Flanagan's Run

by Tom McNab

  “Great,” said Doc, as Morgan set off to start the second mile. “What’s his pulse?”

  “One hundred and thirty-five beats a minute,” said Falconer. “Should be down well inside one hundred by the time Morgan comes in. That means he’ll be well recovered.”

  Morgan knew no other way than to push himself hard, and came in at four minutes forty-eight seconds. Silver Star was one minute ten seconds ahead by now, already well into the country by the time Morgan had finished. “Same again, Peter,” said Doc, tapping Thurleigh on the thigh as Morgan raced in. Thurleigh ran a fast four minutes forty-five seconds for the third mile, with Silver Star now one minute thirty-five seconds ahead.

  “It’s no race,” said Flanagan, raking his hands through his hair.

  “You think so?” said Doc. “Take a look at the horse.” He pointed to the end of the track. Silver Star was still running well, but was lashed with sweat and beginning to foam at the mouth. “That horse is tiring. Look at the watch. We lost forty seconds in the first lap, thirty seconds in the second, and only twenty-five in the third. Man, we’re catching up!”

  “But is there time?” said Flanagan.

  Doc looked at the panting Thurleigh, who shook his head.

  “Step it up, Peter,” he said, then turned to Falconer. “What was his pulse this time?”

  “One hundred and fifty at the finish,” said Falconer. “Now, with a minute to go, one hundred and fifteen. It’s staying high, but he’s still in pretty good shape.”

  Doc looked at his watch again and then across at Flanagan.

  “Flanagan,” he said, “we can still do it. Silver Star is tiring, and a tired horse makes mistakes. And every time Silver Star breaks into a gallop we pick up half a minute.”

  Flanagan shook his head. “I hope you’re right,” he said.

  Morgan cut another five seconds from Silver Star’s lead on the fourth mile, running four minutes forty-three seconds, but it was clear that even the “Iron Man” was in trouble. Falconer checked his pulse at one hundred and eighty on arrival: close to maximum. The sweat gushed from Morgan’s body as he sat, gasping, at the finish.

  Silver Star’s first foul, signalled by a bugle blast, came as Thurleigh left the stadium for the fifth mile, and a minute later there was a second bugle. Cranston strode over to Flanagan’s retinue.

  “Two fouls by Silver Star,” he reported. “That means Silver Star has been stopped for a minute.”

  Doc whistled. “That keeps us right in the ball park,” he said.

  “How does that place us?”

  This time Dixie answered. “We were two minutes behind at the fourth mile. We should have come in a total of two and a half minutes down at the end of the fifth. Take off a minute and that leaves us about a minute and a half to find in five miles.”

  “And the horse is getting more tired by the minute,” said Doc. “Just as I thought it would. That animal is bushed.”

  Doc was right. Out in the country Levy was having difficulty even in keeping Silver Star moving. His horse was essentially a sprinter, and sustained running over hilly, bumpy ground, dragging twice its normal load, was foreign to it. Soon Silver Star had dropped to a slow canter, occasionally breaking, under Levy’s whip, into a desperate, slow-motion version of its superb trotting action. During the fifth mile Peter Thurleigh seemed to be pulling it in on a long rope, eating up the three-quarters of a mile or so that lay between it and him. When Cranston’s bugle for a further foul sounded half way through the sixth mile, Silver Star was just over a minute ahead.

  In the sixth mile Morgan ran like a machine, every stride eroding the gap between him and the now faltering trotter, and the runner’s breath seared through stretched lungs. The crowd sensed what was happening and were torn between concern for their beloved horse and admiration for the bravery of the men who had dared challenge it.

  Then came tragedy. As Morgan bounded down the hill towards the race track at the end of the sixth mile a boulder slipped from under his foot. He struggled to regain balance, but his momentum was too great and he fell, hitting the rough ground with a dull thud. For a moment he lay still. When he rose he looked round like a prizefighter after a knockdown, blood gushing down the left side of his face from a gash high in his scalp, just above his ear. Morgan looked down the hill, saw Silver Star entering the stadium, and started on his way again, his bleeding legs buckling on each stride.

  “Jesus wept,” said Doc, handing his binoculars to Falconer, who took one look and handed them back.

  “Get my bag,” snapped Falconer to Willard Clay.

  Doc looked at Peter Thurleigh as Morgan staggered down into the arena. “You said you wanted to prove yourself,” he said. “Nothing in the rules says you can’t run twice.” He walked over to Colonel Cranston, who listened for a few moments, then nodded agreement. “I want two five-minute laps out of you, college boy,” he said. “Meantime Doc here can patch up Mike. So you got your orders. Now get ready to run your nuts off.”

  Thurleigh said nothing, but nodded, gulping.

  Silver Star had passed the Trans-Americans at the exchange point and was into its seventh mile, slowing slightly as Levy, checking on Morgan’s position, saw that for some reason the Pennsylvanian had dropped back. Now was the time to regain control decided Levy, to get Silver Star back into her immaculate trotting rhythm, show a bit of class. The Trans-Americans were beaten. He would finish the race in style: show the crowd Silver Star at its best.

  Morgan had now entered the stadium dripping blood, the groans and sighs of the crowd running ahead of him as they realized his condition. For a moment he almost ran in the wrong direction, into Silver Star’s path, then checked himself and set off round the track towards Thurleigh. He had somehow regained his rhythm, but he was down to a trot, holding his left hand to his forehead in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood.

  As he reached the final stretch and saw Doc and the others, and Peter Thurleigh crouched waiting for the touch that would set him off, he dropped his hand from his brow and broke into a desperate sprint, blood spattering on to his vest and shorts. To Thurleigh, coiled at the end of the straight, it seemed as if Morgan was running in a dream, in some private world of his own. Finally, Morgan reached Thurleigh and for a moment they touched hands, setting Thurleigh off. Immediately Morgan collapsed into Doc’s arms, both eyes closed, limp.

  Another bugle from the hillside indicated that Thurleigh had gained a further thirty seconds, so at the beginning of his seventh mile the Trans-Americans were only just over a minute down. However, they were bound to drop back, as Thurleigh had to cover two laps on his own without the normal lap rest.

  As he left the stadium Thurleigh could see Levy’s sulky only a quarter of a mile away at the base of the hill, about sixty seconds from him. At best he could only hope to keep the gap from widening. His mind returned yet again to Paris 1924. That was how he must run, steadily, evenly, preserving exactly the balance between input and output.

  He completed the first lap in just under five minutes, running straight past the Trans-Americans, his breath coming from him in deep gasps.

  “Go, Peter!” screamed Doc, dancing on the grass as he receded from them, on his way up the hill into the country section.

  Falconer looked up from stitching Morgan’s head and pointed to Thurleigh, now attacking the hill. “His pulse must be over one hundred and eighty now, just about maximum,” he said. “He’ll be lucky if he comes back in one piece.”

  Morgan looked up at Falconer expectantly, as the doctor fumbled in his bag for a cleansing swab.

  “Give me time, man,” Falconer snapped, cleaning round the spiky stitches. “I’ve just put eight stitches into you.”

  “Have you patched him up?” asked Flanagan, missing the comment and impatiently standing over them.

  “Yes,” said Falconer, testily. “But in my professional opinion he shouldn’t run. His pulse is still one hundred and fifty beats a minute and he must have lost nearly half a pint
of blood. What kind of a man are you, anyway? These men have run two thousand miles, and now just because of a boozy bet you’ve got them killing themselves against a horse. Throw in your hand, Flanagan. These men have had enough.”

  Doc ignored him and grabbed Morgan’s face in both hands, putting his face within a few inches of the Pennsylvanian’s. “Do you think you can make it, Mike?” he asked. “If you say no, then we give up now.”

  For a moment Morgan said nothing. Then he nodded and got to his feet, the sweat dropping from his face on to the grass, his eyes on Kate Sheridan, who stood directly behind Doc, her eyes glistening.

  Doc turned to Falconer.

  “Falconer, you told me long ago that for you the Trans-America was like going back to school. Well, let me tell you, sir, today’s graduation day. I’m telling you that out there in the country the lord of the manor is pulling in that horse with every yard he runs. And I’m telling you that five minutes from now this patchwork quilt called Mike Morgan will get up and take another chunk out of that animal’s lead.”

  Falconer said nothing but closed his bag, shaking his head.

  “I can see Silver Star,” screamed Kate. The trotter had appeared on the brow of the hill above Coolidge stadium, trotting slowly, but with increased control, his body flecked with foam and gleaming with sweat.

  “Check the second hand on your watch, Kate,” said Doc. The seconds flickered painfully away as they waited for Peter Thurleigh to appear.

  Exactly fifty seconds later Thurleigh appeared on the crest of the hill. He had narrowed the gap, but at terrible cost. His breath came from him in deep groans and his body was drenched in sweat. His legs wobbled as he ran down the hill into the stadium and along the stretch, but at last he passed over to Morgan, to hit the ground beside Doc with a thump, his breath coming from him in deep, harsh wheezes.

  Falconer checked his watch as he held Thurleigh’s wrist. “Two hundred and ten beats a minute,” he said. “The highest I’ve ever taken.” He turned again to Doc. “Thurleigh’s done,” he whispered. “His body’s full of waste – you could sell it by the barrel. He could lie here for another hour for all that it matters. He’ll never make that last lap for you. He’s finished.”

  “Finished?” shouted Doc. “Finished? Maurice, he’s just started.” He pulled Peter Thurleigh to an upright position. The runner’s face streamed with sweat and his eyes were glassy and unfocused. Doc smacked him lightly on the cheeks.

  “You said you wanted to join my team,” he said. “Well, sir, here’s your chance to pay your dues.” He pointed up the hill. “Mike Morgan’s out there, running his heart out for you after a tiring horse. And I’m telling you, we can take it. Peter, I can feel it in my water. I can taste it.”

  Thurleigh nodded and got to his feet but immediately fell to the ground. He got up again, nodded, still gasping, and leant forward, his hands on his knees, as the crowd let out a roar. Silver Star had appeared in the stadium, its ninth mile almost completed.

  When Morgan came into the stadium what seemed an eternity later the gap was only forty seconds. One mile to go.

  “We’ll never make it,” groaned Flanagan. “Even Nurmi couldn’t make forty seconds a mile on a horse!”

  But Thurleigh went off hard into the final lap, gasping even in his first quarter-mile round the roaring stadium. As he left the stadium he looked up the hill at Silver Star. The horse appeared to have stopped. What had happened was that the bumpy track had loosened the nuts on the right wheel of the sulky and it would no longer rotate. Levy looked down the hill at the toiling Thurleigh and cursed. He jumped clumsily from the sulky and fumbled for the spanner in the repair-bag on the back of the cart. Thurleigh plodded leadenly towards him, now only a hundred yards away and slowly closing. Levy was still struggling with the wheel-nut as the Englishman staggered past. By the time Levy had tightened the wheel-nut Thurleigh was over one hundred and fifty yards in front, with just over half a mile to go.

  Ahead for the first time, with no clear idea of why Levy had stopped, Peter Thurleigh was in agony. Somehow he managed to maintain his running form, consciously keeping head and shoulders still, but his breath came in deep, rasping gulps. He wobbled down the hill to the stadium through a tunnel of noise, his mind just sufficiently alert to prompt him to watch for rocks. At the bottom of the hill, with almost a lap of the trotting track to go, he again ventured a look above him. Silver Star was at the crest of the hill, and gaining. Levy had brought back his fading stallion to something approaching its trotting rhythm, although the horse was now down to a sluggish twelve miles an hour. Levy in turn could see Thurleigh staggering down the rocky path ahead, but knew that he could not risk a foul or chance damaging a wheel by forcing Silver Star down the hill after him. No, he would have to pick Thurleigh up on the final circuit, on the track – where Silver Star would be back in his element.

  As he entered the stadium Thurleigh had three-quarters of a lap to cover, counter-clockwise, to reach the finish. His legs had gone, his breathing was broken, and he knew that Silver Star was closing fast. He had completed a hundred yards on the soft surface of the track when he heard the shouts and cheers behind him. Silver Star had entered the stadium. On the smooth surface of the track the horse’s hooves thudded once more in perfect balance. Thurleigh again looked back: Levy and Silver Star were gaining fast.

  Two hundred yards to go. For one final time Thurleigh dug deep inside himself and launched his stricken body into a grotesque parody of a sprint. Knees bowed and wilting, arms thrashing, he entered the home stretch. The air was now poison to him, but he was far beyond pain. He charged up the track, oblivious of the hooves behind him. The tape seemed to be receding, but still he kept running, his legs bowing on each stride.

  He hit the finishing tape with his teeth, cutting his lips, and fell full length on the ground, the dry dirt spuming in front of him, Silver Star only a yard behind. He lay on the track, on his face, spitting blood and grit, until Doc pulled him to his feet, limp, like a rag doll.

  “Congratulations, Peter,” he said. “I reckon you’ve paid your dues.”

  All in all, the city of St Louis was well pleased with Leonard H. Levy. He had provided the citizenry with right royal entertainments: two circuses, and two man-versus-horse races about which St Louis men would spin yarns for many a year. Levy had lost $120,000 in bets, it was true, but every man in St Louis knew that he had cleared $200,000 from spectator fees, concessions and the sale of programmes. He might have lost the races, but he stood high in the respect of the citizens of St Louis: first, because of the entertainment he had provided. Second, because he had proved himself a real smart fellow.

  The clink of champagne glasses therefore sounded throughout “Hambletonian”, Levy’s sumptuous house on King’s Highway, the Nob Hill of St Louis, as Levy entertained the Trans-Americans and over two hundred other guests. Hugh, Peter and Morgan, Dixie and Kate, splashed at each other in Levy’s kidney-shaped swimming pool, while the gentlemen of the press refilled their glasses and swapped “exclusive” interviews.

  Levy looked on indulgently from the side of the pool, the sweat from his day’s driving still trickling down his face.

  “Jesus,” he said. “Your boys sure did put up a show out there at Coolidge park today.”

  “They assuredly did, sir,” said Colonel Cranston, at Levy’s right hand together with a beaming Flanagan. “I sincerely hope that you gentlemen feel that the proceedings were carried off with fairness and lack of prejudice?”

  “Let me fill your glass, sir,” said Levy. “Indeed, Colonel, I do. Although I feel that if I had not sustained a mechanical breakdown I might well have won.” He paused for a moment, then looked up at Flanagan enquiringly.

  “Tell me one thing,” said Levy, “and I promise that it will go no further. How in God’s name did you win the sprint? I thought I had it all sewn up after the second race.”

  “Pigeons, cotton wool, and a little savoir faire,” said Flanagan.

 
“Pigeons?” said Levy, gulping down his champagne.

  Flanagan related Doc’s story about the race between the greyhound and the pigeon and how Dixie had held the handkerchief upon which Hugh McPhail had focused.

  “And there’s our pigeon,” he said, as Dixie stood, trim and golden in blue bathing suit, poised to dive into the pool.

  “Some pigeon,” said Levy.

  “Some greyhound we had to run against,” said Flanagan, raising his glass.

  “And the cotton wool?”

  Flanagan explained how Hugh had been told to shut out the noise of Silver Star’s hooves.

  “Hell,” said Levy. “You boys had it all worked out. But you mentioned something about savoir faire.”

  Flanagan grinned.

  “That, sir, may have been the difference between fifty thousand dollars and a kick in the ass. We figured that since a trotter’s head moves from left to right if we could get Silver Star’s head held on the right that would lose you a yard at the start.”

  Levy laughed and kept on laughing until he started to cough.

  “Did I say something funny?” said Flanagan.

  “You surely did, sir,” said Colonel Cranston, smiling.

  “Silver Star is well known in the world of trotting as the only trotter who moves her head from right to left. Any advantage you gained was simply because the horse’s mouth was held, not for any other reason. No, sir, you simply had the better man.”

  Hugh and the others at the pool looked up as they heard Levy’s guffaws.

  “For a loser, Levy’s sure enjoying himself,” said McPhail.

  “Yep,” said Doc, following his eyes. “I reckon all of this is worth about a hundred grand. Levy’s no loser. Guys like him never are.”

  “Isn’t there something wrong when we have people like we’ve seen on the road, people with nothing – ” said Hugh.