyone with a trifle in reserve can overtake him with ease ; recovery on the spot is hopeless, and he is compelled either to drop out or to drag himself along knowing that neither excitement nor will power can add anything worthwhile to his speed. If he attempts to force things he is asking for immediate trouble or disaster, and both Steytler and I went mighty near to it that day.

We all know it’s never too late to learn, and runners evidently find the lesson as difficult as anyone else, for many of them fail time after time because they don’t assess their ability anywhere near its true standard.

This race, which by the way was in Johannesburg, reads like a complete washout, as in fact, from the runners’ point of view, it was. But to be fair to all I must point out that there were extenuating circumstances. With the exception of the winner we were all coast-level men or thereabouts, and were quite unused to the 6,000 ft. altitude of Johannesburg ; never for a moment did we realise how much difference it would make. I suppose some instinct must have warned us, for even in the early stages we were moving at less than our usual racing pace ; under normal conditions

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we (including Phillips) would have made a much better job of the event.

With this in mind, then, you might say that ignorance and lack of reasonable caution—we knew what the altitude was and had been warned that we should almost certainly find it a handicap— were the chief faults ; judgment was not so much to blame perhaps seeing we had no similar experience to work on.

You, who carry on where we left off, may profit by our failure. Every fellow who finds he can’t finish his course without real distress is playing the game that I did at Johannesburg ; he has over-rated his ability and his condition will not fail to remind him of the fact. You cannot be too careful; say what }^rou like, it’s always better to end a race with a bit still in hand, even if you don’t secure a place, rather than to finish like a ” woe-is-me-I-am-undone ” scarecrow.

Careful work will add continually to your confidence and ability, whereas the reverse is apt to sicken you of the whole business— your physique will keep on telling you in no uncertain manner that the game isn’t worth the candle. If you persist you’ll soon come to believe that your physique is right, and that your mind is solely to blame for urging you to go on.

Caution, then, and careful mental direction must be your resolve at every race you enter for. With these you can always put up a decent show ; without them you will be no better than Steytler and I were in the marathon I’ve just described.

CHAPTER IX

A  CHEAP RECORD

IT’S not often you strike a really ” soft ” job even in local athletic records, but when you do you can’t decently ignore it. I’ll tell you of one that came my way when I was in America. The thing cropped up quite suddenly and without any warning. We only heard of it one afternoon and I took a stab at it the next morning : it came along as a welcome change from the usual routine.

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For about seven weeks we had been running along the road from New York to Los Angeles in Pyle’s second great Transcontinental Footrace and had stopped the night at Miami, a copper mining village in the Western desert. Our goal next day was to be Superior, another small mining centre, said to be twenty-two further on; but between these two hamlets there was a sizeable mountain, and the only connecting highway went right over the summit. Perhaps that was why we had such a short run, for the usual daily grind was anything from thirty-five to forty-five miles with a daily average on the wrong side of forty.

It’s curious how some of those out-of-the-way villages remain ignorant of the advance of the outside world ! The inhabitants around here had a local record for the journey afoot between the two places of three hours and twenty minutes, and they thought it so excellent that they were very confident the Pyle runners would be unable to lower it. And these runners were the best-trained men in the world at that sort of game ! We just laughed at the idea, for we knew well that any of the faster men could cut off 25 or 30 per cent, and do it fairly easilv.

But there, you can’t expect tired men—for we never got a day’s rest throughout the entire journey—to look for extra work, and heavy work at that, especially when they were only two-thirds of the way through their present job ; it wouldn’t be fair. Yet one and all of us wanted to see that record put in its proper place. I was the only man running with them who was no longer competing in the race and I was just getting reasonably fit : I had been run over by a car some five weeks earlier and suffered a broken shoulder blade and a few other trifles. But I had now almost entirely recovered and, although my left arm had been strapped up tightly for a month after the accident, I had just got it free again. Not only that but for the past three weeks I had been running with the competitors along the road day after day, helping them along and encouraging them as I could, for Pvle had asked me to carry on like this as ” Technical Adviser.”

We had a short meeting that night to discuss the matter and it was decided that the best way to pulverise that ” record ” without giving the actual competitors any extra work would be for ‘me. personally, to attend to the business. The idea was that I should start well after the race was under weigh so as to avoid getting to the control first, and I could then finish up among the many others more or less unnoticed. So we broached the matter to the officials who willingly agreed to appoint a car with the necessary timekeepers to accompany me.

About half an hour after the runners had gone off next morning I set out all alone in glorious desert weather, no wind or clouds but yet not uncomfortably warm. There was about a mile of easy going and then we came to the real business. The surface was all that could be wished, a splendidly graded macadamised and tarred road, just as good as a main thoroughfare here at home. The gradient of course slowed me down a lot, but I knew what to

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expect because it had been rubbed into all of us that the climb was a severe one. Hard work, as you can imagine, but the scenery made up for much : the road was quite a wonderful piece of engineering through such a tumultuous upheaval of rocks. The strata, seemed to be outcropping almost vertically and only on the actual roadway was any sort of going, other than actual climbing afoot, possible.

Presently I got to the tail end of the race and had a word with some of the men who were walking ; the hill was so long and so steep that only a very small percentage trotted all the way up. They sped me on my way with ” Good luck.” Heavens ! that was ” some ” climb !—we were told it was over 2,000 ft.—but at last I arrived at the summit to find a garage planted there rejoicing in the name of ‘”The Top of the World.” You bet I was thankful to note it, for after that I knew I was in for an easv spin down the other side, where I reckoned I should be able to make up for a lot of time lost in climbing.

The descent was almost as steep and the scenery not a whit worse. Some of the shoulders of the mountain had to be sharply rounded on escarpments—even cars had to travel slowly and carefully to ” make ” the bends—while one towards the end was tunnelled through. As there wasn’t the slightest sign of houses or industry, I was beginning to wonder how much further it could be when, turning an acute corner, I found myself in open country again with Superior not a quarter of a mile away. A minute or two later and it was all over : time, two hours and eleven minutes.

Have you spotted what was wrong ? There can be no doubt the local people judged the distance by the amount of travel involved in covering it. But I knew jolly well I couldn’t run twenty-two miles over a mountain like that in two hours eleven minutes. Personally I’m quite certain it wasn’t a yard more than twenty miles, possibly a shade less. I’ve always been a stickler for accuracy in these things.

CHAPTER VIII

 WHEN EVERYTHING COMES UNSTUCK

EVERY now and again I used to shift my training grounds in order to explore new country. In February, 1020, I was at Brighton when I received a challenge from R. E. Cole, the Welsh runner, to compete against him for the professional marathon championship of Great Britain.

I had never met Cole but knew he was a good man ; knew, moreover, that he greatly wanted to earn this championship, though at the moment he could not claim it because I had put up

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better time than he had on the road. Yet I had never given the title a thought, because the 26-mile marathon was not my distance —my style of running was suited only for fifty miles and upwards. There was to be no remuneration for the race, though we all naturally hoped that what gate there was would be sufficient to cover our actual expenses, but this was quite a secondary affair, for both Gavuzzi and I were willing at any time to accept a reasonable challenge.

Straight away I took a coach for Southampton and talked it over with Gavuzzi, and he gladly agreed to take a stab at it. We decided to travel by coach and break the journey at two or three points so as to get out and loosen up a bit, for we both knew the troublesome inertia brought on by a long journey, and meant to counteract it as far as possible. So we took tickets for Bath for a start and got out there for a ten mile run. After that we caught another coach and went on to Bristol, where we put up at a hotel. Acting on our plan we went out in the dark just before seven o’clock next morning for another run.

It was mighty cold before ever we set out on this trip, but while we had been travelling the thermometer had been steadily going down, and at Bristol that morning we were treated to sixteen degrees of frost. It was just a bit too thick, and we got no further than a mile and a half from the hotel when we both decided it was not good enough; with only shorts and sweaters we were getting far more than merely uncomfortably cold and knew it would be folly to continue like that. So we breakfasted at the hotel and presently boarded a coach for Gloucester, where we got out for a walk, and afterwards continued our journey to Hereford.

All this time the mercury had been receding and we found the Wye solidly frozen over owing to a temperature of twenty degrees of frost. However, we ambled round and found comfortable rooms, and then walked out to have a look at the Cathedral and inspect the city generally. And all the time it was getting colder !

Surely, we thought, the limit had about been reached ! But when we got up next morning the thermometer was advertising twenty-two degrees below freezing point, the sky was dull and overcast, and a steady snowfall was blanketing the whole country. This began to look like almost a major disaster, but anyhow we felt it would handicap Cole as much as it did us. For the sake of exercise we walked round for a mile or two, but the cold soon drove us back to our rooms again.

Well, we were ” for it ” and no mistake ; the mercury was even two degrees lower when we arrived at the ground for the race next day. We found it was a slightly tilted field, round which a 440-yard track had been measured. The snow had been so prolonged and heavy that whoever was attending to the preliminaries had been unable to keep the fairway clear, and to start at all we should have to trample down about three inches of it. Gavuzzi and I donned two sweaters each as well as gloves and ran in the usual athletic shorts. Mv word it was cold ! It seemed to be even more unbearable than the worst we had struck in Canada. And the gate didn’t amount to half a hundred : you couldn’t expect people to stand still for any length of time in that weather, though fortunately it had stopped snowing.

Off we went with Cole in the lead while Gavuzzi and I followed tJose at his tail. I know we put on the pace a trifle in an endeavour to try and warm up, but it didn’t seem to have much effect. Occasionally Gavuzzi or I would take the lead for a lap or two, but Cole always stuck close up, just as we did when he went ahead. The surface was absolutely rotten, simply great blobs of frozen and slippery snow, and we were running of course in gym shoes; there wasn’t an atom of decent going anywhere, and a lot of our energy was wasted in overcoming slips and slides.

After about ten miles of it Gavuzzi began to flag, the cold was evidently too much for him. But he hadn’t yet given in, for during the next four miles he brightened up and nearly caught us. That was his dying flutter however, and very shortly afterwards he retired.

Around the nineteenth mile I found I was definitely weakening, and rather than risk dropping out, reduced the pace, whereon Cole started to open up a gap. He stuck to it wonderfully and at twenty-four miles lapped me. I was too ” done ” to attempt any sort of comeback and could do no more than keep to a modest nine an hour to the finish. It ended up with Cole more than a lap (600 yards) in the lead, with his title, which he had so ably earned, safely tucked away. His time was 2h. 48 m. 45sec.

Well, I tell you these passing details to put you on your mettle, for you never know what conditions you may have to run under. Had I known what it was going to be like I should have arranged things differently; we might have stood a better chance had we travelled direct to Hertford and then spent two or three days loosening up on the spot. What really spoilt any hope of winning the race (and I don’t think it was a great one at any time) was our running a bit wild at the start because we felt the cold so badly; had we let Cole go as he pleased and travelled more moderately for the first six or eight miles we should not have weakened so badly and, even if he had lapped us several times, would have been able to extend later on. Make a note of that point next time you race, for it’s one of the most valuable and least practised by marathon men.

CHAPTER  VII

I RAN IN SCOTLAND

IN 1928 Powderhall was only a name to me and I had never dreamt of competing there. So I was surprised and pleased when I received an offer of a prize of one hundred pounds if I won a fifty-mile race from Glasgow to Edinburgh, the last seven miles or so to be run round the famous Powderhall track. Gavuzzi, my partner in many a long distance event, received a similar offer.

We knew we should be the only two competitors as there were no others in the country capable of putting up decent time over such a long course, and between ourselves we agreed that the winner should take £60 and the loser the remaining £40. But, quite apart from any prize, we were keen enough to put up a record over such a classic course as Glasgow to Edinburgh and were lucky indeed to get a chance to do so without having to meet any expenses. We both accepted the offer right away.

Meeting Joe Binks in London we had a long train journey to Edinburgh, where we were installed very comfortably at the Imperial Hotel as the guests of Mr. Lumley. This was a day or two before our event and we were able therefore to take a look around the city and also at the venue of the famous Powderhall sprints. Then into a coach for Glasgow, where we put up for the night at another hotel.

The outlook next morning was almost as bad as it well could be. It had been freezing solidly for many days and there were inches of snow on the ground ; and snow, hardened into ruts by traffic, is about the limit. However, the officials kept to their timetable and of course we could do no less.

Gavuzzi and I had agreed to run the first ten or fifteen miles at around 9½ an hour, changing the lead alternately every now and again. That was a reasonable limit: if we went faster we might find ourselves so tired as to be quite unable to finish. But we hadn’t allowed sufficiently for the intense cold and worse still, the abominable surface. Every atom of the road was a criss-crossed maze of ruts in hardened snow and ice, and the trouble of trying to maintain balance added greatly to the exertion required. Also the cold made things extremely uncomfortable.

Before we had gone ten miles I knew the pace was too hot to hold – we were expending energy enough to travel at 10½ an hour on a decent road – and when Gavuzzi took the lead at this point I let him go. I was beginning to fear we had already overdone things so much that we should find it difficult to reach the far end, and I daren’t risk anything of that sort.

Apparently a thaw had been at work on the Edinburgh side for some hours, for the further we went the dirtier it became underfoot, and at thirty miles we were running in pools and slush. For some time Gavuzzi had been out of sight and the best part of a mile ahead, and I began to think I must be a bit ” off ” or that he

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was in extra good form. Yet at the back of my mind I felt reasonably sure I had actually put up a decent run so far, considering the conditions, and didn’t think it possible that he should outdistance me by so much and still be able to get away with it. In any case I was answerable only for my own performance, so I just kept stolidly going, the pace bv now being less than nine an hour, for I was getting really tired.

Only a few miles to the city and, turning a corner, I noted a bunch of traffic on the long straight ahead. I soon came up to it and was somewhat dismayed to find that in the centre was Gavuzzi, walking. As he let me pass without an attempt to resume running I took it for granted that bad roads, numbing cold and the earlier speeding had beaten him, and it was up to me therefore to make sure that one at least of us managed to get through. Shortly afterwards I was told that he had retired.

It seemed a verv long time before I got to the track but it turned up at last, and I entered to find the ten-mile championship in full swing. Most of the men in this were too fast for me and I allowed them to go by continually on the inside so as not to spoil their chances, but there were two or three who were already so played out that I was able to overtake them, showing pretty clearly that even for such a noteworthy event as this there were some quite hopelessly undertrained.

I, too, was getting very weary indeed and wasn’t doing more than about eight an hour till the last lap, when I let out what little I had in reserve and managed to push it up to about ten. Well, I had been tired pretty often, though seldom as badly as I was on this occasion : for though we had not—to my ideas—put up a decent show, we certainly had reduced the record pretty considerably, and I felt therefore that wo ought to be content. Yet I knew that under less trying circumstances both Gavuzzi and I could have done very much better. I believe the record still stands —anyhow Joe Binks would be able to tell you—and if so it’s an easy one to beat. The time for 50 miles was slightly over 6 hours, a somewhat unpleasing figure compared to the 5h. 38m. 53s. for the same distance on the London-Brighton road.

CHAPTER VI

 RUNNING UP A MOUNTAIN

THE Comrade’s Marathon, the annual 54-miles road race in Natal, was over, and two of us who had taken a stab at it— we finished first and ninth—made tracks for a few days’ mountain­eering in the Drakensberg. We meant to have a short spell of sightseeing before returning to our work in Rhodesia 1,200 miles away.

From Durban we went 150 miles in the train, then got into a car and travelled another fifty miles west, and there found the Government Hostel, headquarters for climbers of Montaux-Seurces 11,000 odd feet and one of the highest peaks. It was winter and freezing, but as there is seldom a cloud in the sky during May the days were pretty well all we could wish for such a trip. We didn’t need a guide, as I had been up several times before, and besides, we had no intention of trying any dangerous routes.

The Hostel itself stood at an altitude of some 4,000 ft., and early next morning we set out, climbing up gullies and on rough tracks scarped out of the mountainside, and after something like a dozen hours reached the top (11,700 ft.) and from there returned to a cave. This cave, a few hundred feet below the summit, was where parties usually camped for the night before the Mountain Club put up a permanent building. The following day we were back at the Hostel again intending to explore elsewhere.

Chatting over a gorgeous fire that night it was suggested that, being long-distance athletes, we should put up a record afoot from the Hostel to the cave at the top and back, for future climbers to conjure with. The best ” up ” time at that date was rather over 3 ½ hours. Nothing loth, we agreed.

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My partner, F. C. M. Watkins, took a horse and went a few hours ahead so as to be ready with the timing ; he had a camera too, for a photo would be necessary to prove the top had been reached. Shortly afterwards I changed into running kit and was sent off at 11 a.m.

There was a mule track of sorts over a large part of the way which made things reasonably easy, though there was so much rock surface, and abominably rough at that, that the going was none too good. My training had entailed running up many a long hill, hut this was altogether bigger than anything I had yet tackled. Yet I knew that so long as I studied my wind carefully and altered the length of my stride to suit the gradient, I should have nothing to fear. One thing, however, didn’t please mo at all; there was super-magnificent scenery all around and I dared not for a moment look at it; every bit of attention had to be focussed on my progress unless I wanted a broken foot or limb.

Slowly I worked up one steep face after another until, at about 8,000 ft. the difficulty with breathing began to be noticeable. This only meant cutting down the pace still further so as not to get distressed. One or two bad bits here and there put a temporary halt to running and had to be negotiated pretty nearly on all fours ; but I never stopped moving, and after what seemed like an almost endless ascent reached the top of the pass and went up to the cave, just below which my partner was waiting with the watch and camera. Time to this point was 2 hrs. 18 min. 30 sec.

Ah me! Woe is me ! Then the trouble started. Watkins’ horse had got loose and it would certainly need two of us to catch it. So I couldn’t think of returning until I had seen him safely mounted. Several times we all but managed it, but it broke free, while we perspired with internal profanity at the delay. Eventually we did corner it, but the job had taken us a full half-hour, and I believe it was more good luck than good management then. Right away I said “au revoir” and started on the down journey.

This was much quicker and certainly easier, but I found it more than ever necessary to be careful; in fact I did what seemed to me like expert jumping on more than one occasion to get over bad spots. Some of the turns round rocks wore remarkably sudden and it was just as well for me that no one happened to be travelling in the opposite direction at the time.

Another half-mile and I should get a view of the hostel I had started from. I could spare no more than a more glance, but even that told me I was expected, for there was quite a bunch of visitors and staff on the look-out.

Ten minutes later I ran up to them. ” Time, please ? ” “4 hrs. 16 min. 30 seconds.” “Thanks, and now what price a bath? ” Pity we’d had to waste all that time over the horse !

CHAPTER V

EXTENDING  THE  DISTANCE 

IN 1927 I was in Rhodesia, helping to build up the newly-formed Bulawayo Harriers. After the long-distance section had experienced a relay marathon they began to realise that they could do quite decently at this or any other distance did they but train consistently; and both track and weekly road runs—the latter being from six to eight miles—were well attended. In their budding enthusiasm for distance events a day came along when it was suggested that I might have a shot at the 100 miles record. It was pointed out that even if I didn’t beat it I might at any rate set up a temporary figure for other fellows to aim at, and they would willingly spring a relay team to provide the necessary competition. I said I’d consider it.

Until now my standard distance had always been fifty miles for racing purposes, and I had never tried more than a mile or two beyond this. Yet when I reasoned it out I felt sure that with careful planning it certainly ought to be possible to do a hundred, though I will admit the idea made me a bit uneasy because such

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a distance would surely mean abnormal exhaustion. However, to get a taste of the medicine I thought I’d venture out for sixty miles. I was always keen to explore all the country I could, and a run of this length would enable me to have a look at World’s View in the Matoppos, some thirty miles away. So I arranged for a morning’s absence from work.

Sixty miles needed preparation, as I well knew, and for a day or two my runs were reduced in length so as to allow me to build up a bit of reserve. Summer in Southern Rhodesia is not unbearably hot, nor is the rain incessant ; fortunately the day I had chosen promised to be quite fine, so I didn’t have to bother over climatic coonditions.

With this somewhat fearsome job in hand I reckoned I must be extra careful, for I had to be back at work the same afternoon. .After a light meal I set out at three a.m. trotting along quite gently at about seven miles an hour in the dark, but I knew the first dozen miles of the road well, as I had been over it several times in daylight. Beyond taking a few coins in my pocket I made no preparation for feeding as I intended to get a meal at the hotel near the far end.

I got along very comfortably and had gone perhaps eighteen miles before it became light enough to get a sight of the country around. There was no fear of losing the road because it was the only one, and after passing a lake which had been made by damming a stream, I spotted the hotel and ran up to it. Only a few of the staff were about, but after a moment’s explanation I was told I could get breakfast in twenty minutes and sat down to wait for it. They were not only punctual but gave me a right good meal : porridge and cream, ham and eggs, toast and marmalade and tea ; after which I felt quite fit for some more work and set off for the last mile or two to World’s View. There was a fairly well-worn track and an occasional signpost, so there was no difficulty in finding the place.

All around were hills ; not the sort you’re accustomed to but ureat rounded chunks of smooth granite with luxuriant jungle in dots and clumps sprinkled about them. I followed the footpath up one of the biggest of these—going up a slope of sometimes 1 in 5 necessitated slow and toilsome running—climbing fairly steeply for perhaps six hundred feet, and at last came out on top where stood a few large rounded boulders, things almost the size of cottages. This is the spot where Cecil Rhodes and one or two other notable pioneers are buried. There I found an inscribed plate let into the granite, also a fine monument to Wilson and his troop who had fought to a finish against a horde of the Matabele.

After a good look round at everything including the scenery— the atmosphere was perfectly clear—I began the return journey. I didn’t call in at the hotel because I funked the publicity, for by this time all the visitors would be up and about. So I bypassed it and again got on to the road to Bulawayo. I was beginning; to get tired and, curiously enough, felt hungry too, but reckoned I’d

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manage to roach the nearest store, some seventeen miles further on, where I could pick up something to help me home.

As the day advanced the heat became rather oppressive and I perspired profusely. What I particularly wanted was a drink with plenty of sugar in it, but I had to toil on for mile after mile without this, all the time cursing my folly at having missed the opportunity at the hotel. When at last I reached the store and got my drink I was so tired and feeble that the last few miles into Bulawayo were a long drawn out battle with exhaustion. Really this was my own fault, for had I stopped a second time at the hotel for a refresher, I should not have been nearly so bad. Well, that lesson was rubbed in ; in future any very long runs must be properly prepared for beforehand with regard to feeding requirements en route.

However, I got back all right and managed to get through my work that afternoon, though 1 felt all the time that rest and sleep were urgent necessities. And anyway I had learnt that sixty miles could be just as easily tackled as fifty and therefore, with due precautions, there was no reason why the hundred should not be attempted. It was evident that only a slight reduction in stride and pace was required, together with ample preparation in the way of drinks and food. Yes, I felt satisfied that it could be done, and what’s more that I would shortly have a slap at it.

Presently the time came to translate theory into practice. After that sixty-miler I took the bull by the horns and asked the R.A.A. and C.TJ. to arrange for a trial at the 100 miles world’s reord, which was then held by Hatch of America whose time on the track was 16h. 7m. 43see.

I intended to run on the road and of course that wasn’t flat, though the one the R.A.A. and C.U. chose—from near Gwelo to Bulawayo—had no hills worth mentioning, nothing worse than an occasional rise and descent of 100 or 200 ft. By this time I had been nearly two years in Rhodesia and the altitude, around 5,000 ft., no longer caused the trouble of my earlier experiences ; I had learnt that I could run just as far, though not as fast, as ever.

If you want to establish a record you must run against competition, and quite naturally there wasn’t a spate of 100-mile men in the country. So arrangements were made thus. First of all some of the Bulawayo Harriers took a measuring wheel, carefully corrected over a surveyed ten miles, from King’s Grounds, where the finish was to be, along the road to Gwelo till the 100 miles mark was reached. Then another 300-400 yards was added (at my special request) to make quite sure of the distance, and the starting point, a peg, was driven into the verge of the road at the spot.

Then a Harriers’ team of six men were given the job of running a relay to furnish the competition, and I was to try to beat them. As they were all men whose normal distances were between one and ten miles they were, in their own way, taking on just about as big a job as I was, and they knew it. Finally the date, July 12th, 1927, was settled, and accommodation reserved for us all at the Gwelo 

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Hotel:    The afternoon  before  the race we all  motored  over to Gwelo,   107  miles  distant,  and  made  sure that  everything  was O.K.

I put away a real good breakfast at the last possible moment next morning and was driven out to the starting point. At 6.10 I was sent off on the long journey, nearly twice as long as anything I had formerly tackled. The relay team left a few minutes later for two reasons : (1) six to one is a tall order and the chances were that they would easily beat me, and (2) I had told the officials that my chances would be better if I could run to my own schedule without having a man on my heels or just in front of me all the time.

It was dark at first of course, but an official ear about fifty yards behind me floodlighted the road which had quite a decent ” dirt ” surface, and I ambled along at a serenely easy seven miles per hour, knowing I had to save every atom of energy lest I should fail from exhaustion. For the first score or so of miles I had to carry on like this while the breakfast settled down ; it was really no worse than a fellow taking a gentle stroll. Now and again one of the cars would go ahead to some marked spot and wait there for me to pass, telling me just how the relay team were getting along, the distance travelled, and the time. After the first few miles it got light and I was able to see something of the country I was running through.

I had two or three drinks from a thermos between twenty-five and forty-five miles and was beginning to feel decidedly hungry and between ourselves, somewhat tired, when we got to the hotel at Insiza, the halfway house, and welcomed the meal which had been ordered and was ready.    My fodder was soup, chicken and vegetables, and fruit pie (pastry !!) and J worked it back as quickly as I dared for no time must be wasted.    Twelve minutes later I was out on the road again, climbing a gentle gradient on my way to Bulawayo.    It came as a surprise to learn that the team were, still many minutes behind, but I took it that they were saving themselves for the ordeal just as I had been doing.    That meal certainly helped me along wonderfully and I felt the benefit of it for the next twenty miles.    At about seventy, however, I knew that the real struggle was beginning.    The sun went down and once/ more a car floodlighted the road while I crept steadily on, feeling that there was still a chance that I might reach the end, though I was in for a real bad time.     Still the relay team hadn’t caught me and the thought that I might perhaps beat them after all helped to keep me going as fast as I dared.    The officials were most  helpful,   producing  unlimited  hot  tea  from   inexhaustible thermos flasks whenever required, and f needed a dose every three or four miles towards the end.    And always I found enough strength to potter along at about 6* an hour though every nerve and fibre seemed to be crying for rest.

The end came at last as 1 turned into King’s Grounds to find quite a large crowd gathered there.    I must admit I was badly “done in”. so much so that I found it difficult even to talk and answer the many questions fired at me.   But they sat me down, put my feet in a bath of hot water to ease them, and gave me a “pick-me-up”, and there we stayed and dtalked it over for more than an hour before I was able to get away and turn in.

The relay team clocked in with a time only a minute or trwo worse than mine, and they too were very tired, and no wonder – Wilson, Watkins and Hendrickson had each run about twenty-six miles!   My time was 14h. 43 min., and the improvement on Hatch’s mark was so unbelievable to many of these good people they there and then decided to take steps to send me to England to attempt better time under more favourable conditions.   Feeling that I now knew something of what was needed for this type of race, I willingly agreed to try.

And that was how I started on these extraordinary long runs, which ended a year or two later in covering more than 152 miles in 24 hours, which still stands as the record.

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CHAPTER IV

MAN VERSUS  HORSE

TWO of us had trundled a tested Government machine at a fast walking pace from the City Hall at Maritzburg (South Africa) to Durban Town Hall in order to measure the exact distance, which turned out to be 54 miles 1,100 yards. This was the Comrade’s Marathon Course, and in the next month or so we should be racing over it competing against other runners and, for a novelty, against a man on a horse.

Mr. George Robinson was a well-known Natal farmer and Mr. Vie Clapham, the promoter of the race, had induced him to train a horse and try his luck against us. He took to the job seriously and, having picked his mount, went out daily for long journeys on the road. He wasn’t going to take any chances ; he saw to it that both horse and rider were in top form for the ordeal. Mr. Robinson himself was the jockey.

Personally I considered that the men were likely to turn out winners, but the general public, according to the press, favoured horse and rider. Anyway, we should soon know.

May 24th came along—Empire Day, always the day of the race —and the Mayor of Maritzburg sent us off on our long journey afoot, the horseman starting three minutes later so as not to get in the way of the competitors while they were all bunched up.

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This promised to be interesting and I found my mind always speculating about it. For three miles I trotted along at about nine miles per hour and then came the first big hill. They are big hills in Natal, very much stiffer than anything I’ve since seen in the South of England over which I have travelled considerably. We had something like 800 feet to climb here, and I was less than halfway up when I heard a horse approaching from behind. Of course it might be ” the ” mount, but I wasn’t going to look back, because other riders were using the road. Trotting quite easily at between eight and nine miles per hour he caught me up presently, and I found it was Mr. Robinson after all, though I had hardly expected to see him so early in the day. We ” cheerio’d ” each other and before long I lost sight of him.

I didn’t feel a bit downhearted at this, rather the other way round in fact, for I knew that pace in the early stages of such a race was fatal to a man and thought it might have the same effect on a horse. There was plenty of time ahead and I confidently looked forward to turning the tables later on. In the meantime H. J. Phillips, my chief rival, who was a quarter of a mile ahead when the horse passed me, was constantly increasing his lead— ten miles further on he was a mile and a quarter in front—so I had plenty to think about.

I carried on, generally travelling at about nine miles per hour, less uphill of course and rather more on the downgrades and felt I was getting along quite well. When I passed the hotel at Drummond, halfway to Durban, I enquired about the position and was told that Phillips was then only half a mile away and was slowing down ; also that the horse, after a rest of five minutes, was still going well and was all of a couple of miles ahead.

The thirty-mile mark arrived and I caught up with Phillips at last and, being now in the lead, proceeded to widen the gap so far as the running was concerned, but never did I get a sight of that horse. Forty miles, and except that I was leading by a greater margin, the position was just the same. Where on earth was that jockey, I wondered ?

By now I was getting a bit tired, of course, but that didn’t worry me because I knew that the last fourteen miles to Durban were nearly all downhill, dropping from over 2,000 ft. to sea level. As there was no sign at any time of the rider I thought he must have stopped at some wayside hotel to feed and water his mount, and that I must have passed him while he was at it.

But now I had other things to occupy me ; there was a continual stream of motor traffic along the road, which was mostly mac­adamised but not tarred, and there were times when I couldn’t see twenty feet in any direction on account of the dust. But the never-ending down-gradient made running comparatively easy and I got along so well that I was always increasing my lead over the rest of the field.

Ah ! Durban at last ! I came to the tram tracks at the top of the Berea and from there on felt I was being closely inspected by

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crowds of people—one tram even kept pace with me for a couple of hundred yards—both in vehicles and alongside the road, and I’ve always been one of those who dislike publicity. Anyway, if I was tired I couldn’t show it while these thousands were looking on, and no doubt the crowd and their encouragment helped to spur me on.

A final mile on the flat to the Town Hall and in a few minutes it was all over. I soon discovered why I hadn’t seen the horse— Mr. Robinson had arrived more than an hour before ! His time was 5 hrs. 11 min., altogether better than anything I had imagined possible ; mine, 6 hrs. 24 m. 45 sec. and Phillips’ 7 hrs. 5 min. seemed very mediocre by comparison, and I was keen indeed to meet Mr. Robinson and discuss things.

He told me he had chosen a mount that was exceptionally good at that sort of thing, and that with the three months of training he had given it he was pretty confident of the result. He had, he said, almost run it to the reasonable limit, though it could have managed perhaps another eight or ten miles ; had the distance been much further however he would have stopped rather than risk any serious damage, for the horse was always his first con­sideration. It was a bit stiff after its long journey, but with a day or two’s rest would be as good as ever.

This outstanding triumph was, of course, due to the rider himself, and was all the more impressive when you realise that he was close to the ” three score years and ten ” stage ! I lift my hat mentally to him every time I think of our contest.