Flanagan's Run

by Tom McNab

  His apple pie had arrived. So had his coffee. McPhail was reassured by the familiar food, for he still did not feel totally at home. Looking up he noted Martinez, his Mexican rival, leaving the room, his jacket pockets bulging with bread rolls and apples. It was not long before he himself felt uncomfortably full, and he squeezed his way through the crowds towards the stairs.

  There were two beds in Room 262. On one lay little Martinez, fully clothed, his hands folded across his stomach, surrounded by bread rolls and apples. His eyes were shut and he was snoring loudly. Hugh put down his haversack, stood at the wash-basin and watched it fill with yellow, tepid water.

  He washed himself down, dried and lay on his bed for some time, hands behind his neck, staring at the ceiling. If this was a taste of Flanagan’s Trans-America race then so far so good. He lay back, his head cupped in his hands, and closed his eyes.

  2

  Flanagan meets the Press

  Three telephones rang at once. Charles C. Flanagan picked up the one nearest him and jammed it to his ear. “Ham on rye!” he shouted. “I said two ham on rye!” He slammed the phone back on its rest and flopped back into his armchair.

  The bedroom was a wilderness of telephones, press clippings, ticker-tapes, half-eaten sandwiches and cold cups of coffee. Flanagan stood in his flowery blue silk dressing-gown, his long, knobbly hands on his hips, his great thin toes poking out of open slippers. He was in his mid-forties, with lank hair, already prematurely grey, that constantly sprayed across his forehead; yet it was his teeth, great broad tombstones, white and shining, that dominated his face.

  He picked up another phone on its first ring. “Willard!” he roared, turning towards the bathroom. “Willard! No, not you, ma’am,” he cooed back into the telephone.

  There was the flutter of a female voice in the receiver. Flanagan’s voice continued in low key. “Yes, ma’am. Milwaukee Ladies Home Journal? Yes, we have” – he thumbed through a hash of papers on the floor – “at the last count, one hundred and twenty-one ladies in the Trans-America race . . . Chaperones?” He put his hand over the phone and whirled round on Willard Clay, a small, plump, bespectacled man who had just emerged from the toilet in red striped pyjamas, and who was brushing his face with shaving soap.

  “She’s asking for chaperones for the girls,” hissed Flanagan.

  He removed his hand and again spoke into the phone, his great white teeth flashing.

  “Of course, Miss . . . Miss McGregor.” He grimaced at Willard, who was now unconcernedly scraping his chin with an open razor. “Three ladies from the San Francisco Ladies Seminary have kindly donated their services as chaperones. Yes, San Francisco Ladies Seminary.”

  He slowly spelled the title out, nodding the while and smiling into the telephone. “Yes, I can guarantee that strictly non-denominational services will be held every Sunday. Thank you kindly, ma’am.”

  He put down the phone and glared at his assistant. “Why didn’t you think of chaperones?” he snapped.

  Willard began to scrape soap from beneath his chin, rinsed the razor in his shaving mug and shook his head, soap dripping to the floor. “We didn’t even know some of them were women till they started to arrive a couple of days back,” said Willard plaintively. “Anyhow, they sure as hell won’t last long.”

  Flanagan threw himself back on to an armchair swathed in ticker-tape, a pile of which he immediately hurled on to the carpet. “How do you know? Could be there’s some female Nurmi lurking out there amongst all those fat broads.”

  “Sure make a good story if there were,” chuckled Willard, turning back into the toilet to lay down his shaving bowl, at the same time announcing over his shoulder, “Miss America – she challenges the greatest foot-racers in the world.”

  Flanagan stroked his unshaven chin. “Willard, baby, you are one hundred per cent right.” He lifted both hands to frame an imaginary headline. “Miss America in the Trans-America. We could dress her up in Stars and Stripes, tour her across the whole country after the race.” He sat back, pondering, his eyes distant.

  Two phones rang. Flanagan pulled himself away from his reverie and picked up the one balanced precariously on the edge of his armchair. “Charles C. Flanagan,” he said cautiously, then, on hearing who his caller was, exclaimed, “Paramount Pictures!” He sat bolt upright and beckoned the half-shaven Willard close to the telephone. He cupped his hand over the speaker and listened for several minutes. “Paramount,” he whispered. “They want us to move the start of the race into the Coliseum stadium.”

  His voice dropped an octave as he resumed his conversation. “You must realise the difficulties, Mr Schenck. We have two thousand runners here, the largest field in the history of professional sport. A quarter-mile running track is hardly an appropriate starting place for a race of such magnitude.”

  Some of Willard’s shaving soap had smeared the speaker of the telephone. Flanagan brushed it off and scowled at Willard.

  “What sort of financial compensation?” he asked, his eyes lighting up. Willard, undeterred, again pressed close.

  “Ten thousand dollars? Absolutely impossible. Fifteen? No, there is no way in which I could possibly compromise the start of the Trans-America . . .” his voice trailed off, and he again covered the speaker as Willard pulled at his sleeve.

  “Take it, boss,” whispered Willard. “For Christ’s sake, take it.”

  Flanagan returned to the phone, his face impassive. “Yes, I know we have an agreement, but not, sir, to start the race from the Coliseum. Twenty-five thousand? Make it thirty and I think we may have ourselves a deal.” Willard could hear the raised tones of the voice at the other end of the line. Flanagan paused dramatically.

  “Thirty thousand? Have it in writing in a contract here by noon at the Plaza Hotel and it’s a deal. Yes, indeed, a pleasure and privilege to do business with you, Mr Schenck.”

  He put down the phone and leaned back in his chair, his hands linked across his stomach.

  “Willard,” he said. “I truly think we’re sitting on a pot of gold.”

  “But the Coliseum, boss? Two thousand men on a quarter-mile track?”

  “No real problem,” said Flanagan. “We can start some from outside the stadium, have them all run a couple of laps inside the Coliseum, then off they go into the boondocks towards Pomona. Look at it this way. It’s better than starting out on the road. We can charge admission. And think of the catering concessions – hot dogs, Coke, popcorn . . . Why didn’t I think of that before? And Willard, why didn’t you?”

  Willard shrugged and waddled off into the bathroom.

  The phone rang again. “City police?” Flanagan’s face dropped. He listened intently for a few moments, then said, “Let me get this quite clear, Commissioner Flaherty. Are you seriously telling me that my Chinese runners are urinating in your streets? Any particular streets? Oh, I see. Any street. Commissioner, I promise you that I will speak strongly to them. Confidentially, I think it may be some kind of religious observance, so I must be careful not to offend. While you are with me, I would consider it a great honour if you and your good wife would be with us at the opening ceremony. I might mention that Miss Mary Pickford and Mr Douglas Fairbanks have made a particular request to meet you both. Delighted you can make it, sir.”

  He put down the phone. “Like hell they have,” he said as Willard shambled through the ticker-tape, patting after-shave on his smooth round face. “That mick had fifty of our boys in the can in the first week for infesting the public highways. Took me a hundred dollars to sweeten him.”

  Flanagan looked around him wearily, picked up a pile of ticker-tape and held it out in front of him. “Willard, must we live in this squalor? Mother of Mary, we’re paying fifty dollars a day.” He grabbed the phone. “Room service? For God’s sake send someone to clean up this place. Pronto!”

  Another phone rang. This time Willard picked it up. He listened for a few moments then put the phone down with a dazed expression.

  “Boss,”
he said. “A Mr Seidlitz said to tell you, the midgets are booked. A hundred midgets. What are we doing with a hundred midgets?”

  Flanagan looked at his assistant with scorn. “Didn’t I tell you? We finish the race indoors in Madison Square Garden on 6 June. Before the runners arrive we have a little floor show. You know, some acrobats, a strong man. I’ve got a Turk who can lift an elephant. Not much of an elephant, but hell, an elephant’s an elephant. The big finale, before the runners arrive, is midgets racing round the track on ponies. It’s never been done before. First time in the history of sport.”

  Before the speech could develop further there was a knock on the door and a bell-boy’s head appeared.

  “Mr Flanagan, sir. Your press conference in the Coolidge Room – in an hour.”

  Flanagan waved over his shoulder. “I’ll be ready. Willard,” he said. “Let me have another look at the press list before you set it all up. In an hour we meet the gentlemen of the world’s press.”

  Flanagan scanned the list Willard gave him and scowled. One hundred and eighty journalists from all over the world, many of whom had been at every Olympics since Athens, every World Series since the beginning of the century. From the moment in I930 when he had first proposed the Trans-America the press had ranged through the whole gamut of opinion, from incredulity to derision. There would, of course, be those dear, innocent souls who took the Trans-America at face value, seeing it as a means of padding out expense accounts for three months or more: those he would take in his stride. But there would be others, case-hardened journalists who were not sports reporters at all, who would see the race as simply another junk sport of the thirties, in the same class as Bronx bull-fighting or underwater baseball. Such men would require careful handling.

  The press were essential to the Trans-America. They must be used, they must be amused, all the way from Los Angeles to New York. He crumpled the press list into a ball, aimed it at the wastepaper-bin and flipped it across the room. It hit the outside of the bin and bounced off into a corner.

  At two-thirty precisely Charles C. Flanagan adjusted his pearl tie pin, straightened the handkerchief in the jacket pocket of his immaculate grey double-breasted suit and looked at the journalists buzzing and scribbling below him. The Calvin Coolidge Room was a veritable league of nations of the world of sports journalism. For the Trans-America had brought together reporters from all over the world, men who rarely met between Olympics. Now they jostled and hailed each other, scribbled and chattered, all waiting for the moment when the Trans-America would spring into life. The room itself had a sober, imposing quality: chairs topped with brown leather, the oak-lined walls hung with the oil portraits of past presidents. On the wall behind the platform on which he stood hung a portrait of Coolidge himself, poring over a massive tome which, on closer inspection, revealed itself to be a telephone directory.

  On Flanagan’s left sat Willard and the pretty young blonde, Dixie Williams, poised with pencil and pad. On his right was a tanned bald man in a pin-striped suit.

  Flanagan knew many of these journalists well, and they knew him. He placed both hands in a splayed tripod on the table in front of him, then stood back and stretched himself to his full height. Flash bulbs exploded and cameras whirred around him. “This way, Mr Flanagan,” shouted a group of photographers, and Flanagan turned to the right and flashed his white teeth in a frozen grin. In response to a request from the left he turned and, for variety, lifted his arms to the side, palms up: Flanagan the human cornucopia, the source of all good things.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he said, beckoning away the photographers and sitting down. “We must proceed with the business of the day.” He banged a heavy wooden gavel on the table in front of him, but it was fully a minute before the babble was stilled. “Could I have the first question, please?”

  “How far is the race?” shouted a journalist towards the front of the room.

  “Three thousand, one hundred and forty-six miles, two hundred and twenty yards,” replied Flanagan smoothly.

  “You dead sure about them yards?” shouted a man whom Flanagan recognised as Frank Pollard of the St Louis Star, a veteran of American sports journalism.

  “Not dead certain, Frank. But we’ll get our consultant surveyor to check it out, every yard of it if you have any doubts, first thing in the morning.” Through the laughter Flanagan pointed to another questioner in the middle of the room.

  “Charles Rae, Washington Post. What’s the money for first prize?”

  “One hundred and fifty thousand golden dollars, guaranteed by the National Bank of America,” said Flanagan.

  “And the other prizes?” asked Rae, staying on his feet.

  “Fifty thousand dollars for second, going down to two hundred dollars for hundredth place. The total is three hundred and sixty thousand dollars. Fancy pickings.”

  There was an immediate babble of discussion as the prize money was translated into pounds, marks and francs by the foreign press.

  Flanagan again hammered on the table for silence.

  “Can we say that this is the richest foot-race of all time?” pursued Rae.

  “You sure as hell can,” said Flanagan, grinning. “Indeed, I insist on it.”

  “What is the entry fee?” asked Pollard.

  “Two hundred dollars per man.”

  Pollard poked his pencil at Flanagan. “Isn’t that a little high in the present economic conditions?”

  Flanagan put both hands flat on the table. “These are hard times, gentlemen. You must realise that we provide three square meals a day for nearly three months. Boys, you’ll soon find out it’s worth coming just for the food!”

  He raised his hand to silence the hubbub.

  “Seriously, gentlemen, I had to have some evidence of good faith on the part of each competitor, most of whom are sponsored by states or nations, and the two hundred dollar entry fee provided the best evidence of that. Next question, please.”

  He pointed into the forest of raised hands.

  “How many miles will they cover each day?” shouted an unidentified voice from the back of the hall.

  “An average of fifty, usually divided into two stages. The minimum is thirty, the maximum sixty-one. May I ask you to identify yourselves, gentlemen? Let’s keep it formal.”

  “James Ferris, The Times of London. Has any man ever covered such distances daily?”

  Flanagan had been expecting the question, and promptly stood up. “I think that there’s a man sitting beside me who is better qualified than I am to answer that. Doc Cole, the father of American distance-running, is with us on the platform. All of you who have followed track over the years will know Doc. He ran marathon for Uncle Sam in the Olympics of I904 and I908 and has run pro ever since. Could you deal with that question, Doc?”

  “Doc” Cole slowly got to his feet. The arc lights reflected on his bald brown head. In his neat pin-striped suit he looked more like a clerk than an athlete. “Could you repeat the question?” he asked in a light mid-Western voice.

  “Has anyone ever covered fifty miles a day, Doc?”

  “Not for long,” said Doc. There was a ripple of laughter. “My pap told me of a fellow, a Yankee called Edmund Payson Weston, round about 1880. He could walk five miles an hour from here till Judgment Day. Couldn’t walk any faster, mind. He walked about three thousand miles across America once, about forty miles a day, back about 1885. Then there were the old six-day walkers when I was a boy. The best of them walked about a hundred miles a day, indoors in armouries back East for six days at a time.”

  “A hundred miles a day?” asked a reporter, scribbling furiously.

  “Yep. They called the six-day races ‘wobbles’, on account of most of the boys spent a lot of the time wobbling about the track.”

  “But it would be true to say that no one has ever raced fifty miles a day across America?” the journalist persisted.

  “Not to my knowledge or recollection,” replied Doc.

  There was a
bubble of discussion and a rustling of paper as the journalists compared notes.

  “Thank you, Doc,” said Flanagan, taking advantage of the pause in the questioning. “May I say at this point that Doc, because of his unique knowledge of distance-running, will hold his own press conference tomorrow. Next question, please.”

  “Forrest, Chicago Tribune.” The man who had asked the earlier, unidentified question stood up at the back of the crowded room. “What medical provision will there be for the runners?”

  “Ten fully qualified doctors headed by Dr Maurice Falconer of Los Angeles City Hospital, plus twenty masseurs. You must also remember, gentlemen, that many competitors will have their own doctors and masseurs with them.”

  “What happens if someone drops out? How does he make it home?” pursued Forrest.

  “The best way he can,” said Flanagan. “Gentlemen, this is the land of opportunity. There are no handouts in the Trans-America. These athletes have come from sixty-one nations, from all over the world, to get here. Some are unemployed, some have sold up their houses, some have left wives and sweethearts to compete in this race. These are men, gentlemen. They know it’s a gamble, because no man in history has covered three thousand miles across these here United States of America. These men are athletes – they are also gamblers. They’re gambling that their bodies can hold out for three months at fifty miles a day.”