15
Denver: A Thousand Miles On

Doc Cole’s rescue of Claus Muller in the Rockies made headlines throughout the United States, was briefly reported on in the sports pages of the London Times, and Flanagan even secured a further mention, albeit an unfavourable one, from Dr Goebbels in Der Angriff. The incident turned a slow, snowbound stage through the Rockies into a front-page story, while in the daily reports on the sports pages column inches grew immediately. Newspapers which had, up till then, merely taken agency reports of the race at once despatched journalists to Colorado to catch up with the Trans-America. The press corps had soon swelled to over three hundred and Flanagan had hurriedly to commission another press bus.

The crowd surging and jostling through the lushly-carpeted halls of the Cow Palace, Denver, towards Flanagan’s “Thousand Mile” press conference, was composed of athletes, journalists, coaches, team managers, politicians and showbusiness celebrities – anyone, indeed, who felt he could profit from the Trans-America’s growing fame.

Flanagan himself sat on an improvised dais, flanked by Willard, Dixie and Falconer, and the leading runners, whilst in the audience their coaches and managers sat amongst the press, which included a sprinkling of local journalists from Colorado and Nebraska.

Flanagan was still playing his part in style. Every one of the three hundred and twenty journalists had been provided with an initialled leather briefcase, and inside each case was a Trans-America fountain-pen. The conference room, which frequently housed Republican caucuses, was lushly furnished: red velvet curtains, black leather chairs, Persian carpets. If the Trans-America was in financial difficulties, there was no sign of it in the hospitality that Flanagan was providing.

Willard banged hard three times with a gavel, and the buzz of conversation slowly died. The conference was under way.

The first journalist to get to his feet was Carl Liebnitz. Liebnitz had become, by general assent, the press’s unofficial spokesman, and they looked to him to lead the way.

“First, a general question. How do you see the race so far?”

Flanagan stood up, smiling. “Well, Carl, in return I’ll give you a general answer. For the past year or so, ever since I first announced the Trans-America race, every smart-ass in the track and field world has been telling me it couldn’t be done. First, they told me that I would never get two thousand of the world’s best runners to pick up traces and travel all the way to California to run. Well, I got ’em. Then they told me that no one would sponsor the race: I got the Trans-America Bank to put up two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. They said next that we would never get the runners across the Mojave Desert. We got over a thousand across, even though they did get stopped for a while by a million gallons of desert rain. Now look at us, over a thousand miles east, with half my runners still in the ball game. Carl, you ask me how do I see the race so far? I’d say we’ve done a pretty good job.”

Liebnitz took off his glasses and began to polish them. “Thank you. I’d next like to ask Dr Falconer a question. What have been your main medical problems?”

Maurice Falconer rose and pushed back his hair.

“The main problems,” he said, “came in the early few days after Los Angeles when we had the first shake-out of the really unfit. These were men and women who should never have been in the race to start with. They were shipped back to Los Angeles before they could get into the Mojave and come to any real harm.”

“Is it true that Flanagan paid out twenty thousand dollars in medical bills?” continued Liebnitz.

Falconer turned to look at Flanagan, who nodded.

“The exact figure was twenty-one thousand two hundred and fifty-one, mainly for sprains, blisters, stress-fractures and heat exhaustion,” said Falconer, consulting a small notebook in front of him.

“You’re telling me that there have been no heart attacks?” pursued Liebnitz.

Falconer smiled and also removed his glasses, lightly rubbing the bridge of his nose as he did so.

“I am,” he said. “Mr Liebnitz, I’m afraid that even the medical profession doesn’t have much idea of what the human heart can handle.” He rapped the table in front of him. “The heart is tough,” he said. “And immensely adaptable. Even in the past month men who started out with normal resting pulse-rates of sixty-eight beats per minute have come down to close on fifty. Gentlemen, I have seen, in the past month, soft, flabby men of a hundred and sixty pounds change to lean, fit animals of a hundred and forty pounds, capable of running over mountain and desert at over six miles an hour for six hours a day.”

“Are you saying that the medical profession should be learning something from what’s happening out here?” pursued Liebnitz.

“I sure as hell am, Carl, if the ladies here will forgive the phrase,” said Falconer. “Our Trans-Americans are showing what Americans were like back in the old frontier days – what men could be again if they regularly pushed their bodies hard. Remember, gentlemen, that the human body is above all a running body. That’s what it was intended for, not for sitting behind the wheel of a Buick, or smoking a pack of cigarettes. These men are an example of what we can be at our best.”

Liebnitz nodded and scribbled on his pad before sitting down again.

“Could you be just a bit more specific about the main injuries, Doctor?” asked Frank Pollard, the old hand from the St Louis Star.

Falconer picked up a sheet of paper at his side.

“Thirty-five per cent are foot-blisters. Twenty-five per cent are Achilles’ tendon injuries. Thirty per cent are cramps, sprains and muscle-strains. Ten per cent were such ailments as sunburn, stomach complaints, and the like.”

“No heart-strains at all? You can be categoric?”

“No. As I think I indicated before, to damage these men’s hearts you’d have to extract them and beat them with a club.”

“What about the German, Claus Muller?” asked Pollard, his pencil pointed towards Falconer.

The physician flushed and looked down at the German team manager, Moltke, whose face also coloured. The German official showed no other signs of even having heard the question. “Herr Muller,” Falconer said slowly, “is now in the Denver City Hospital, and at the last report was responding excellently to treatment. Furthermore, it is not my view that he suffered a conventional heart attack.”

“But his heart did stop beating?” said Pollard.

“I believe so,” said Falconer. “But it is also my belief that there may have been other contributory factors which the Denver medical staff are now checking out. Next question, please.” To his relief, there was no further follow-up.

“Kowalski, Philadelphia Globe. How many men will make New York, do you reckon?”

Falconer replaced his notes on the table in front of him. “It’s difficult to say,” he said. “A month ago, before we set out, I wouldn’t have put the figure at much more than a couple of hundred. Now I think that well over six hundred will make it.”

“What about Miss Sheridan?”

Falconer motioned to his left. “Miss Sheridan is here on the platform,” he said. “Why not address your question to her?”

Kate Sheridan stood up and looked down nervously at Mike Morgan, who was sitting beside her on her left. She was dressed in neat blue running kit, and a number of the reporters stood up to get a better view of her. Some of the Colorado and Nebraska reporters, who had not seen her before, whistled.

“How many miles have we covered so far, Mr Flanagan?” she asked.

Willard answered for Flanagan. “One thousand and twenty.”

“Well, up till the date we started, I had covered only five hundred miles in my whole life,” said Kate.

“And how long would that be?” shouted a young reporter from the back of the hall.

“Gentlemen, that would be telling,” said Kate, her eyes flashing. There was laughter as she continued. “So if someone had told me then that I would be in Denver a month later, with a thousand miles of running under my belt and about one thousand men in pieces behind me, I would have said they were nuts. But I made it here and a thousand miles from now I aim to be with you at Mr Flanagan’s next press conference.”

“Have the male competitors been helpful to you?” asked a female journalist.

Kate nodded. “Without Doc Cole, Charles Fox and Mike Morgan I wouldn’t be here. Doc told me how to run, what to wear, who to run with. Charles Fox dragged me through the first days in the Mojave, before he had to give up in the Rockies. Mike Morgan – well, he bopped me back in the Mojave.”

“You say that Morgan struck you?”

Kate smiled. “Only in the cause of sport. I was lying in a ditch, feeling sorry for myself. Mike came back, knocked some sense into me and paced me in to the finish. Yes, you can say that the male competitors have helped me a lot.”

“Glenda Farrell, Woman’s Home journal.” A severe, angular lady, her greying hair set in a tight bun, stood up. “I would like to ask: have you experienced any . . . social problems?”

Kate smiled. “I think you really have another word in mind, Miss Farrell. No, when a guy has run fifty miles he doesn’t have much energy left for romance.”

Glenda Farrell’s lips tightened, but she managed a bleak smile. “You misunderstood me, Miss Sheridan. I was thinking of – specifically female problems.” She sat down, blushing.

Kate shook her head. “No, ma’am,” she said. “When you’ve got fifty miles a day to get under your feet female problems are something you’ve got to live with. One thing I’ve learnt in this race – there are pains that stop you and pains you can run with. What you call ‘female problems’, Miss Farrell, come into the second category.”

Glenda Farrell again smiled thinly and took to her feet once more. The other journalists settled in their chairs, expectant.

“Millions of women all over the world are anxious for you to win the ten thousand dollars offered by my magazine if you can finish in the first two hundred places. You’ve become, Miss Sheridan, something of a symbol for women the world over. How does that make you feel?”

“It makes me feel great,” said Kate quietly. “A couple of months ago I was just a dancer no one had ever heard of. Now you tell me that women all over the world are following my every step. You should read some of the letters they send me! If what I’m doing helps girls to get out from under and tackle sports – not only sports, but the other things that women have been kept out of – then it’ll have served some purpose, whether I win the money or not.”

“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 less 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 leave 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.”

“I reckon well over five thousand,” said Liebnitz quietly.

“From the runners’ point of view, all we need is food and shelter,” said Doc. “That, and to be pointed in the right direction every day. So far Flanagan’s delivered. The moment that stops, so do we.”

Liebnitz nodded. “Keep this information between us for the moment, Doc. My sources indicate that pressure to stop the Trans-America is coming right from the top.”

“Just how high is ‘the top’?”

“Certainly state level, maybe even higher. If you want to know the truth, check it out with the gambling boys. They’re already giving two to one against the Trans-America making it to Chicago, four to one against it making New York. Those boys don’t lay odds like that without solid information.”

“Well,” said Doc, frowning. “That’s real bad news. But there isn’t much we can do about it. We just keep running.”

“One other thing, Doc,” said Liebnitz. “I trust that you won’t take this personally, but what was a smart guy like you doing selling milk-shakes for five bucks a week at a soda fountain?”

Doc blinked. “No offence taken,” he said. “But I really can’t answer that question.” He chuckled. “I don’t know, perhaps I grew up too late. By the time I woke up, the carnival was over and everyone had settled down in comfortable jobs. I suppose that’s why the Trans-America is so important to me. lt’s what you might call a second chance – another bite at the cherry. That’s why the Trans-America’s got to stay on its feet.”

“A three-thousand-mile cherry,” said Liebnitz. “That’s one helluva piece of fruit.”

Doc smiled. “Carl, perhaps I like life better as a dream – the down-payments are lower.” His smiled faded. “Seriously, running’s what I do best, and the Trans-America’s my last chance.”

“But do you think you can do it?” asked Liebnitz sharply. “Don’t you ever think you might be too old?”

“Off the record?” said Doc.

Liebnitz nodded, and put his pencil away in his top pocket. The two men walked to a corner of the conference room and sat down.

“The toughest thing for an athlete,” said Doc, “is competing in life when there’s no more clapping. That happened to me in 1913, when the pro marathon boom went bust.”

Liebnitz nodded.

“But I kept running – God knows why. I must be psychic, because up comes Flanagan last year with his Trans-America race. And do you know my first feeling?”

Leibnitz shook his head.

“Fear. Know why? Carl, if you took an X-ray of my skeleton it would look like a junk yard. Years of running, years of injury. The only thing I haven’t broken is my concentration.”

He bent and unbent his right knee. “Listen to that,” he said. “Sounds as if it’s full of gravel.”

Doc sat back in his chair.

“You asked me if I think I can win it,” he said. “Does a fish shit in the sea? Of course I can win it.”

“Thanks, Doc,” said Liebnitz. “A pity I can’t use any of this.”

 

In another corner of the room Ernest Bullard had engaged Hugh.

“Glasgow, Scotland,” he said. “You’ve come a long way, Mr McPhail. Do you miss it?”

“I miss my parents. I miss my friends,” said Hugh. “But it was like living in a rotten tooth in Glasgow. Here everything’s clean and bright. Fifty miles a day, three good meals. When you’ve been on the Broo for two years – man, that’s paradise.”

“The Broo?” queried Bullard.

“The unemployment bureau,” explained Hugh. “Every Thursday I lined up with a thousand others to pick up my money. Then it was down to the park, the pub or the library.”

“Not much of a life,” said Bullard.

“No,” said Hugh. “Not much of a life.”

Bullard thanked him and scribbled a single hyphenated word at the bottom of his notes. It read: ‘non-political’.

Hugh stood alone in the noisy, crowded room, his eyes idly scanning the milling throng around him.

For a moment he could not believe his eyes. He walked forward a couple of paces and looked again. But there was no doubt who it was. There, at the entrance to the room, dressed in an outrageous white tropical suit, sunglasses, a straw boater and white patent leather shoes stood Stevie McFarlane.

“Over here!” Hugh shouted.

The little Scot recognized Hugh and immediately pushed his way through the crowds to him, losing his straw boater on the way. The two men hugged each other excitedly.

“Easy on the suit,” said Stevie, brushing off imaginary dust. “This put me back all of five pounds, courtesy of the Glasgow Citizen.”

Hugh stood back and gazed at his friend in mock admiration.

“Stevie McFarlane, ace reporter,” he said.

“None other,” said Stevie. “The Glasgow Times started sending back reports of the Trans-America race and people in Glasgow had only got one paper to find out how McPhail the Flying Scot was getting on . . . So next thing the Glasgow Citizen send me and a reporter called McLeod out here, post haste.”

“And where’s McLeod now?” asked Hugh.

“Propping up a bar in town somewhere,” replied Stevie. “The poor fella nearly lost his mind when they confiscated all his whiskey as he got off the ship at New York.”

 

At the same time as the two Scotsmen were talking to each other a Western Union messenger was making his way over to Carl Liebnitz, finally handing him a slip of paper. Liebnitz scanned the telegram and walked over to Flanagan at the dais, threading his way through the mass of journalists and athletes.

“Just received this from Reuters, Flanagan. Topeka, Bloomington and Peoria have formally withdrawn their financial support for the race.” He handed over the telegram. “Have you any immediate comment?”

Flanagan glanced at the telegram then looked up at Liebnitz. “Only a strictly off-the-record one, Carl, so don’t mention this, even to your mirror. This whole thing is beginning to look like a fix.” He walked away, screwing the telegram into a ball as he did so.

Liebnitz smiled wryly. Two good stories, both “off the record”. Still, the thousand-mile conference had given him plenty to write about.

 

AMERICANA DATELINE 20 APRIL 1931

Despite claims to the contrary Charles C. Flanagan is alive and well and somewhere on the dusty road to Salina, Kansas.

The race is in a strange position. On the one hand, all indications are that it has now captured the attention of America, even the world. Despite this its catering company, De Luxe, may withdraw its services within a matter of days, and such cities as Hays, Salina, Junction City and Topeka have already announced their withdrawal from the race-schedule.

If, as Napoleon said, an army marches on its stomach, certainly Flanagan’s army does, and any stoppage of its food supplies will bring the Trans-America to an abrupt halt somewhere around Hays, Kansas.

The financing of Flanagan’s Trans-America is unclear. His prize monies, guaranteed by the Trans-America Bank, are secure; but, by most informed reckoning, the Trans-America requires some $5,000 to $6,000 a day simply to stay on its feet. By now, what with the refusal of such towns as Las Vegas and Grand Junction to pay their “appropriations”, massive hospital bills in the early California days, equipment repairs in Burlington and mounting legal costs, Mr Flanagan must be deeply in the red.

As a journalist it is my task to report rather than serve as advocate. I must say, however, that it would be a tragedy if the Trans-America were to wither away somewhere in the green cornfields of central Kansas. These men, the cream of the world’s long-distance athletes, have gambled not only on Charles Flanagan but on themselves, on their capacity to grind out fifty miles a day, day in, day out. The Trans-America athletes represent human beings trembling on the tight-rope of the ultimate – both in their physical and mental potential. As such they represent the human race at its best, and it is my hope that the towns and cities spread ahead of us on the way to New York will stand firmly by their obligations. It is not too much to say that they owe it, not simply to Mr Flanagan, but to themselves and to all of us.

CARL C. LIEBNITZ