Flanagan's Run

by Tom McNab

  The ringmaster, dressed in fur cap, gloves and thick tartan jacket, bellowed for silence, his voice echoing in the high steel rafters. The babble stilled, to be replaced by an expectant hush.

  The ringmaster turned towards Morgan’s opponent. “McGuin, Chicago, versus . . .” He turned to Morgan. “. . . Chuck Petrack, the Bronx.” It was the first time that Morgan had heard his ring-name spoken in public. It helped distance him from what he was about to do.

  He looked around a further time at the taut, expectant faces in the crowd. He had never before seen such expressions. True, these men had come to bet, but their real desire was to see strong men hit, punished, better men than themselves broken and humiliated.

  He was now deep in the underworld of sport, light years from the Olympics, distanced by law even from the seamy but legal world of professional boxing.

  Clancy massaged the muscles at the top of Morgan’s neck as he sat on his stool.

  “Easy,” said Clancy. “Easy.”

  Morgan looked across at his opponent. He felt a still coldness come over him.

  There was no gong, but someone in a neutral corner blew a whistle. Morgan got to his feet and came out slow, crouching, as did McGuin. For fully a minute they circled each other, only the sound of their breathing breaking the stillness.

  One hit settled it. As with Fogarty, Morgan made a play with his left, then hit his man on the side of the nose with his right. McGuin went down like a stone and lay for a moment, blood flowing from his nose on to the concrete floor. Like Fogarty before him, he raised himself painfully on both arms, then sank to the cold warehouse floor. It was all over.

  A hush fell upon the crowd. Morgan turned to Clancy, taking his dressing-gown from him.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said, trembling.

  He felt sick as he was driven home, a hundred dollars burning in his pocket. When he reached his own house he spread the money he had earned on the table in front of Ruth. “There you are, honey,” he said.

  He saw her amazement.

  “Want to know how I got it?” He lifted his right fist and spat on it, then hammered it on the table.

  “Hitting a guy,” he said, the tears trickling down his face. “Hitting some poor bum. That’s how I earned it. That’s how I aim to keep you and the baby from now on.”

  When he had finished his story of the evening, and what had led up to it, Ruth lifted his head with her hands and looked into his eyes. “Morg,” she said, “you’re the bravest man I ever knew. If street-fighting’s what you got to do, then do it. But do it well.”

  He did. Under the name of Petrack, the Bronx Bomber, he had six more fights at Salem warehouse. Then, two months later, it was time to move on to the main East Coast circuit, a street-fighting network spanning the industrial centres of the area.

  The world of street-fighting was a subterranean one of empty warehouses, ancient armories and midnight railyards. Of blood and darkness.

  Sometimes the fights went longer, but not once did Morgan lose. Clancy helped him develop tactics, taught him how to hit to the body. “Kill the stomach and the head will die,” he explained. And as Morgan won so the greenbacks poured in from the ringside.

  During the year that followed the bond between Morgan and Clancy became strong, though both men knew it would not survive for a moment in the world outside. It was a bond created by mutual respect for each other’s skill and knowledge. Clancy’s eyes could pierce the smoke of the tiny cockpits in which the battles were fought, picking out that single flaw in an opponent which might be the difference between success and failure. Morgan’s task was to translate these instincts and insights into explosive action, to live violently through Clancy’s eyes.

  But while as a team they prospered, Clancy sensed that Morgan had no real love of street-fighting.

  “So it ain’t Madison Square Garden,” he would say. “But then we ain’t beating up any old ladies and we don’t throw no fights, so who loses? A few guys get bust noses – ribs even – but they could do a lot worse. Say an accident at the mill or in a rock fall down the mines. So who loses?”

  Morgan would not answer. He could never grow to love what he did, but – he felt himself echo Ruth’s phrase – it was better to do it well than badly. As Clancy would say, “Everyone wants to win, or says they do. But what it’s all about is not wanting to lose.”

  Then came the night when his man lay still and had to be carried from the ringside. Morgan was dragged away, looking over his right shoulder at the fallen fighter as Clancy hustled him out of the warehouse and into the Ford. A week later, Morgan learned that his opponent had died. He drifted about the Eastern Seaboard, aching and silent, occasionally sneaking back to Bethel to see Ruth and his son. He took on any work he could, but he knew that his days of street-fighting were over.

  He was in New York, working in the docks, when news came of Ruth’s death. She had died over a week before, but the letter had taken six days to reach him. He had never really thought of dying, though always at the back of his mind had been a dim, childlike idea that he and Ruth would walk off towards death hand in hand.

  He could stay in Bethel only for a day, after four hours by train from New York. To have stayed any longer might have been dangerous. He stood in front of the grave, while down in the town the mill-hooters blared to signal the end of a day’s work. The town had killed her. The mill had killed her. In a way, in his dogged determination to fight on, he too had been an accomplice. And yet he knew that, were she alive, she would do it again, with him and all the other losers. All he had ever won had been with his body. The day he had left New York he had heard of a race, somewhere out West, a foot-race across America. In his grief he had given it no thought, but now her words came back to him – “You’re the bravest man I ever knew. If that’s what you got to do, then do it. But do it well.”

  Then that was what he had to do. It would not be easy, but he had a year to prepare.

  Morgan next took his year-old son Michael to his mother’s home in Elmira. A widow, she was glad to have yet another Mike to love and protect. Morgan told her what he planned to do, and a week later set off West.

  He took his time making his way to Los Angeles, and had even spent a couple of months booth-fighting in Kansas. But always he made sure that he ran at least ten miles a day and by February 1931, a month before the Trans-America, he could run thirty miles non-stop in just over three hours. He found that he grew to like running, for unlike fist-fighting running hurt no one. You stretched yourself, you dug deep, but you did no one any harm.

  Morgan had therefore resolved that he would squeeze the Trans-America for its last dollar and come away with some of the big stage prizes early in the race, for he had no certainty of getting into the frame in New York, and thus picking up the big prizes.

  8.30 a.m., 24 March 1931. 1750 runners – 1710 men and 40 women – stood massed just short of the entry to the main road to Barstow, the dismantling of Flanaganville completed. The tension of Los Angeles had gone. The third stage of the race they had completed the day before, and had peeled off over a hundred runners. Already the field was beginning to harden. There had been no real racing yet, though the pace of the leaders had been fast, better than ten minutes a mile. Now, however, there was money on the table, a total of over a thousand dollars for each of the two twenty-mile stages, and there would be those with no hope of winning the Trans-America who would undoubtedly make a bid for these prizes alone.

  Morgan looked out into the desert. Five hundred bucks. He would hit the first twenty-mile stage now, when he was still fresh. He would go for the early money.

  8

  Across the Mojave

  Doc swore under his breath. Muller, one of the Germans, had rushed into an immediate lead, drawing about twenty runners with him. Morgan had kept up with him, as had Martinez and Thurleigh. By the time the tail of the field had reached the road towards Barstow, a couple of miles out, the leading groups were some two hundred yards in the lea
d and surging out into the desert.

  A mile later, Doc checked his watch. The leaders were running at close on nine-minute miles, or better. Madness! He slowed his pace even further, unworried by the runners who now overtook him.

  He found himself beside Kate Sheridan. He dropped behind her to watch her action, then moved up to her side.

  “Go right back on to your heels, lady. Keep the stride low. This is a shuffle, not a run.”

  She did not reply.

  “You worried about the cut?”

  This time Kate nodded.

  Doc pointed to an old, white-haired runner padding along about twenty yards ahead.

  “Then run with old Charles Fox. Greatest pro in the world up to the war. He’ll run inside four hours for this stage. Stay with him as long as you can, and you’ll make it through. And, remember, keep low – and drink at all the water-points.”

  Before she could answer Doc tipped his cap and started to thread his way up through the field. He was not going to race hard, but he still wanted to be in the first twenty finishers, to keep his aggregate time close to the leaders.

  It was like the League of Nations. He passed a trio of Chinamen, trotting easily in their strange split-toed shoes, the same men to whom he had sold some Chickamauga remedy back at the hotel. The Frenchman, Bouin, was running with the Finnish Olympian, Eskola, and the two chatted to each other in German. Both men were fine runners, with many miles behind them. They would have to be watched.

  The three remaining Germans ran as if on parade, moving as one, but why had Muller gone so far ahead? True, the German lacked experience, but he was undoubtedly running to orders. Perhaps the Germans had trained a new breed of runners, men capable of running better than nine-minute miles over such distances . . . ?

  A couple of hundred yards later, at the ten-mile mark, Doc came abreast of the All-American team, lying in about fiftieth position. They were running at a good even pace so he stayed with them, drinking on the run at the second water-point, twelve miles out from the start. He checked his watch: one hour forty-eight minutes. About right.

  Two miles behind Doc Cole, Kate Sheridan now ran with Charles Fox. The old man said nothing, but shuffled along on mottled, varicosed legs at a steady five miles an hour. Twenty years before no one in the field could have lasted over such distances with Fox. He had been the first professional athlete to run twelve miles in the hour, to cover thirty miles in three hours, to break twelve hours for a hundred miles; but the Trans-America had come too late.

  Now, at the age of sixty-six, he was reduced to running alongside a slip of a girl.

  Kate ran oblivious to the old man’s feelings, her mind reverting to her days at Minsky’s. No one who watched the smiling, spangled girls nightly kicking in military precision could possibly have imagined the fatigue involved in six shows daily. The ache never really left her legs; but she had learnt to tolerate it, accepting it as part of the price that had to be paid. In the Trans-America it was different. Hour upon hour of running, no music to drive her on, none of the challenge of new steps to be learnt and none of the occasional adrenalin of an excited audience. Simply mile upon mile of desert, with hundreds of lean, seemingly inexhaustible men stretching out in front of her and driving her from behind. It was a world as far from vaudeville as it was possible to imagine.

  Doc had been right, she thought, as she picked up water at the eight-mile point, in thirty-three minutes past the hour. She was going well; it was coming easily. But she could no longer see the leaders, now well over two miles away.

  From the very first mile it had felt fast to Morgan. He had followed Muller on to the hard, bumpy road, out on to the fringe of the desert, but the young German would not let up. He covered the first three miles in twenty-four and a half minutes, the first six in just under fifty-two minutes; he did not stop at the first water-point but picked up a drink from his trainer a mile later. Yet Morgan stayed with him, pinning himself to the German’s left shoulder.

  In the leading press bus Pollard wiped the dusty back window with his handkerchief and shook his head. “Can’t really figure out what’s happening out there, Carl,” he said, turning to Liebnitz. “That Kraut’s running as if the race finishes up at Barstow, not at New York.”

  Liebnitz joined Pollard at the back of the bus, and peered through the window at the leading group of runners a couple of hundred yards behind.

  “Beats me,” he said. “Still, I can see why some of the others might want to stay in the frame on a money stage like this. Five hundred bucks in the hand now might look better than a hundred and fifty thousand in the bank in New York. These goddam stage prizes may kill off some good men before we even get to Vegas.”

  “I don’t see Doc Cole out there,” observed Pollard.

  “No,” said Liebnitz, returning to his seat. “Doc’s a cagey old bird. He said he would run at around ten-minute miles back in L.A., and it’s my guess he’ll stick to his plan. But he’ll be keeping Muller and the others in sight, mark my words.”

  “What about the girl?”

  “Sheridan?” said Liebnitz. “She’s quite an impressive young lady, but it’s my bet that she’s going to find this a whole heap harder than high-kicking at Minsky’s. The next two stages should tell us if she’s going to figure anywhere in the race. Flanagan’s times are tough – I reckon he’ll wipe out most of the walkers today, and the field should be down to closer to a thousand by sundown. I wouldn’t bet my shirt on Miss Sheridan being amongst that thousand – or any other woman, for that matter.”

  “Pity,” said Pollard, reaching for his glass of beer. “She makes a great story.”

  “Well,” said Liebnitz, adjusting his spectacles, “don’t be too surprised if it turns out to be a short story.”

  They were now deep into the Mojave, into the dry, brown broken plain, the only watchers the twisted Joshua trees, standing like crippled spectators as the leaders wound their way into the desert, preceded by the press buses, the noisy, jug-shaped Maxwell House Coffee Pot and Flanagan’s Trans-America bus.

  Sixty years before, the desert had taken its toll of settlers struggling with wagons and hand-carts through sun, rock and sand, constantly harassed by marauding Indians. Now the Indians had gone, but nature was enemy enough for the men daily battling with each other and with themselves.

  Ten miles on, six men were still there with Muller, including Thurleigh, Martinez and Morgan. The bronzed young German had begun to sweat, but there was no break in his driving rhythm. At twelve miles he went clear, breaking away from the field.

  In the Trans-America officials’ bus, Charles Flanagan sucked on his cigar, realized it had gone out, and fumbled in his pocket for a box of matches. “How’s it going out there?” he said, turning to Willard, who was peering out of the window.

  “Difficult to see, boss. Too much dust. But it looks to me like that young German, Muller, is burning up the road.”

  “Great,” said Flanagan, “that’ll keep Pollard and the press boys happy. A story a day makes the journalist’s day, eh?”

  “Yeah,” Willard agreed. “But Muller’s burnt off some good runners today.”

  Flanagan drew on his cigar.

  “Perhaps that’s what he’s there for,” he said darkly.

  Five hundred bucks or three hundred? It took Morgan only a moment to decide. He stretched out after Muller, dragging Martinez and Thurleigh with him. The leading four were soon locked together, all beginning to breathe heavily, a sign that intake no longer matched demand.

  Morgan had been in this condition before, two years ago, in the Tuscarora mountains. It was no harder now, for this was flat land, but there was another twenty-mile stage ahead, and over three thousand miles ahead of that. Perhaps he had taken the wrong decision; perhaps. But he had committed himself; there was no going back.

  Beside him, on his right, Martinez ran like a wilful child, his breathing clean and fast, his white, shining teeth bared. Thurleigh pushed back a lock of hair and pressed on
, ignoring the runners to either side.

  “Five miles to go,” roared Willard from the loudspeaker atop the Trans-America bus, a couple of hundred yards ahead of the leaders.

  Muller, sweating profusely, spurted again. Morgan followed with Martinez, but this time Peter Thurleigh hung back.

  Morgan’s breathing was coming hard and it was a comfort to him that he could hear both Muller and Martinez breathing in the same rhythm. He did not stop at the final water-point. Nor did the others. Five hundred bucks. Five miles to go.

  Doc had left the Americans at ten miles and, eight miles from the finish, had moved steadily through to sixteenth position. A mile later he was joined by McPhail and together they picked up the debris of Muller’s first rush, broken runners who had dropped to a shambling trot or even a walk. Doc was running at just under seven miles an hour. He and McPhail could see Muller and the others about a mile up, and in front of them the buses. A mile was over nine minutes, thought Doc, wiping his wrist-handkerchief across his brow. He would prefer to be closer at the finish, if it was not too much effort.

  Almost two miles behind Doc and McPhail, Kate Sheridan had passed the ten-mile mark. She was still with Fox. They passed the fifteen-mile mark at comfortably inside three hours, but then Fox started slowly to move away. Kate realized it was not that the old man was accelerating but that she was beginning to slow up. She felt her legs becoming steadily heavier, her hips begin to sink. She was also on her own now, in a limbo between groups. Five miles to go; to be safe, she would have to run them inside sixty-five minutes . . .

  Half a mile to go. The three leaders could see Flanagan’s stage camp in the bright desert sun, set out on the hilly scrub beside the road. They ran almost in line, with Muller’s brown shoulders only slightly ahead, the trio held in a strange, fragile balance. Then Morgan made his decision and broke the spell that bound them. He pressed ahead. Neither Martinez nor Muller responded. He was clear! A hundred yards later he heard Muller’s tortured breathing again at his right side. As the German pulled level with him he felt a momentary wave of despair. They ran clamped together, their breath rasping in their throats, every fibre at its limit, oblivious to the shouts of the waiting crowd and the tooting of the cars and buses at the lonely desert finish. But all either of them could hear was the scraping of their breath in the tunnels of their lungs. They ran low, legs bent and buckling, barely able to support their body weight.