The Final Race

by Eric T. Eichinger

  Eric and Tom knew one area to address: Eric’s starting technique. Precious time had been lost there, and there was room for improvement. Years later, Eric remembered the difficulty:

  One of the hardest lessons to learn is how to start. Time after time you go to your holes, rise to the “get set” position, and wait for the pistol to go. Someone tries to go off before the pistol, and so we all have to get up and start from the beginning again. Even after I had been at it for four years, the papers now and then reminded me that my weak point was the slowness with which I started.[9]

  When the announcement came that Eric Liddell would, in addition to the 200 meters, compete in the 400 meters, more than a few eyes rolled. As if such a goal—one Brits were sure he would fail at—would make up for losing the 100.

  And by losing, they meant not running.

  By now, all eyes had turned toward Harold Abrahams, an English star sprinter at Cambridge, who had become the de facto favorite after Liddell’s refusal to run in the 100. Eric had sorely beaten Abrahams in the 100-meter head-to-head in July of 1923. Even so, British sports enthusiasts believed Abrahams could give them the gold at the Olympics.

  Odds stacked against him. Naysayers lined up. Patriotic pressure mounted.

  Eric remained grounded in his faith. He had somehow managed not to get caught up in the pandemonium played out in the press, which had begun to oscillate back ever so gently. The December 1923 edition of The Student offered,

  Ninety-nine men, gifted with Eric’s prowess, would now be insufferably swollen-headed, but here we have the hundredth man. Here is a man who hates praise and shuns publicity, yet is deserving of both. Here is a man with a mind of his own, and not afraid to voice his most sacred feeling on a platform if, by so doing, he thinks it will help his fellows. Here is a man who has courage, and delights to accept a challenge, be it for the sake of his School, his ’Varsity, his Country, or his God. And lastly, here is a man who wins because he sets his teeth, quietly but firmly, and always plays the game. Everyone is fond of Eric.[10]

  [7] D. P. Thomson, Scotland’s Greatest Athlete: The Eric Liddell Story (Barnoak, Crieff, Perthshire, Scotland: Research Unit, 1970), 53.

  [8] Ibid, 50.

  [9] Ibid, 29.

  [10] Ibid, 42.

  CHAPTER 6

  INTO BATTLE

  Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness. And let steadfastness have its full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.

  James 1:2-4

  April 1924

  Eric had only been back home from America for a few hours when he found himself sitting across the dining room table from his brother, enjoying his favorite dinner of sausage and cheese and, of course, haggis.

  “So, how’d you find America?” Rob asked him.

  “By boat,” Eric teased as he reached for the cup of tea resting to the right of his plate.

  “Funny.”

  Eric shook his head, setting all banter aside. “It began badly enough. I should have known the Penn Relays would follow suit.”

  Rob smiled and rested his fork and knife against the plate. “How’s that?”

  “First I left my luggage on the dock and had to run back for it. Then there were the storms. Nearly pitched the ship, they were so ominous.”

  “Hyperbole.”

  “You think I’m kidding.”

  “I do.”

  Eric waved his fork in the air as if to dismiss his previous words. “All right, you win. But they were pretty bad.”

  “You didn’t get sick like before, did you?” Rob asked with a wink.

  Eric studied his plate, trying to decide what to dive into next. “Not quite the same . . . but yes,” he answered quietly, remembering the trip the family had made when he’d first come to England. He’d been sick with dysentery and had lost so much weight, he had barely been able to support himself to walk across the deck. “Remember that woman? She was one—”

  “—one of the missionary wives. She said with you unable to walk, you’d never be able to run,” Rob responded. “I guess you showed her.”

  Eric chuckled as he bit into a slice of sausage. “Maybe not. My times at the games were quite awful. I came in fourth in the 100 and second in the 200. A lousy performance . . . and against international competition at that. The papers are sure to bring this up.”

  “Don’t fret about it,” Rob said, his voice returning to a more serious tone. “Won’t do you a bit of good. How’d the others do?”

  “Not a one of us came home with a first.”

  “Better for you, I’d say.”

  True, but Eric frowned at the thought. What would all this mean to the Olympic team in July? “One bright note,” he said then. “On the trip back I got along quite famously with Arthur Marshall. He’s one of the seven from the Cambridge University Athletics Club.” He grinned. “We went to a masquerade ball one night. Had a smashing time.” Eric chuckled.

  “What’s so funny?”

  Heat rushed to Eric’s cheeks as he replied, “Oh . . . it’s nothing. Just that . . . Arthur and I met two very nice young ladies.”

  A twinkle caught in Rob’s eye. “Did you now?”

  “They told us they’d be in Paris for the Games and that—well, you know—perhaps we’d meet up after the races are done.” He waggled his brow at his brother. “Speaking of young ladies, your wedding day is practically on top of us.”

  Rob grinned brightly before his somber face returned. “And soon thereafter we’ll leave for China. I won’t be there for you. For the Games.”

  Eric pressed his lips together. “No,” he said. “You won’t.”

  Yes, soon after the Games, Rob and his new bride, Ria, would leave for his birthplace. Everyone—Eric’s entire family—would reside in China. Everyone but him.

  And, once again, Eric would be alone.

  * * *

  AFTER ROB’S WEDDING, Eric continued to train for the world’s greatest games.

  He ran two races the following month but did not put forth an effort in the 400 meters until the end of May and on his home field at Craiglockhart, the University of Edinburgh. His first report card read:

  100 yards—10.2

  220 yards—23.0

  440 yards—51.5

  Only six weeks stood between Eric and the Games in Paris. He and Tom McKerchar both knew they had a lot of work to do, especially concerning his time in the 400.

  At the next competition, Eric’s times showed some improvement:

  100 yards—10.2

  220 yards—22.4

  440 yards—51.2

  As June wore on, Eric continued to improve. Eric won the 100 yards with a record-breaking (for the meet) 10 seconds flat. He also won the 220 yards with a time of 22.6 and the 440 yards with a sustained time of 51.2.

  By Friday, June 20, at Stamford Bridge, London, Eric had dropped his 440-yard time to 49.6, a mark that began to flirt with the best times in the world at that distance. The following day, Eric lost the 220-yard finals to a runner from South Africa, finishing in second place by two and a half yards—devastating for a runner in serious competition.

  Yet also on that same day, Eric won the 440 yards in 49.6 seconds. Still, he was not favored to win the 400 at the Olympics. Still, his countrymen looked at him as though he’d betrayed them.

  Still, Eric remained on the outside looking in.

  Two of the most famous scenes in the 1981 movie Chariots of Fire are those that bookend the film—the British Olympic team running down the beaches of Broadstairs, Kent, in preparation for their departure to Paris.

  Would choosing God’s way result in victory?

  Would Eric cross the finish line as—or behind—the winner?

  Or not at all?

  British fans provided great fanfare as their Olympic team embarked from Victoria Station. The elaborate send-off propelled the team into the opening ceremonies, allowin
g them to establish momentum early. On Sunday, July 6, while Eric worshiped at Scots Kirk, Harold Abrahams qualified for the 100-meter semifinals, which were to be held the following day. On Monday, Abrahams went on to win the gold medal in the 100 meters with a time of 10.6.

  Britain breathed a sigh of relief at Abrahams’s triumph, staking claim to the fastest man in the world with a new Olympic record, while no one said a negative word about the fact that Liddell had been exactly where he’d said he’d be—at church—the day before. Abrahams’s achievement relieved Eric of a small amount of pressure, but the reprieve would be short lived when both men dug themselves (and Britain) into a hole.

  On Tuesday, July 8, Eric faced his first Olympic challenge: the 200 meters. He took first in his opening heat, posting a time of 22.2. Later that day he dropped his time to 21.9. Eric safely advanced to the Wednesday semifinal heats, as well as into the finals—and Abrahams along with him.

  But in the finals, Eric finished a disappointing third, barely nipped by Jackson Scholz and Charley Paddock of the United States, with a time of 21.9. Eric was not the only one who recognized the defeat. The main post in Edinburgh, The Scotsman, seized the opportunity to add more pressure:

  Liddell failed to reproduce the strong finish by which so many of his races in this country had been won. He was well placed and had his spurt been forthcoming he would undoubtedly have won.[11]

  The paper seemingly forgot to report that Eric did win the bronze. Nor did it state that Harold Abrahams finished dead last.

  Eric felt the foreboding weight of reality the night before the opening heats for the 400 meters. The eyes of the world seemed to be on Eric, his faith, and his God, all of which would be unfairly evaluated based on his performance—particularly if he made a poor showing. In retrospect, winning the bronze medal for the 200 meters would be a proud achievement marking a worthy effort against formidable opponents, but Eric knew he had much more to prove. His family was a half a world away, and he recognized that—even with his teammates and coach cheering him on—he was surrounded by people but alone.

  Save for God.

  Thursday arrived.

  Eric started well, winning the opening heat with a slow time of 50.2. With three anticipated races to go, runners typically save energy in hopes of the greatest performance possible in the finals—provided they can make it there. This strategy worked well. Eric ran the fastest time of his life later that day, 49.3.

  But Eric knew that while his time ensured him a spot in the Friday semifinals, it only placed him second in the heat. Eric had become the dark horse favorite. He knew it. But more important, so did everyone else.

  The next morning, after a muscle-loosening massage, Eric’s masseur handed him a note. Eric looked at the folded piece of paper, then slipped it into his pocket. “I’ll read it when I get to the stadium,” Eric said.

  Eric went through his usual warm-ups and stretches, and he gentlemanly shook the hands of all his opponents before the start. Before digging his starting stance in the cinder, he removed the note, and—before one of the biggest moments of his life—read,

  In the old book it says, “He that honours me I will honour.” Wishing you the best of success always.

  Eric did not disappoint in the semifinals. He delivered an astonishing 48.2 in the second of two heats. Even Horatio Fitch, the American odds-on favorite to win the gold, who had won the first heat at 47.8, took notice.

  Eventually, the last call for the 400-meter finals rang through the stadium, and Eric took his position. Before the Games, both he and McKerchar had been pleased to hear that the races would be run on marked lanes, thereby eliminating the chance for being boxed in. But Eric had drawn lane six, the outermost lane—the most difficult position and least-desired assignment. The staggered start around the track’s curve thrust him far out in front, which prevented him from being able to see any competitors during the majority of the race.

  Eric’s visible advantages had been all but removed, but he had an undetectable edge few others could see, let alone understand. He ran not only for Britain, but first and foremost for God. No matter what transpired during the race—whether he won or lost—Eric knew he already possessed an eternal peace that surpassed understanding.

  The spectators’ eyes went to Eric. Here stood the Scottish sprinter who refused to run on Sunday. The magnitude of the unfolding story line had swelled with each heat. Electric anticipation galvanized the stadium when Eric and the other runners crouched into their starting stances. Eric held more of a raw sprinter’s mind-set and more experience in the shorter distances than his opponents. If he had raced against these same runners in the open 100 meters or 200 meters, there would have been no question who would have won. He had superior turnover leg speed. But this was the 400 meters.

  Could Eric maintain his speed during the second half of the race?

  The gunshot reverberated through the stadium, releasing the tension of both the sprinters and the crowd. Eric Liddell’s moment of reckoning had arrived. He burst out swiftly, building a gradual lead on the runners, and maintained command of the race down the back straightaway. The other runners chased after him, fully expecting to reel him in. The closing turn of the track would assure this. Or so everyone thought.

  Everyone but Eric.

  As the finish tape waved in the late afternoon heat, Eric tilted his head back in his unorthodox style and dug in hard for the finish. His gait was not as fluid as the other runners’, and as his muscles tightened in the second half of the race, Eric’s stride appeared more hindered. He propelled forward, pushing through the turn, and led into the final straightaway.

  The last 100 meters of the open 400 is the most grueling end to a race of any distance. The sheer speed needed to run a sub-50-second quarter rivals the shorter sprints yet calls for inordinate strength for a closing kick, which the longer distances require. The most difficult aspects of both ends of the running spectrum marry in those last one hundred meters.

  Eric presided over these two demands marvelously as he flew down the track toward vindication. The other runners crept closer as they passed through the curve, but Eric showed no sign of slowing. The crowd stood in uproarious appreciation as #451 drew closer to destiny—his head back, his face lifted toward God.

  In the last few strides one challenger fell. The pace had proved to be too much. Eric crossed the line first, setting a new world record of 47.6, as spectators gasped. Eric had broken his own record from earlier in the day by six tenths of a second—an astonishing feat by any stretch of the imagination.

  Colombes Stadium thundered in frenzy and adoration as Eric breathed at a rapid pace, all the while taking in the moment. He shook hands (notably with two of the runners who had fallen) and flashed a smile, which simultaneously exuded exoneration and joy. He rested his hands against his hips, willing his body back to normal, reveling in his unexpected triumph.

  Within seconds, journalists flocked to Britain’s freshly reinstated darling in astonishment, but as soon as the band played “God Save the King,” Eric Liddell quietly slipped out of the stadium.

  [11] D. P. Thomson, Scotland’s Greatest Athlete: The Eric Liddell Story (Barnoak, Crieff, Perthshire, Scotland: Research Unit, 1970), 59–60.

  CHAPTER 7

  A VICTORY LAP

  For everyone who has been born of God overcomes the world. And this is the victory that has overcome the world—our faith.

  1 John 5:4

  July 1924

  The reporter grinned at Eric with his pencil poised, ready to write on the palm-sized pad of paper cupped in his hand. “To what do you owe your victory?”

  Eric swallowed back a smile. “I ran the first 200 meters as hard as I could.” He paused long enough to raise his brow, to prove—once and for all—the conviction that burned within his heart. “Then, with God’s help, I ran the second 200 harder.”

  The journalist and those around him chuckled good-naturedly.

  “Eric,” one of them called out.
“Harold Abrahams said . . .” He looked down at his notes. “That people may shout their heads off about your appalling style. ‘Well, let them. He gets there,’ he said. Do you have anything to add to that?”

  Now it was Eric’s turn to laugh. “We each have our own way to perform the gifts God gave us.”

  Another reporter raised his hand. “One paper—The Scotsman—said you achieved immortality in Paris.”

  “No, sir,” Eric remarked quickly. “My immortality comes from Christ—not a track and field stadium in France.”

  * * *

  FORTY-FOUR NATIONS COMPETED at the 1924 Olympics in Paris, France. Germany and China were absent from participation. The British traded blows in the short sprints with Charley Paddock and Jackson Scholz of the United States. Ultimately the British prevailed, winning gold in the 100 meters, the 400 meters, and the 800 meters, by Harold Abrahams, Eric Liddell, and Douglas Lowe, respectively. Finland equally dominated the longer distances. Albin Stenroos took gold in the marathon; Paavo Nurmi in the 1,500 meters, the 5,000 meters, and the cross-country run; and Ville Ritola in the 10,000 meters and the steeplechase, as well as silver in the 5,000 meters and the cross-country race. The “Flying Finns” were a formidable force with which to reckon.

  With 126 events tallied from seventeen different sports, the United States finished first with forty-five gold medals, then Finland with fourteen, and France with thirteen. Great Britain ranked fourth with nine medals—and an unforgettable performance, especially for the Flying Scotsman. Not only had Eric been the first from Scotland to win a medal in the 200 meters (the bronze), he was the first Scot to medal in any Olympic event since 1908, when Wyndham Halswelle won gold in a final that became controversial when, after an American runner became ineligible due to illegal maneuvers, the race was rerun with Halswelle as the only contender.