Flanagan's Run

by Tom McNab

  “You ever done any highland dancing, Miss Sheridan?” he asked.

  Kate, squatting in the front row, shook her head. Kane looked down at her. “

  “No sweat, honey,” he said. “You’ve still got a whole goddam week to learn.”

  Kate smiled as the Trans-Americans hooted and laughed around her.

  “Okay,” said Flanagan, as the laughter died down. “So here’s our programme. We’ve got about two hundred miles to McPhee, which we’ll take in four easy stages. We arrive there on Friday night and put up with the people there overnight. The Games start at nine sharp on Saturday morning. The morning’s mostly peewee sports and novelty events. The main events are the real big money, and they’re in the afternoon with a finish at around six o’clock. Then we clean up and we have a – ” he looked down at the sheet in front of him – “damned if I can work this out . . . a KEELID.”

  “Ceilidh,” shouted Hugh from the front row.

  “Thanks,” said Flanagan. “From what I can gather, it’s a sort of hoot n’ anny, clambake kind of affair. You know, singing and dancing and hollering. We stay the night at McPhee, then it’s fifty miles next day to Sevier, towards Route 70, east of Richfield, Utah. Any questions?”

  There was silence; the Trans-Americans had decided that a day at McPhee would suit them very nicely.

  “Fine,” said Flanagan. “Now, I’d like to get some idea of the number of entries we’re going to get for the various events.” He retrieved the programme from Willard and peered at it.

  “First the three dashes, hundred yards, two-twenty and quarter-mile.”

  About fifty runners, including Hugh McPhail, raised their hands.

  “What about the half-mile and the mile?” Flanagan asked. Over two hundred, including Thurleigh and Morgan, put up their hands. These middle-distance events were much closer to the running talents of the Trans-Americans.

  “Let’s see it for the three miles and six miles,” shouted Flanagan.

  Over two hundred and fifty runners now raised their hands, including Doc, Bouin, Dasriaux and Martinez. Willard whispered to Flanagan that the German team were standing still and silent beside their manager, Moltke. They had as yet entered for none of the events. Flanagan shrugged and pressed on.

  “Now – the jumps,” he shouted. Six hands went up.

  “C’mon fellas, have a heart,” pleaded Flanagan. “It’s only a picnic games. So let’s see it real big for the jumps.” Three more hands were raised. Flanagan shook his head wearily in resignation. “Have it your way,” he said. “Now we come to the big money, the throws. Three hundred smackers for first, two hundred for second, one hundred for third. It’s taking candy from a baby.”

  No one moved.

  Flanagan spread out his hands in mock disgust. “You mean to say that you guys are passing up over a thousand bucks? There’s people where I come from who’d throw their own grandmothers for that kind of dough.”

  He looked down at Morgan in the front row.

  “What about you, Morgan?” he begged. “You look a well set-up young fella.”

  Morgan stood, shaking his head.

  “Flanagan, I once saw a Scots picnic games up in the mountains in Pennsylvania. I couldn’t pick up one of those weights, let alone throw them.” He shook his head again and sat down.

  The stringy Texan, Kane, in the same row, stood up again. “C’mon Mike,” he shouted, looking down at Morgan. “You enter and so will I.” There were shouts and grunts of agreement. Kate flashed a glance sideways at Morgan, who grinned sheepishly, and got to his feet.

  “All right,” he said. “Put me down for a couple of throws . . . But on one condition.”

  “Yes?” said Flanagan.

  “That you enter for a throw, Mr Flanagan,” replied Morgan. There was an immediate roar of approval and many of the Trans-Americans rose to their feet shouting and clapping. It was the first time that any of them had seen Flanagan blush.

  He motioned for silence.

  “Okay, okay,” he said. “So you got a deal.” He turned to Willard and winked.

  He turned back to face his athletes and flexed his lean right bicep.

  “So exactly what throw have you got in mind, boys?”

  Many of the events advanced by the Trans-Americans were not in the programme, nor had they ever featured in any Highland Games schedule – events such as catching the javelin or heading the shot. Flanagan had to shout several times for silence.

  “Easy, boys. Remember there’s a lady present,” he shouted. “Let’s ask the Scotsman.” He turned his head towards Hugh. “So, what do you suggest, Mr McPhail?”

  Hugh stood up and looked around him solemnly. “The caber, Mr Flanagan,” he said. “I think the caber.”

  Flanagan pointed dramatically to the east. “Boys,” he said, “in four days, we hit McPhee. We’re going to give ’em the goddamest Highland Games they ever did see.”

  The two hundred miles into the town were uneventful. Doc’s narrow lead over Muller was quickly whittled down by the young German and, by the time they reached the town’s outskirts, Muller was only just behind Doc, closely followed by Morgan, Thurleigh, Martinez and McPhail, with Bouin, Eskola and Dasriaux also in contention. Muller was still running at a remarkable average of over six miles an hour, and few runners now attempted to stay with him as they had in the early stages of the race.

  The Trans-Americans entered McPhee on the Friday evening at seven o’clock, the race-finish having been set half a mile out of town. The town looked just as it had forty years before, its single, dirt street bustling with miners, mules, wagons and handcarts. To Hugh it was like something out of a Western movie, complete with saloon, barber shop and sheriff ’s office. Indeed, he half-expected William S. Hart or Tom Mix to come galloping up the street in a ten-gallon hat astride a white horse. The town was made almost entirely of wood, and above its one main street glowered the brown, pock-marked mountain of silver which was now being reworked. A new seam had been opened on the eastern side of the mountain, and it was here that most of the prospectors had gathered, but others later on the scene were reworking old mines, burrowing even deeper into holes made over forty years before by men long dead. Outside the town a camp city had been built to accommodate the overflow, and to this population had been added visitors, sleeping in cars or tents, who had come to town because of the coming Games.

  Flanagan’s runners settled in for the night with the good people of McPhee. Mayor McPhee, son of the town’s founder, and with whom Flanagan was billeted, had never left the town when the original seam had petered out in 1902. Together with his father and a dozen other Scots, he had made a bare living scraping silver from thin seams for almost thirty years and only the discovery of bauxite in 1928 had enabled him to secure sufficient finance to drill again for silver. This had resulted early in I930 in the discovery of a rich fresh seam, and prospectors had once again rushed to the town. The place was now completely owned by McPhee and his durable Scots friends, and the cost of land and water to prospectors was high. Every store was owned by McPhee and his cronies; every truck-load of goods brought to town had to pay toll to them.

  Mayor McPhee had, of course, known of the Trans-America and had been aware that it was to pass McPhee forty miles away on the road east between Cedar City and Beaver. Thus, though Flanagan’s willingness to change route had come as a surprise to him, he was fully aware of the potential of the re-routing of the Trans-America to McPhee. Another five thousand cars into town at $3 per car came to $15,000. Ten thousand extra spectators at $1 a man came to $10,000, and the refreshment tent was liable to be about another $10,000 the richer, to say nothing of the town’s stores. And then there was Flanagan’s circus. Nothing like Madame La Zonga and Fritz the talking mule had been seen in McPhee since the turn of the century. At $10,000 the Trans-America was dirt cheap; and McPhee was generous with the measure of whiskey he poured into Flanagan’s glass as he entertained him in his living room.

  “Thanks, M
r Mayor,” said Flanagan, as he looked round the lushly-furnished room. “First time I’ve ever set eyes on tartan curtains.”

  “McPhee tartan,” said the little mayor proudly.

  “How many years have you had these Games?” asked Flanagan.

  “1888 to 1903,” said McPhee. “I was only a bit of a lad in 1888 – I won the boys’ race then. We had three thousand people here then, nearly all from the auld country. Aye, some of the best athletes used to come here, some all the way from Scotland. Y’see, we always gave big prize money.” He sipped his own whiskey slowly. “I remember one year, we had a big Irishman called McGrath. 1898 I think it was. He even brought his own hammer, with a shaft made of vines.”

  “Vines?” said Flanagan.

  “Yes,” said McPhee. “Wrapped round and round like a rope. Ver-ry strong. We measured it to see how long it was, but it was only four foot six, regulation size. My father, God bless him, was chief judge, and he checked it himself. Well, first throw McGrath puts it out to a hundred and thirty feet, ten feet beyond the Games record. That meant a bonus of a hundred dollars for the record. But my dad wasn’t happy.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, y’see, when McGrath swung the hammer the vines stretched, and the longer the hammer shaft the further it’d go. So my dad goes up to this big Irish whale standing up his whole five foot three, and says, ‘Mr McGrath, I think that hammer shaft looks about six feet long when you start swinging it.’ And you know what that big Irishman said?”

  “No,” said Flanagan, smiling in anticipation.

  “He said, ‘Well, Mr McPhee, I suggest you measure it while I’m a-swinging it’.” The little Scot exploded with mirth, and the tears flowed from his eyes. He reached to the bottle at his side. “Here, Flanagan, have another dram,” he said.

  “Thank you, Mr Mayor,” said Flanagan, grinning. Then his face became serious. “But let’s get down to business. My assistant has given you our entries?”

  “Yes,” said McPhee. “And a real fine turn-out you’ve given us.”

  “The only problem my runners envisage is the handicaps,” said Flanagan. “You see, the handicapper surely has to know each runner’s form before he can set fair handicaps. After all, there’s a lot of money at stake here.”

  “True, true,” said McPhee, nodding.

  “For instance, I’ve looked at the hundred yards handicap,” said Flanagan. “There’s a man there with a start of fifty yards. All he has to do to win is to fall forward.”

  The mayor’s face became stern. “Mr Flanagan, you’re talking about my father.”

  “Oh,” said Flanagan, reddening. “And could I ask who is handicapping the running events?”

  “Here’s the programme,” said McPhee, handing a sheaf of papers to Flanagan.

  Flanagan checked the front page of the Games programme. “It says here that the handicapper is a Mr McPhee,” he said.

  “That’s me,” said the mayor.

  Elsewhere in McPhee things were going more smoothly for the Trans-Americans. At Mrs McDonald’s, Hugh McPhail was tucking into his first dish of oatcakes in over a month, while Juan Martinez was making his first acquaintance with black pudding. Two blocks away with the McLeods, Peter Thurleigh and Mike Morgan were making an uncertain assault upon a haggis, and at the Moncrieffs, Kate Sheridan was being taken through the rudiments of Highland dancing, watched by a bemused Dixie.

  The German team had camped outside the town, aloof from the social life of McPhee, while the All-Americans had based themselves in the Caledonian Hotel. Also in the Caledonian were most of the press corps, including Liebnitz, who was busy absorbing the history of the McPhee Games from Mayor McPhee’s father, a tiny seventy-five-year-old sprinter. It was well past midnight before the last lights went out in McPhee.

  At 9 a.m. precisely the Games commenced. The bagpipes began their solemn drone, and on the dancing platform tiny girl dancers pranced three at a time to endless music. Their toes picked out precise and delicate patterns, their medals jingling on their velvet tunics as they competed before impassive, pipe-smoking judges. Children of all ages sprinted down and round the rough grass track in an endless series of handicap races and novelty events, while on the infield men slithered up and down greasy poles or, straddling logs, swiped fiercely at each other with feather pillows. Others, strapped together at the ankles, half-limped, half-ran in grotesque three-legged races or crawled and stumbled over benches and hoops.

  Flanagan had never seen anything quite like it. Already, by 9.30 a.m., there were at least five thousand spectators in the natural bowl below the town, as cars continued to pour from Colorado and Utah into the car park adjacent to the area. On the bumpy desert crab-grass surface a rough running track had been pegged out, five laps to the mile, whilst on the infield a six-lane sprint track, each lane separated by strings, had been created. In the centre of the home stretch was the dancing platform. On the infield were tree trunks, jumping stands, hammers and ring-weights of all shapes, even bamboo vaulting poles. In the centre of the field was a tiny tent, which Flanagan rightly assumed was for the officials. What he did not know was that this tent was also the exact alcoholic centre of gravity of the McPhee Games.

  As the Games progressed into the heat of the Utah day, so more and more they took on a dreamlike quality. At the centre of that dream was Games chieftain Mayor McPhee, bestriding the field like a kilted, bandy-legged colossus. He seemed everywhere, egging on vanquished three-legged competitors, laughing helplessly at pillow-fighters or growling unheeded advice to wrestlers locked in solemn conflict.

  And pervading all was the skirl of the pipes. Even at lunch, the morning’s sport over and the Games at a pause, Flanagan imagined he could still hear their mournful wail singing in his ears.

  “I reckon yer lads have brought us in a few hundred extra spectators,” said McPhee, contentedly watching the incoming cars continue to grind up the dusty hill below, as he and Flanagan stood outside the refreshment tent.

  “A few thousand, more likely,” growled Flanagan. “Just tell me, when did you last have a crowd like this?”

  “1903,” replied McPhee. “We haven’t had the Games since then.”

  A few moments later the little Scotsman went to the microphone in the centre of the games field. “I would like formally to declare,” he said, “the 1931 McPhee Games open.” There was applause from the crowds massed on the slopes surrounding the arena. “We have great pleasure welcoming to our fair city Mr Flanagan’s famous Trans-America foot-racers, brought here by our committee at great expense “ – he glanced sidelong at Flanagan – “to our historic Games.” McPhee paused. “Among others, we welcome Doctor Alexander Cole . . . a leading member of the British aristocracy, Lord Peter Thurleigh . . . and finally, from Glasgow, Powderhall professional sprint champion – Hugh McPhail.” The crowd, composed mainly of Americans, had no idea what or where Glasgow or Powderhall were, but applauded dutifully.

  Hugh McPhail managed to give the elder McPhee, a skeletal athlete clad in long black Victorian running shorts, a fifty-yard start and a beating in the hundred yards handicap. Indeed, old McPhee, hard of hearing, had only just got up into the “set” position when McPhail passed him, on his way to a narrow victory over the other four finalists.

  “Winner, hundred yards, world’s professional champion, Hugh McPhail, Glasgow, Scotland,” intoned the Chieftain, to a roar of applause.

  Mike Morgan was not so fortunate. In the throws, he faced miners with years of hard muscular work in their bodies and events of which he had never dreamt, let alone experienced. The shafted hammer weighed sixteen pounds and was a round iron ball, into which a whippy bamboo shaft had been inserted. The throw was made from a standing position, from behind a wooden stop-board, and Morgan almost strangled himself in his preliminary swings before hurling the hammer sixty feet, a full forty feet behind the leaders. “We go for distance here at McPhee, laddie, not depth,” growled McPhee as he passed Morgan.

  Throwing the
fifty-six-pound ring-weight for height proved to be even more of a nightmare. Five hundred miles of running had boiled Morgan from a chunky one hundred and seventy pounds down to a lean one hundred and fifty pounds, and in an event where muscle mass was essential he was at a great disadvantage. Indeed, he could hardly lift the weight from the ground, let alone toss it high over a crossbar set nine feet above him. He had smashed three crossbars in practice before McPhee, shaking his head, drew him aside. “Laddie, you know you’re costing us a fortune in crossbars,” he said. “Here,” he added, drawing a hip flask from his sporran, “have a dram.”

  Doc Cole, in contrast, was in his element and set to make the three-mile handicap the opportunity to sell his Chickamauga Indian remedy, which he had laboured hard to prepare till three that morning with the Chinaman, Ni Chi Chin. This time, because of the heat, Doc decided to use the remedy as a drink rather than a liniment and modified the formula accordingly. He therefore made great play of swallowing the mixture before the race, surrounded by a wondering crowd, to whom he resolutely refused to sell a single bottle.

  He was not worried about the miners, but he was concerned about experienced runners like Dasriaux, Bouin, Eskola and Martinez, all of whom had already shown a fair turn of speed. Luckily, all four had been given a start of only forty yards on him, with the miners receiving starts of up to a quarter of a mile. In the first mile, covered in five and a half minutes, Doc, billed by McPhee as the “Olympic marathon champion”, duly picked up the four closest Trans-Americans, twenty miners and almost all of the other Trans-Americans.

  Half a mile later there were only ten plodding miners, spread over a hundred and fifty yards in front of him, and he was gaining on them with every stride. He eased off, playing out the drama to the end. At the end of two miles with a mile to go, he was only forty yards from the leader and lay in second position, with Bouin and Martinez forty yards behind. Suddenly Doc gave a desperate groan and fell to the ground. Morgan, suitably primed beforehand, rushed to his side with a bottle of Chickamauga. Doc crawled along the track to Morgan as Bouin and Martinez passed him, groped desperately for the bottle and gulped down its contents. In a moment he was on his feet, sprinting. The massive crowd roared, for Doc was now fifth, over one hundred and fifty yards behind the leaders.