Doc swore under his breath. Muller, one of the Germans, had rushed into an immediate lead, drawing about twenty runners with him. Morgan had kept up with him, as had Martinez and Thurleigh. By the time the tail of the field had reached the road towards Barstow, a couple of miles out, the leading groups were some two hundred yards in the lead and surging out into the desert.
A mile later, Doc checked his watch. The leaders were running at close on nine-minute miles, or better. Madness! He slowed his pace even further, unworried by the runners who now overtook him.
He found himself beside Kate Sheridan. He dropped behind her to watch her action, then moved up to her side.
“Go right back on to your heels, lady. Keep the stride low. This is a shuffle, not a run.”
She did not reply.
“You worried about the cut?”
This time Kate nodded.
Doc pointed to an old, white-haired runner padding along about twenty yards ahead.
“Then run with old Charles Fox. Greatest pro in the world up to the war. He’ll run inside four hours for this stage. Stay with him as long as you can, and you’ll make it through. And, remember, keep low – and drink at all the water-points.”
Before she could answer Doc tipped his cap and started to thread his way up through the field. He was not going to race hard, but he still wanted to be in the first twenty finishers, to keep his aggregate time close to the leaders.
It was like the League of Nations. He passed a trio of Chinamen, trotting easily in their strange split-toed shoes, the same men to whom he had sold some Chickamauga remedy back at the hotel. The Frenchman, Bouin, was running with the Finnish Olympian, Eskola, and the two chatted to each other in German. Both men were fine runners, with many miles behind them. They would have to be watched.
The three remaining Germans ran as if on parade, moving as one, but why had Muller gone so far ahead? True, the German lacked experience, but he was undoubtedly running to orders. Perhaps the Germans had trained a new breed of runners, men capable of running better than nine-minute miles over such distances . . . ?
A couple of hundred yards later, at the ten-mile mark, Doc came abreast of the All-American team, lying in about fiftieth position. They were running at a good even pace so he stayed with them, drinking on the run at the second water-point, twelve miles out from the start. He checked his watch: one hour forty-eight minutes. About right.
Two miles behind Doc Cole, Kate Sheridan now ran with Charles Fox. The old man said nothing, but shuffled along on mottled, varicosed legs at a steady five miles an hour. Twenty years before no one in the field could have lasted over such distances with Fox. He had been the first professional athlete to run twelve miles in the hour, to cover thirty miles in three hours, to break twelve hours for a hundred miles; but the Trans-America had come too late.
Now, at the age of sixty-six, he was reduced to running alongside a slip of a girl.
Kate ran oblivious to the old man’s feelings, her mind reverting to her days at Minsky’s. No one who watched the smiling, spangled girls nightly kicking in military precision could possibly have imagined the fatigue involved in six shows daily. The ache never really left her legs; but she had learnt to tolerate it, accepting it as part of the price that had to be paid. In the Trans-America it was different. Hour upon hour of running, no music to drive her on, none of the challenge of new steps to be learnt and none of the occasional adrenalin of an excited audience. Simply mile upon mile of desert, with hundreds of lean, seemingly inexhaustible men stretching out in front of her and driving her from behind. It was a world as far from vaudeville as it was possible to imagine.
Doc had been right, she thought, as she picked up water at the eight-mile point, in thirty-three minutes past the hour. She was going well; it was coming easily. But she could no longer see the leaders, now well over two miles away.
From the very first mile it had felt fast to Morgan. He had followed Muller on to the hard, bumpy road, out on to the fringe of the desert, but the young German would not let up. He covered the first three miles in twenty-four and a half minutes, the first six in just under fifty-two minutes; he did not stop at the first water-point but picked up a drink from his trainer a mile later. Yet Morgan stayed with him, pinning himself to the German’s left shoulder.
In the leading press bus Pollard wiped the dusty back window with his handkerchief and shook his head. “Can’t really figure out what’s happening out there, Carl,” he said, turning to Liebnitz. “That Kraut’s running as if the race finishes up at Barstow, not at New York.”
Liebnitz joined Pollard at the back of the bus, and peered through the window at the leading group of runners a couple of hundred yards behind.
“Beats me,” he said. “Still, I can see why some of the others might want to stay in the frame on a money stage like this. Five hundred bucks in the hand now might look better than a hundred and fifty thousand in the bank in New York. These goddam stage prizes may kill off some good men before we even get to Vegas.”
“I don’t see Doc Cole out there,” observed Pollard.
“No,” said Liebnitz, returning to his seat. “Doc’s a cagey old bird. He said he would run at around ten-minute miles back in L.A., and it’s my guess he’ll stick to his plan. But he’ll be keeping Muller and the others in sight, mark my words.”
“What about the girl?”
“Sheridan?” said Liebnitz. “She’s quite an impressive young lady, but it’s my bet that she’s going to find this a whole heap harder than high-kicking at Minsky’s. The next two stages should tell us if she’s going to figure anywhere in the race. Flanagan’s times are tough – I reckon he’ll wipe out most of the walkers today, and the field should be down to closer to a thousand by sundown. I wouldn’t bet my shirt on Miss Sheridan being amongst that thousand – or any other woman, for that matter.”
“Pity,” said Pollard, reaching for his glass of beer. “She makes a great story.”
“Well,” said Liebnitz, adjusting his spectacles, “don’t be too surprised if it turns out to be a short story.”
They were now deep into the Mojave, into the dry, brown broken plain, the only watchers the twisted Joshua trees, standing like crippled spectators as the leaders wound their way into the desert, preceded by the press buses, the noisy, jug-shaped Maxwell House Coffee Pot and Flanagan’s Trans-America bus.
Sixty years before, the desert had taken its toll of settlers struggling with wagons and hand-carts through sun, rock and sand, constantly harassed by marauding Indians. Now the Indians had gone, but nature was enemy enough for the men daily battling with each other and with themselves.
Ten miles on, six men were still there with Muller, including Thurleigh, Martinez and Morgan. The bronzed young German had begun to sweat, but there was no break in his driving rhythm. At twelve miles he went clear, breaking away from the field.
In the Trans-America officials’ bus, Charles Flanagan sucked on his cigar, realized it had gone out, and fumbled in his pocket for a box of matches. “How’s it going out there?” he said, turning to Willard, who was peering out of the window.
“Difficult to see, boss. Too much dust. But it looks to me like that young German, Muller, is burning up the road.”
“Great,” said Flanagan, “that’ll keep Pollard and the press boys happy. A story a day makes the journalist’s day, eh?”
“Yeah,” Willard agreed. “But Muller’s burnt off some good runners today.”
Flanagan drew on his cigar.
“Perhaps that’s what he’s there for,” he said darkly.
Five hundred bucks or three hundred? It took Morgan only a moment to decide. He stretched out after Muller, dragging Martinez and Thurleigh with him. The leading four were soon locked together, all beginning to breathe heavily, a sign that intake no longer matched demand.
Morgan had been in this condition before, two years ago, in the Tuscarora mountains. It was no harder now, for this was flat land, but there was another twenty-mile stage ahead, and over three thousand miles ahead of that. Perhaps he had taken the wrong decision; perhaps. But he had committed himself; there was no going back.
Beside him, on his right, Martinez ran like a wilful child, his breathing clean and fast, his white, shining teeth bared. Thurleigh pushed back a lock of hair and pressed on, ignoring the runners to either side.
“Five miles to go,” roared Willard from the loudspeaker atop the Trans-America bus, a couple of hundred yards ahead of the leaders.
Muller, sweating profusely, spurted again. Morgan followed with Martinez, but this time Peter Thurleigh hung back.
Morgan’s breathing was coming hard and it was a comfort to him that he could hear both Muller and Martinez breathing in the same rhythm. He did not stop at the final water-point. Nor did the others. Five hundred bucks. Five miles to go.
Doc had left the Americans at ten miles and, eight miles from the finish, had moved steadily through to sixteenth position. A mile later he was joined by McPhail and together they picked up the debris of Muller’s first rush, broken runners who had dropped to a shambling trot or even a walk. Doc was running at just under seven miles an hour. He and McPhail could see Muller and the others about a mile up, and in front of them the buses. A mile was over nine minutes, thought Doc, wiping his wrist-handkerchief across his brow. He would prefer to be closer at the finish, if it was not too much effort.
Almost two miles behind Doc and McPhail, Kate Sheridan had passed the ten-mile mark. She was still with Fox. They passed the fifteen-mile mark at comfortably inside three hours, but then Fox started slowly to move away. Kate realized it was not that the old man was accelerating but that she was beginning to slow up. She felt her legs becoming steadily heavier, her hips begin to sink. She was also on her own now, in a limbo between groups. Five miles to go; to be safe, she would have to run them inside sixty-five minutes . . .
Half a mile to go. The three leaders could see Flanagan’s stage camp in the bright desert sun, set out on the hilly scrub beside the road. They ran almost in line, with Muller’s brown shoulders only slightly ahead, the trio held in a strange, fragile balance. Then Morgan made his decision and broke the spell that bound them. He pressed ahead. Neither Martinez nor Muller responded. He was clear! A hundred yards later he heard Muller’s tortured breathing again at his right side. As the German pulled level with him he felt a momentary wave of despair. They ran clamped together, their breath rasping in their throats, every fibre at its limit, oblivious to the shouts of the waiting crowd and the tooting of the cars and buses at the lonely desert finish. But all either of them could hear was the scraping of their breath in the tunnels of their lungs. They ran low, legs bent and buckling, barely able to support their body weight.
Five hundred bucks. Five hundred bucks . . . Morgan felt as if his lungs had taken over his whole body. He was simply one heaving lung, sucking oxygen in great desperate gulps. Five hundred bucks, a hundred yards to go . . . He squeezed his body for one last effort, but it was not there. He could go no faster. Then, as Morgan felt himself wither and fade, the menacing brown shoulder on his left side disappeared, as Muller gave a deep sob and dropped back. Morgan passed the Trans-America bus a good ten yards up.
Half a mile behind, Doc and McPhail picked up a broken, exhausted Martinez, who summoned a tired smile, the sweat dripping from his face.
He pointed his finger to the side of his head as they passed.
“They mad,” he said. “They mad.”
Flanagan had erected only six main tents for this intermediate camp, five as rest tents, in which a supply of blankets had been placed, upon which the runners could lie for four hours. The other was the medical tent, within which Dr Falconer and his staff dealt with a diminishing number of casualties.
Doc watched the first hundred-odd finishers, noting each man’s condition. The race was already hardening up, with a solid core of experienced distance runners dominating the first three hundred places. The All-Americans and the German team looked solid and well-organized and Eskola looked strong, as did the Frenchmen Dasriaux and Bouin. Doc was surprised how relaxed Thurleigh looked, despite his following Muller’s mad rush. The Englishman had trotted in a couple of minutes behind Martinez, looking as if he had been out for little more than a stroll along the Thames.
The runners continued to stream past the finish towards the Maxwell House Coffee Pot, just one hundred yards beyond. After a while Doc walked down from the road to the camp area and entered the first rest tent. Martinez, Morgan and McPhail stood together, bodies streaming sweat, unrolling their blankets.
“Why?” said Doc, hands on hips. “Why?”
All three men knew what Doc was talking about.
Morgan held up five fingers, the sweat streaming down his face and neck. “Five hundred bucks, that’s why.”
Martinez sat peeling off his shoes. He shook his head. “Five hundred is a lot of money where I come from. We plant new crop with five hundred.”
Doc looked down at Morgan, who had pulled his vest over his shoulders.
“You need it that much?”
“Yes.”
Doc shrugged. “You know your business best,” he said, finding a space on the floor to the right of Martinez. “But there’s one helluva long way still to run. A few more sprints like that could bust your balls.”
For the first time Morgan’s face cracked into a smile.
“What the hell do you care, Doc? We’re competing, ain’t we?”
Doc returned his smile. “Yes and no,” he said. “I’ve been racing for about thirty-odd years now. Most races you see your men before the start of your race, then it’s goodbye, Charlie, till next time. Sure, you get to know the guys you race against – you become friends – but this caper’s a whole new world. Here what you’re up against isn’t each other, it’s the desert, the hills, the cold, the wind, the sun, the snow. We’re all up against them, kinda like a team. Even those Krauts, those crazy Chinamen, the whole nutty League of Nations out there. By the end of the next leg we’ll have sorted out the jokers and we’ll be down to the real runners. And every time one of those guys drops out you’ll suffer a little. You can bank on it.”
Morgan thought back to his own past. He knew what Doc meant. In the line at Bethel he had seen his friends fall around him; in the first fights he had felt pain every time he knocked down his man. Pain inside.
Hugh moved round and sat on Doc’s left, so that the four men now formed a tight semi-circle.
“Why do you think Muller hit it so hard?”
Doc shook his head and slowly unlaced his shoes. “I can’t figure it out. He musta gone through the first eight miles in close on an hour. Crazy.”
He dropped on to his back. “Still, no point in letting it bother us. Four hours. That means four hours’ shut-eye.”
He unrolled his blanket and laid it on the floor. Then he took two rolled-up blankets, placed both at the bottom of his “bed”, and put his feet on top of the bottom roll.
“The circulation,” he explained. “Having my feet above my head means that the waste can get pumped back to the heart easier. Try it.”
He leant back on to his mat and within minutes was snoring loudly.
“You the only girl left?” asked Dixie. She was standing with Kate Sheridan outside her caravan on the edge of the camp.
“No girls passed me,” said Kate, “but I think we got about ten left. Say, they only seem to have a tent for the men. Could I use your caravan to clean up?”
“Sure,” said Dixie. “We’ve got showers. You want one?”
Kate nodded gratefully, peeled off her running shoes and climbed up the caravan steps.
“Three of us sleep here,” said Dixie, following her. “Myself, and Mr Flanagan and Mr Willard’s secretaries; but I don’t see much of them. They seem to spend most of their time at the Trans-America bus.”
Kate nodded. “With Flanagan? That figures.” She pointed to the end of the caravan. “That’s the shower over there?”
Dixie nodded and opened a cupboard behind her to take out a rough white towel. The caravan was sparsely furnished: three beds, a chair, a simple stove, a shower and sink.
Kate quickly peeled off her vest and brassiere, and walked over to the crude, makeshift shower. She unbuttoned her shorts and slid off the dark silk briefs below them.
Dixie had never seen an adult woman naked before, and she had never imagined that anyone would ever strip off with such impunity. But there Kate stood, legs, face and shoulders brown with the California sun, and the fluffy pubic “V” which Dixie could scarcely bear to look at.
Kate sensed her embarrassment.
“When you’ve been in a burlesque a few years you’ve seen one helluva lot of naked women. No place for modesty there.”
The shower was a rough, improvised affair, little more than a punctured bucket served by tepid, brackish desert water, which was released by pulling a chain.
Kate stepped into the shower and let the dark, lukewarm water flow over her. The Trans-America was skimming every ounce of surplus flesh from her. Even as a dancer her body had been hard, but this was a new and different hardness. Her thighs had become lean and rock-like, her stomach flat, her shoulders muscular and firm. But the real hardness was inside. There she was beginning to feel the growth of a powerful engine: a heart and lungs capable of pumping out enough oxygen for fifty miles a day was beginning to develop. She hoped it would develop in time.
Kate had never realized that there were men like this, hundreds of men who could run at nearly seven miles an hour, seemingly for ever. At least there was a rest day after the “cut” which would give her time to recover.
Even as the water flowed over her and she massaged her thighs with soap, Kate felt tired. Doc had given her good advice, but the first twenty miles had been hard and the next twenty would be even harder. She had run the first stage in fifteen minutes inside four hours; that gave her fifteen minutes’ grace for the next twenty miles, in order to beat the cut. But she was now running with tired, heavy legs, and beginning to realize, too, the enormity of the task which would face her over the next three months.
“Everything all right?” shouted Dixie above the hiss and splatter of the shower.
“Great,” said Kate, stepping out of the shower to pick up the towel which Dixie had laid out for her.
Dixie ventured a closer look. She had always thought of women athletes as masculine creatures, akin to the big-buttocked “hockey hags” she had seen play in college matches. True, Kate Sheridan’s body lacked the softness of her own, but she was just as much a woman. Her femininity simply expressed itself in vibrant, glowing athleticism.
“How do you feel?” asked Dixie.
“I’d feel a lot better if I didn’t have another twenty miles ahead of me,” said Kate, towelling her black hair. “Jesus, my legs are stiff.” She kneaded her calves.
“D’you . . . d’you want me to rub them?” asked Dixie nervously.
“Would you? I don’t want to ask any of those guys – they might get the wrong idea!”
Dixie laughed. “How do I do it?”
“I’ve been watching those fellas. They always push upwards, towards the heart.”
Kate pulled on her pants and stretched herself out slowly and painfully on the divan.
Dixie started on Kate’s right calf, gently pressing upwards towards the back of the knee. She had expected to find Kate’s muscles hard, and was surprised to find them soft, even flabby to the touch.
She was, in fact, finding that high-quality muscle is loose and supple when relaxed; it is untrained muscle that is stiff and rigid.
Kate groaned, her arms dangling over the side of the divan.
“Am I hurting you?” asked Dixie.
Kate raised her head. “Hell, no. Just that they’re so stiff. Don’t be afraid to press hard.”
When Dixie had finished on her calves Kate sat up and pointed to her thighs. “I’ve watched those guys working on each other. They roll the muscles around from side to side, with the knees bent. Then they work on the backs, the hamstrings, and finish off on the front of the thighs, with the legs straight.”
Dixie turned to Kate’s thighs, using both hands. The muscles moved through about forty-five degrees, then recoiled, the muscles at the front of the thighs flickering subtly beneath the girl’s smooth, hairless skin. Then Dixie turned them in the other direction and watched the muscles flutter back into position.
As she pressed upwards on the thick muscles at the back of Kate’s thighs she could feel tension in the bulging belly of the hamstrings.
“Ow!” yelped Kate.
Then to the front of Kate’s thighs, working with both hands, pressing upwards towards the inside of her groin. Again she could both feel and see the muscles flowing beneath her hands. She could also feel herself begin to flush and glow as her hands moved into areas which she had never explored, even in her own body.
“Thanks a million,” said Kate, sitting up. “Now maybe these legs’ll carry me twenty miles to get inside the cut.”
“What time do you have to reach?” asked Dixie.
“Got to go for about four hours five minutes, just for safety,” said Kate, pulling her vest over her head. “That would give me a total of seven hours fifty minutes and qualify me for the next stage into the Mojave.”
“Do you think you can do it?”
“A year ago I couldn’t make it round the block. Sure I can do it. There’s thousands of girls out there could do it if they just got off their butts and tried. But forget about me. Are you Flanagan’s girl?”
“No,” said Dixie, blushing.
“I’ve seen the way he looks at you. I know that look. He giving you trouble?”
“No,” she said awkwardly.
“Just you let me know if he does. I’ve met plenty of guys like him.”
“Leave me to deal with Mr Flanagan – you’ve got over a thousand men to cope with.” Dixie was surprised to hear the words rush from her mouth, and she blushed again.
Kate smiled and draped Dixie’s towel across a chair. “I don’t see that as much of a problem,” she said. “Fifty miles a day would kill off any Valentino.”
Kate ruffled her hands through her still-damp black hair and walked towards the caravan door.
“No,” she said. “A couple of thousand men are no sweat. Three thousand miles . . .” She sighed, shook her head and opened the door.
“Do you think you can do it?” asked Dixie.
“I’ve got to,” said Kate, looking out into the desert. “Nowhere else to go.”
She turned to Dixie and smiled.
“Anyhow, can you think of anything better to do?”
Dixie sat at the door of the caravan, looking out over the baked scrubland, and watched as the other girl made her way back to camp. Kate seemed so sure, so confident, so hard. Yet it was not the same as her own hardness. Kate’s was the hardness of cynicism, hers of fear and doubt. Perhaps they could help each other over the long miles between here and New York; though she could not see what she herself could offer.