Flanagan's Run

by Tom McNab

  “Do you feel you have become less feminine?” asked Glenda Farrell. “I’m sure that’s what worries many women about sport.”

  “Heck, no,” said Kate. “When you feel more alive then every part of you enjoys everything more. Perhaps I’m not making sense: I think that running brings you to life.”

  “You still have well over four hundred men in front of you, Miss Sheridan. The question our readers are asking is: can you make it to the pot of gold?”

  “That’s a question I never ask,” said Kate. “All I aim to do is to cover fifty miles a day and to pass a few more guys each day. We have something like forty days of running left; that’s five men a day I have to pass on aggregate, and make sure I keep them behind me. It’s going to be fun trying.”

  At that Kate and her questioner both sat down, to scattered applause.

  Bill Campbell of the Glasgow Herald took their place. A middle-aged man, he was himself running three miles a day with the Trans-Americans, and had lost fourteen pounds in weight, and now he looked ten years younger than his forty-nine years. He spoke in a rich Scottish brogue. “One of the surprises from a sports journalist’s point of view has been the success of unknowns – runners like Hugh McPhail, Mike Morgan, Juan Martinez and the German team . . .”

  “I suggest that you direct your questions to them personally, Bill,” interrupted Flanagan.

  “Fair enough. First, Hugh McPhail. You were a Powderhall sprinter, weren’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Hugh. “I’ve been a sprinter since I was a lad.”

  “Didn’t you find it a little hard to make the change from sprinting to ultra long-distance running?”

  Hugh looked below him to Doc, seated at his side. “Doc here’s a great educator,” he said. “He’s got a phrase he’s drummed into my head. It goes something like this. ‘When a man knows he’s going to be hanged in the morning, it concentrates his mind wonderfully.’ Running for a prize of a hundred and fifty thousand dollars concentrates my mind wonderfully.”

  “But what lessons have you learnt from the race?”

  “Well,” said Hugh. “You learn that your body can take far more discomfort and pain than you ever thought. Back in Scotland, in training, I thought I had taken the lot. But out there, beyond Las Vegas in the stage to Grand Junction, I ran my eyeballs out for over twenty miles in close to a hundred degrees. In the Rockies I ran in snow at seven thousand feet up mountains like the side of a Gorbals tenement, where there wasn’t enough air for a bird. I’ve learnt a lot since Los Angeles. I’m still learning.”

  Campbell nodded before sitting down.

  Albert Kowalski was next on his feet. “I’d like to speak to Mr Eskola. Mr Eskola, you’re lying ninth at the moment. It’s still early days, but how do you see the race so far?”

  Eskola’s gaunt tanned face was impassive. “Very close indeed. Just over three hours separates the first forty runners after one thousand miles. For such a distance, that is what you call shoulder to shoulder.”

  “Who do you fear most?” asked Kowalski.

  The Finn looked around him. “I fear no one. I respect Alexander Cole, Jean Bouin and Paul Dasriaux – their records speak for themselves. The young German, Stock, is still strong – so are McPhail, Morgan, Thurleigh and Martinez. But there are others, ten places or so back, who may be dangerous later, when we are close to New York. It is, as you say, early days.”

  Kowalski sucked his pencil. “How do you think Paavo Nurmi, the famous Finn, would have fared in the Trans-America?”

  Eskola’s expression did not change. “Mr Nurmi is not here,” he said, and sat down.

  There was an embarrassed silence, but soon another reporter was on his feet.

  “Charles Rae, Washington Post. I’d like to ask Lord Thurleigh some questions, if he would be so kind.”

  Peter Thurleigh stood up and nodded. He was dressed in a blue blazer and Oxford bags, his bronzed skin contrasting strongly with his white shirt and white silk muffler.

  “Lord Thurleigh, you have competed in an Olympic Games, and England is famous for its traditions of fair play. How have you found the standard of sportsmanship here?”

  There was another short silence.

  “Until I competed in this race,” Thurleigh said in a clear voice, unperturbed by the implications of the question, “I had been told that the ‘pros’ were cads – you might call them shady customers. But this has not proved to be the case. Indeed, if Baron de Coubertin were to come here as an observer I think that he would find that his Olympic ideals were being completely met.”

  “Are you finding the race difficult?” Rae went on.

  “That, sir, would be an understatement. In the Mojave Desert I thought I was going to die. In the Rockies I was certain of it. But somehow, by some miracle, I reached Utah.”

  “Colorado,” corrected a journalist.

  “Colorado,” Thurleigh repeated, smiling self-deprecatingly. “My apologies.”

  “Some journalists have tried to compare you with Phileas Fogg of Jules Verne’s Round the World in Eighty Days. Do you see yourself in that light?” said Kowalski.

  “In that I entered the race for a substantial wager there is indeed a valid comparison,” agreed Thurleigh, picking his words with care. “But the difference is that I also entered the race for personal reasons. You see, I have enjoyed a very privileged existence and, indeed, even my 1924 Olympic selection owed a great deal to that background. But here in the Trans-America that is of no value to me. I am alone. I find that very challenging. And exciting.” He sat down.

  The Scottish journalist, Bill Campbell, stood up again and turned to Morgan.

  “Mr Morgan, I’ve been checking on your background.” He picked up some papers at his side. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you led the ’28 strike up at Bethel, Pennsylvania, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Morgan. Kate noted that both his fists were clenched.

  “The strike folded and you were shut out. A year later you had the misfortune to lose your wife.”

  Kate raised her hand to grasp Morgan’s. He held it firm.

  “After that, from 1929 to 1930, we seem to lose track of you.”

  “I was around,” said Morgan flatly. “Newark, New Jersey, New York.”

  Campbell extracted a single sheet of paper from the sheaf which he held in his left hand and studied it for a moment. “How have you found the race?”

  Kate felt Morgan’s hand relax, though it still held hers.

  “Sure beats working,” said Morgan drily.

  There was laughter, and the crisis passed.

  Ernest Bullard decided that it was time for him to become a reporter. “I would like to ask Mr Martinez a question,” he said.

  Martinez, dressed in shorts and running vest, stood up and made a tentative bow.

  “How did you train for the race?”

  “My people send me far into the mountains, to the Tarahumare. They are running people. They run sixty, maybe eighty miles a day over rough ground, sometimes playing a ball game called ‘rarajipari’. It was hard, for me, from the plains. I run and walk only twenty miles a day at first. Soon I get fit, I stay with best runners. Then I am ready to run for my village. I come here.”

  “Is it true as stated in Los Angeles that your village is dependent on your success here for its survival?” asked Bullard.

  “Yes,” Martinez said simply, and sat down.

  There was a hush in the room. It was broken by Carl Liebnitz.

  “Flanagan,” said Liebnitz. “One of the surprises of the Trans-America has been the success of the young German team. I would like to address my comments to their team manager, Mr von Moltke. Herr von Moltke, have you been pleased with the performance of your team so far?”

  Moltke stood up and adjusted his monocle. Hard, lean and military, he looked as fit as any of his athletes. His voice was similarly vigorous. “Before we came to the United States, German scientists said that it was impossible for any human being, much les
s young men like ours, to cover seventy kilometers a day, five days a week, for three months on end. They had studied in detail human physiology, the mechanics of running and nutrition. In Germany we have a phrase – Das Wissemchaft des nicht Wissewerten.” He permitted himself a thin smile. “‘The science of that which is not worth knowing.’ Our men have proved that their science was ‘not worth knowing’.”

  “What about Claus Muller?” asked Liebnitz.

  Moltke paused again to adjust his monocle. He glanced uneasily round the crowded conference room. “Muller’s condition arose from a bad fall,” he said. “That, combined with the cold and the altitude, resulted in his present illness.”

  Liebnitz stayed on his feet. “I’ve been doing a little research into your Party, the National Socialists,” he said. “As I see it, you are not, strictly speaking, Socialists – in fact you are in conflict with German Communists. Is that correct?”

  Moltke nodded, his face again expressionless.

  “I’ve been reading about your leader – Herr Hitler’s writings. He talks of the Aryans, of a master race. Would it be true to say that your team are the first of this master race?”

  Moltke nodded, and the room buzzed with discussion. He waited for silence. “Correct. Soon, when we come to power, Germany will bid for the 1936 Olympic Games. You may remember that the 1916 Games were originally planned for Germany. In Berlin in 1936 the fruits of our labours will be seen.”

  He smiled stiffly and sat down, indicating that his part in the conference was over.

  “Forrest, Chicago Tribune. I’d like to address Mr Corbett, the manager of the All-Americans.”

  Corbett, a burly, thick-set man, stood up, laying down a Havana cigar in an ash-tray on the arm of his chair.

  “Mr Corbett, there is only one All-American in the top twelve – Capaldi. Do you think that your boys are still in with a chance?”

  Corbett held out a race-results sheet in front of him. “I suggest that you check the top twenty places, Mr Forrest. You’ll find that my other three boys are laying fifteen, eighteen and twenty-two. There’s a long way to go yet, and my coach reckons an average of about six miles an hour will win it.”

  “So you think that the others will burn themselves out?”

  “No, I’m not saying that. I’m just saying that our boys are running to orders, moseying along real easy, staying loose, always finishing with a little in hand. It’s our view that anyone at present in the top thirty has a good chance. I’ve noted the Australian Mullins coming through, the Jap – Son – the Pole, Komar. They’ve hardly ever figured in the top twelve at any time, but they’re all dangerous.”

  “Ferris, The Times of London. Mr Flanagan, a Mr Avery Brundage of the American Olympic Committee has said that the Trans-America represents a crass commercial exploitation of athletes. Would you care to comment?”

  Flanagan laughed. “We have upwards of fifty athletes in the room. Let’s ask some of them. Any of you guys who feel exploited, stand up and say your piece.” No one moved.

  “There’s your answer,” said Flanagan flatly.

  “Not exactly,” persisted Ferris. “You had your boys wear IWW vests in Las Vegas and you sold them for ten thousand dollars at a Highland Games, at McPhee. Rumour has it you’ve hawked them to a couple of carnivals in Kansas and three in Nebraska, and that you take a substantial slice out of any post-race contracts that any of them may secure.”

  Doc Cole stood up, pre-empting Flanagan. “Could I answer for the athletes?” he said. “Sure, we might have to jazz it up a little in Kansas and Nebraska. But when Mr Flanagan put out the word a year back, what was I doing? Serving milk-shakes for five bucks a week. McPhail here was on the breadline. So was Morgan. Martinez was starving, Bouin was selling matches in Boulogne. Eskola was unemployed in Helsinki. So who’s being exploited? Who’s losing out? What alternatives were Mr Brundage’s buddies of the American Olympic Committee offering us? If I’m being exploited then, Mr Ferris, let me tell you this: I’m loving it.”

  There was a rumble of approval from the athletes, and many stood up to applaud. Flanagan grinned and folded his arms.

  “Kowalski, Philadelphia Globe. Several members of the United States Senate have expressed concern that the Trans-America has become a focal point for industrial and social unrest. Can you comment on this?”

  Flanagan pushed aside a lock of grey hair which had settled on his forehead.

  “If you mean that the Union boys, Reuther and Lewis, have supported us then I admit it’s true. But we can’t choose our friends any more than we can choose our parents. Heck, I’ve got a letter here from Mr George Bernard Shaw in England. Anyone here want to hold that against me?”

  “You might like to know that the Russian Communist leader, a Mr Molotov, has called you a capitalist exploiter of the workers.” It was Liebnitz again.

  “Doesn’t make much difference to the price of cotton,” said Flanagan. “The Trans-America goes on no matter what Stalin or Brundage says. People see the race the way they want to see it. Me, I see it as a race where the runners make a few bucks and so do I. If other people want to latch on to it for their own purposes then that’s their problem.”

  A young man, still in his early twenties, stood up. He was a new face, one of the journalists to have arrived in the wake of Muller’s rescue in the Rockies.

  “William Nicholson, Montreal Star. Flanagan, we notice that you are providing hundreds of gallons of milk. Is there any reason for this?”

  Flanagan smiled. “Goat’s milk,” he said. “To help them over the Rockies. Our medical adviser, Doc Falconer, has tried to beef up the calories by increasing milk-intake. Remember, our boys have to put in five to six thousand calories a day, and many of them couldn’t eat that much in solid food. Milk is almost a complete food, and it’s easy to take in. That’s the reason, gentlemen.”

  “Pierre Mimoun, Paris Match. Mr Flanagan, it is strongly rumoured that several towns and cities ahead of us have refused to pay their financial appropriations. Is there any truth in this?”

  Flanagan made a show of rifling through a wad of papers in front of him, then cleared his throat noisily.

  “Yes,” he said. “It is true that we have had some difficulties along the route. It would, however, be wrong to prejudge issues which, we hope, may not come to court, by discussing them at this point.”

  “Come on, Flanagan, level with us,” shouted Kowalski. “We know the names of at least six major towns in the next thousand miles who won’t come up with the cash, and at least six more are making rude noises. If these monies aren’t available, just how long can you keep your show on the road?”

  Flanagan reddened. “We’ll keep it there, you have my word on that. Next question, please.”

  Martin Howard of the Chicago Star stood up. “Mr Flanagan,” he said, holding in his right hand a piece of paper, “I have here a carbon copy of a letter to you of 29 March from De Luxe Catering of Minneapolis demanding a payment of fifty thousand dollars for food, equipment and staff. Their managing director, Michael Poliakoff, said to me this morning that he intends to withdraw his staff immediately if payment is not made.”

  Flanagan had not expected the question, but his reply was immediate.

  “The letter comes as no surprise to me,” he said. “It caught up with us a few days ago. My verbal agreement with Mike Poliakoff was for a stage-payment of thirty thousand dollars on 18 April – and I still intend to honor that commitment. Poliakoff and I shook hands on that over a game of pool in Los Angeles way back in January.”

  “But what happens if your catering services stop? What are you going to do?”

  “First,” said Flanagan firmly, “I’m going ahead to Kansas City to speak to Poliakoff. I’m certain there’s been some misunderstanding. But if I have to find fifty grand then I’ll find it.”

  Howard remained on his feet. “I believe that your friend and supporter in Chicago, Mayor ‘Big Bill’ Thompson, has lost the election. Where does that leav
e you as far as Chicago is concerned?”

  “I have every confidence in the newly-elected Mayor Cermak’s standing behind ex-Mayor Bill Thompson’s commitment to the Trans-America.”

  “How much did Thompson agree to?” asked Howard.

  “Twenty thousand dollars.”

  “How will Mayor Jimmy Walker’s position in New York affect the Trans-America? It looks to many people as if Walker may end up in the can.”

  “I haven’t been able to keep up with the news from the Big Apple,” said Flanagan. “But the state governor, Roosevelt, has indicated his support for the race. So I think that we can safely count on New York.”

  “Flanagan, are you as optimistic as you were a month ago back in L.A.?” pursued Kowalski, smelling blood. But Flanagan’s reply came in even, confident tones.

  “If anything, more optimistic. Sure, we’ve had some problems I couldn’t have predicted. Two inches of rain in an hour outside Vegas, for one. The hottest March for thirty years after Vegas for another, and the coldest April for fifty years in the Rockies. No way these natural catastrophes could have been prevented, but only one man ended up seriously ill as a result. That’s not a bad batting average.

  “As for the man-made problems, they keep coming up and we meet them as they come. In a year we’ve created and adapted an organization to meet the problems of the world’s first trans-continental race. They all said it couldn’t be done. Every day we’re doing it.”

  Flanagan closed the file on the table in front of him and hugged it to his chest.

  “Gentlemen: I’ve laid off a couple of hours for informal interviews with myself and my staff, the athletes and their managers and coaches. I suggest that we end the formalities now and allow you to conduct any interviews. Thank you.”

  As the conference broke up, Carl Liebnitz buttonholed Doc. “Doc, you’re a sensible man. The doors are slamming shut on Flanagan all the way up the line. Do you think that he can still make it?”

  The veteran’s lips tightened. “If anyone can do it he can. Flanagan’s like a boxer: he thinks on his feet. The problem is, he’s got to hump about one thousand athletes and staff another two thousand miles across a continent – it must be costing about four thousand dollars a day just to stay alive.”