Flanagan's Run

by Tom McNab

  Every man in the race went through his personal, private pre-race ritual, each, whatever his abilities, nursing the hope that this just might be that magic moment when he would run beyond himself. For most of the runners that was all they could hope for, for the prize money only went down to fiftieth place.

  Liebnitz found Maurice Falconer standing beside him, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. The journalist looked around him and up at the cloudy sky. “What do you think of the weather, then, Maurice?” he asked.

  Falconer scowled and shook his head. “At least eighty-five degrees down there on the road and over seventy per cent humidity – the worst we’ve had since Los Angeles.”

  Liebnitz scribbled on his pad. “So how much body-weight will the boys down there lose by Central Park?”

  Falconer wrinkled his nose, causing drops of sweat to drop on to his white summer suit.

  “Up to ten per cent. Anything from six to fourteen pounds. Though some of those boys have lost so much weight since Los Angeles they’re going to have to go into overdraft.”

  Liebnitz smiled. “How many feeding-stations?”

  “Ten. I’ve made up a concoction of my own for the runners, a special saline drink which should help keep up body-fluids and cut down on leg-cramps.”

  Liebnitz looked at the map pinned to a clipboard in his left hand and traced the course with his finger.

  “Looks pretty straight to me, for once. No deviations for Flanagan’s ‘appropriations’ or Highland Games this time?”

  Falconer smiled and shook his head.

  “Not this time, Carl.”

  Liebnitz continued to scrutinize the map. “Down Pallington Boulevard, then Little Falls, Clifton through West Paterson – I had an aunt lived there once – Teterboro, Lodi, then Ridgefield Park and across the Hackensack River.”

  He adjusted his spectacles.

  “Here’s where it’ll get tough – at Fort Lee,” he continued. “Then the Hudson and the George Washington Bridge, and into New York proper. Down Lenox Avenue and into Central Park. And that’s when it ends, for all of us.”

  He looked up from the map and pointed into the mass of runners at Kate Sheridan.

  “And what about her? Do you think she can make it into the top two hundred?”

  Falconer unfastened the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie.

  “A couple of months ago I’d have laid long odds against it,” he said. “But this Trans-America race, it’s been an education for me. If you want my professional opinion, I’d put Miss Sheridan’s chances at a good deal less than even. Carl, don’t forget there’s over eight hundred men down there. That’s a lot of heart, of pride, on the line today.”

  Liebnitz nodded and pointed again, this time at Willard Clay.

  “Looks as if they’re all set to get started,” he said, beginning to move off. “See you later in the bus.”

  Willard was nodding at Flanagan, who in turn now beckoned with his right hand to Will Rogers standing at the microphone on a podium directly in line with the start. Rogers was the ideal man for this final stage. Acknowledged as the All-American of wit, Rogers’ homely, country-boy face was known and loved in every home in the land. Rogers had great respect for athletes, being himself one of America’s greatest exponents of the lasso. He cleared his throat and began.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I don’t reckon that there can be a single man, woman and child here who hasn’t followed Mr Flanagan’s Trans-Americans since they first left Los Angeles, way back on 21 March. They’ve been on show in Main Street, America for the past three months, and those of you who hadn’t seen them in person till today have most certainly done so on the silver screen.

  “So here we are, on the final stage because of the generosity of possibly the world’s greatest follower of the marathon race, Mr Clarence Ross of Transcontinental Airlines. I only saw a marathon once myself, back in Boston in 1924. I always remember watching the runners at the finish. You know how tired them runners always are, hobbling in, crawling about on hands and knees. Well, there was these two prim ol’ Boston ladies sitting next to me at the finish. One says to the other, ‘what a lovely race’. ‘Yes,’ says the other, ‘I’m really looking forward to the finals.’ ”

  The laughter came both from athletes and spectators, momentarily relaxing the tension.

  “Well,” said Rogers, raising his Winchester with his right arm. “I won’t hold you folks up with my jawing much longer. The best of luck to each and every one of you.”

  There was silence as Rogers increased his pressure on the trigger, the athletes on the road frozen as if in a tableau.

  “Get to your marks . . .”

  The engines of the trucks started up.

  “Get set . . .”

  The trucks slowly started to move off up the soft hot road.

  Crack! The gun fired, and like a greyhound released from a trap the Trans-Americans surged along the road to New York to the roars of the crowd, the explosion of cameras and the din of low-flying airplanes zooming in to secure closer shots of the start. They were on their way, for the last time.

  From the beginning it was fast. By three miles the race had divided into three leading groups. In the lead were Eskola, Bouin, Dasriaux, Capaldi, Mullins and Komar, and a dozen other hopefuls who had never previously featured in the top twenty at any time in the Trans-America. A hundred yards or so behind them came the second group, consisting of Brady, Lundberg, Brix, Quomawahu and eight others. A hundred and fifty yards back lay Doc, Thurleigh, McPhail and Morgan, together with the Australian Charles, a little Irishman Magill and an American Flynn. Three miles was run in a swift sixteen minutes twenty-one seconds, and Eskola’s group ran past the first feeding-station without stopping.

  Doc eased off, drank a cardboard carton of fluid on the run then picked up a second from another table, again drinking it on the run and pouring the dregs over his head. “Drink,” he said, almost to himself. “Keep drinking.”

  All along Pallington Boulevard crowds stood three or four deep, shouting and applauding, many of them in overalls and dungarees, all work having stopped along the route. Restraining them, beefy, grinning New Jersey cops, relieved to be coping with something other than strikers or rioting mobs, nodded and shouted encouragement as the runners streamed past.

  Six miles in thirty-three minutes and nine seconds, and still Eskola’s group held the lead, though six of the optimists who had been sucked into the fast early pace were now plodding dourly, broken and sweat-sodden, two hundred yards behind Doc’s group and sinking steadily down the field. Behind them ran Brady’s pack, now reduced to six runners. Doc’s group remained unchanged, covering the first six miles almost three-quarters of a minute behind Eskola . . .

  Another drama was being played over a mile behind the leaders. There Kate Sheridan fought her own war of attrition with the stream of runners stretching away from her into the distance.

  As she passed down the crowd-lined avenue the cheers and shouting always took on a shriller note. Women and girls who had never in their lives run a mile screamed, whooped and applauded as Kate went past, their screams rising in pitch each time she overtook yet another male competitor. The “Lone Lady”, as the press corps had dubbed her, had started cautiously, as Doc had advised her; perhaps too cautiously. By six miles, run in just over forty-five minutes, she was in three hundred and ninth position, her body already drenched in sweat . . .

  . . . At the front, Eskola’s pace was still remorseless; through Little Falls, down into Clifton, he continued to pump out mile after mile in just over five and a half minutes. By nine miles, achieved in fifty minutes fifty seconds, his group had been pared down to Bouin, Dasriaux, Capaldi, Mullins and Komar, with of the “unknowns” only the lean, turbaned Indian, Singh, hanging on. Those who had peeled off, their rhythm broken, now languished far down the field.

  In the second group, a hundred and fifty yards behind, the little Indian Quomawahu was beginning to crumble, his feet now flapping o
n the soft tar road. But Brady, Lundberg and Brix stayed firm, having shrugged off the other earlier members of their pack.

  Two hundred yards behind them it was now only Doc, Thurleigh, Morgan and McPhail, Charles and Magill, running in two lines through the cheering crowds. Behind them the field was strung out for well over two miles, back into the outskirts of West Paterson.

  From the leading press bus Carl Liebnitz stood on the top deck with Bullard, Packy Paterson and Stevie McFarlane, scanning the race through binoculars. “Look,” he said, handing the binoculars to Bullard. “Eskola’s still piling it on. If he keeps this up what time will he run?”

  “Close on two and a half hours,” said Bullard, peering through the glasses. “Hey!” he said, handing them on to Stevie. “Doc’s taking water again. That’s more time lost.”

  Stevie took the glasses and scowled. “No, time drinking isn’t time lost. Not on a day like this.” He wiped the sweat from his brow and surveyed it on the back of his hand. “Have a look at this,” he said. “Just think what it must be like for those lads down there. Like a bloody Turkish bath.”

  Liebnitz nodded and scribbled on the pad on his lap. “You may be right,” he said, looking at the race clock. “Twelve miles in one hour nine minutes exactly for Eskola and company. Doc and his pack must be close on two minutes down and we’re nearly half way. I hope the old pro hasn’t misjudged it.”

  “I asked him last night if he had ever dreamed about this race,” said Bullard. “Know what he said? He said he’d run it so often in his dreams he’d have to get the sheets re-soled!”

  Stevie grinned. “He’s a great old guy. A pity it’ll have to be a Scot who’ll beat him.”

  “Or perhaps an American, a Finn or a Frenchman,” said Liebnitz, continuing to peer through his binoculars, but the drone of the news-planes above drowned his answer.

  “Two hundred and fifty-first!” screamed a remarkably unladylike Glenda Farrell at Kate Sheridan as she loped past at fifteen miles on Sylvan Avenue on the outskirts of Teterboro. “Fifty-one to go!” she added, skipping to make herself visible over the heads of the crowds. Kate nodded weakly and took her drink and sponge as she went from the trestle-table at the feeding-station, squeezing the tepid contents of the sponge down the back of her neck. By drinking on the run, she passed three runners who had taken their drinks standing at the station. She was finding it hard, for, at just inside eight-minute miles, this was the fastest pace at which she had ever run. There was no breathlessness yet; just pain and heaviness all over, bringing her further and further down on to her heels . . .

  . . . At the front, fifteen miles through Lodi in one hour and twenty-eight minutes. This time Bouin, Dasriaux and Mullins picked up drinks at the tables on the run, as did Eskola, Capaldi and Komar. Behind them Brady’s pack were wilting and were over two hundred yards behind, Singh and Quomawahu having been dropped at fourteen miles. All of Brady’s pack stopped at the refreshment table, their bodies spurting sweat. A mile further on, at sixteen miles, they were passed by Doc’s group, and Brady’s pack began to disintegrate.

  In the lead, Eskola’s group pressed on through Ridgefield Park and across the Hackensack River and past the eighteen miles marker. Below, on the black, oily water, tugs and barges hooted as the runners crossed, unheeding, behind Flanagan’s trucks and buses. At the bridge, the Pole Komar suddenly dropped to a trot, clasping his right calf. The Wall had claimed its first victim.

  Behind, Doc and the others had burnt off Magill and Charles, who laboured in a limbo a hundred yards ahead of Brady’s broken group, and it was now the old firm of Doc, McPhail, Thurleigh and Morgan, running in line together, their brown bodies streaming sweat. As they crossed the Hackensack River they knew from shouts from the crowd that they were pulling in Eskola’s pack and were less than two minutes behind the Finn. For the first time in the whole Trans-America Doc had said nothing to the others, but the four men ran as if driven by a single will – on, down, looping north-east through Fort Lee, towards the Hudson and the George Washington Bridge . . .

  . . . Kate Sheridan saw the figures “220” on a large white card above the crowd at the bridge across the Hackensack as Glenda Farrell, holding the card aloft, shrieked above the noise of the milling mob. The sweat poured over Kate’s eyebrows, sending the bitter mascara down her bronzed cheeks and into her mouth. She cursed, regretting her vanity in using eye make-up for the first time since the Mojave. All elasticity had gone from her legs, but the men in front of her seemed to be fading even faster. “Got you, you bastard,” she growled under her breath each time she passed one . . .

  In the press bus the journalists clustered at the end of the top deck. “Doc’s getting to them,” growled Liebnitz, standing as he looked at Doc’s group through his binoculars. “He’s pulling Eskola in on a long rope.”

  Ernest Bullard put a hand on Liebnitz’s shoulder as he peered through his own binoculars at the race-leaders.

  “You’re right,” he said. “But I never thought I’d see you this deep in a foot-race.”

  Liebnitz turned to face him. “This isn’t a race, Ernest. It’s a goddam battle. That Finn’s thrown down the gauntlet and Doc and the boys have picked it up.” He returned to his binoculars and thumped the seat in front of his with his right fist.

  “C’mon, Doc,” he said. “I’ve got five bucks right on your nose.”

  The bus bumped and lurched as it crossed a level-crossing, causing Liebnitz to be thrown back on to his seat. Behind the bus, Eskola and his group passed across the rails and the gates clanged shut behind them. Over a quarter of a mile back, but catching Eskola with every stride, Doc and his pack were not immediately aware of what had happened. Then, two hundred yards from the crossing, as the clang of the approaching train was heard Doc realized what had occurred. When they reached the five-foot-high wooden barrier the train to New York stood hissing and steaming on the other side, barring their way onwards.

  For a moment the four men, Cole, McPhail, Morgan and Thurleigh, stood irresolute. Then Doc started to climb up the white wooden gates, looking down over his left shoulder.

  “Come on,” he growled. “Over.”

  The others followed him, gasping as they scrambled untidily over on to the road beyond. Doc then turned right, followed by the others, up the soft cinders by the side of the line towards the engine, about a hundred yards back down the track. On reaching the front of the train Doc glanced up at the driver in his cabin above and winked. He looked up the line going in the other direction, and followed by the others crossed the rails and ran to his left towards the gates on the other side of the track. By the time the train began to ease out of the station they were already on their way. The pursuit was on.

  With just over six miles to go they were just over three minutes down . . .

  . . . Three miles back Kate Sheridan was fighting her own final lonely battle. With each mile she felt she had reached the limit of the pain which she could tolerate; then, that limit accepted, somehow a new limit was reached, broached and again accepted. Since the eighteenth mile she had been counting grimly; five more to go and she had made it. Five men to pass in eight miles . . .

  The moment had come, the moment for which he had waited all his life, and Doc Cole sensed it. With six miles to go, he would have to go after Eskola and his group now or it would be too late. He was at the Wall, on the razor’s edge between success and failure. If he held back now Eskola might be able to hang in to win. If he went off too fast then he might blow up before the finish. It was a gamble, but one which he would have to take. Ahead he could hear the applause and the hooters of the boats on the Hudson signal the arrival of Eskola’s pack at the George Washington Bridge only half a mile ahead. He started to accelerate, feeling his leg cadence increase as his will expressed itself in movement.

  The others sensed what had happened, sensed the decision that Doc was making for them. As the pace lifted they stayed locked together and pressed in on the George Washington Bridge. Across the
Hudson they thudded, oblivious of the crowds behind and ahead, the tugs hooting below, their eyes fixed on Eskola’s group, whom they could see making their lonely way towards Lenox Avenue.

  For a moment, Doc feared he was making no impression. Then he began to hear Capaldi’s grunts as he dropped back, and with five miles to go, just before the right turn down Lenox Avenue into Manhattan, they passed the swarthy American, leaving him to struggle on in their wake. At the front Eskola, Bouin, Dasriaux and Mullins had broken and were running in single file, about two hundred yards ahead.

  The leaders were running in a tunnel of sound through the deep canyons of Manhattan, blind to the crowds massed thick on either sidewalk. Above them confetti and ticker-tape drifted down from offices, occasionally resting on their necks and shoulders.

  Eskola still ran fluidly, eyes glazed and fixed. But he was slowing, and at the final feeding-station, at twenty-three miles, he again ignored the refreshment and kept on running, his stride growing increasingly choppy and laboured. Behind him Doc’s group had picked up Bouin, Dasriaux and Mullins and were making ground steadily. The Finn’s speed and his failure to take sufficient fluid were taking their toll: slowly he was grinding to a halt.

  Eskola gave no sign of acknowledging their presence, but hung on, drawing on the rhythm of Doc and his group for strength. He locked in on Morgan’s left shoulder, on the outside of the group. But Doc continued to press, and suddenly Eskola grunted and dropped back. The Finn’s stride dropped to a forlorn, pecking action. He was beaten.

  With two miles to go, at Lenox and 125th, Doc made his final decision. He would leave them . . .

  . . . Six miles behind, Kate could see the turbanned Indian Singh, an early leader, now down to a hobbling walk-trot. It took her only another fifty yards to pull him in and pass him. He gave a toothy, broken grin as she passed and raised his right hand in acknowledgment.