10

Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,
And snatch a fearful joy.

—THOMAS GRAY, "Ode on a Distant
Prospect of Eton College" (1742)

IN THE SMALL COMMUNITY of Melbourne's athletes, news of the latest exploits by international milers was traded like good gossip. The local papers carried only the sparest of reports, so those few who subscribed to magazines like Track and Field News and the Athletic Review were sought-after purveyors of information. Les Perry was one of those who shared his magazines with his friends, including Landy. Occasionally the two would get together for a lunch of meat pies at a restaurant overlooking the railway station near the Water Board, where Perry worked as a clerical officer. Perry, having already devoured the issues, would give them to Landy to read. It was understood that they would be passed around to Geoff Warren and others. Somehow the dog-eared copies eventually found their way back to Perry.

The recent headlines were startling: "Oh, That Compton Meet!" and "Bannister Runs 4:03.6!" topped the most recent issues. The write-ups told of how Bannister and Santee were nearing Haegg's record and setting their sights on the four-minute mile itself. Landy had to wait out their seasons, despite receiving invitations to compete in the United

States and England. Their summer was his winter, and he was in the middle of his studies. This was a great disappointment to track promoters, who were conspiring to bring these three milers together. The closest Landy came to being on the track with them was when he saw a brief segment of a race in the United States or England among the hourlong mix of cartoons, newsreels, and short movies shown at one of the theaterettes around town. Geoff Warren, with whom he had roomed in Portsea, had an inside connection with one of the theater owners and was alerted whenever there was a new clip of athletics, but they were always a couple of months behind. Although eager to see or hear news of Bannister's and Santee's runs, Landy felt that their progress was almost inconsequential: he had his own course to follow, and he wouldn't let himself be rushed by others. The pursuit of the mile record was about proving how good he was, not about being the one to cross the four-minute threshold first. He was running for himself, not for national honor.

At the end of his 1953 season Landy had made it clear that he wouldn't be taking much of a rest. "It won't be any good my dropping training until next spring, if I want to run fast miles [next] December and after," he told reporter Joseph Galli. "My idea is to carry through this heavy training program right through the winter." The details of his program were listed on a sheet of paper tacked to his wardrobe door. His theory of training was a rather simple adaptation of the previous year: he planned on working one and a half times harder. To see that he did, he marked down each session. The listings from the previous three months read like a diary of torture.

Between March 18 and May 24 he ran over three hundred miles, primarily endurance runs on roads leading out of Melbourne. The previous year he had not timed his runs, but this year he did, so that the effort he expended in each session was more stringently defined. On May 25, 27, and 30 he ran seven miles in forty minutes, followed by half an hour of weightlifting to strengthen his upper body; on June 1 he ran six miles in five minutes for each mile, three miles in sixteen minutes, and finished with thirty minutes of weightlifting; on June 3 he alternated 880 yards of "fast striding" with 880 yards of jogging for a total of eight miles. He spent so much time training in Central Park that he joked that he knew every magpie in the surrounding trees, particularly the ones that "bombed" him.

Instead of listening to Cerutty's thoughts on what it took to run a 3:53 mile, which his former coach was propagating widely in the athletics press—including advice on how to run " OVER THE GROUND" and when to abandon racing conditioning to "go to the hills, the sand track or the bog lands and do steady running up to 10 miles every day"—Landy felt convinced that a more intense regime would produce better times than before, regardless of the slow tracks and lack of competition in Australia.

In late June 1953, with frost on the ground, as well as the leaves of the transplanted oak and elm trees, he stuck to this approach, not giving in to the urge to take a rest and put off his training. On his long runs along the Dandenong Road, which is the start of the coastal road that links Melbourne to Sydney, he listened to the sound of his footfalls, sinking into a near-trance from their rhythm. He knew that come his first race in December, when the nervous energy had expired after the first lap and the momentum from that first lap had carried him only as far as the half-mile point, he would need the conditioning from these training runs to sustain his speed to the very end. To run a record time, every mile of the seven he ran that day, and the day after, and the day after that, was necessary.

Although his studies and training limited his social life to time spent mostly with his family, at home or at their South Gippsland property on weekends, planting trees or walking around the farm, he didn't see his running as a sacrifice. He liked the discipline it required. He liked the feeling of his body learning to tolerate ever-increasing levels of stress. And he was comfortable being alone to test how far he could push himself.

In the third week of that same June, Australian miler Don Macmillan was studying quietly in his London student hostel when someone down the hall shouted, "Hey, Don, you're wanted on the phone." It was surprising for him to get a call, so he hurried downstairs. After Helsinki, Macmillan had decided to attend a teachers' college in Britain for a year while continuing to run competitively. He would have preferred to be in Australia, racing against his good friend Landy, each pushing the other to faster times, as Haegg and Andersson had done.

He picked up the phone quizzically.

"Roger here. Roger Bannister."

It took Macmillan a moment to register that it was really Bannister on the other end. "G'day, Roger."

"Jolly good news about the climbing of Everest, isn't it?"

Strange that he would be calling to talk about the news. "Yeah, it is, isn't it?"

"Great Empire effort," Bannister continued.

"I suppose it was." Macmillan couldn't understand why Bannister had phoned him. They hadn't spoken in a while. "Marvelous," he finally added.

"Did you enjoy the Coronation?"

"Oh, yes."

"How are you running?"

"Not too good at the moment. I have a sore leg. How are you?"

"I'm going very well. What do you think about Wes Santee?" Bannister asked.

News of the American's Compton Invitational win and his proximity to the mile barrier would have been hard to miss. The British papers covered the event as well as Santee's announcement that he would make another attempt on June 27. Gundar Haegg had even written the young Kansan, urging him on in a widely publicized letter: "I think you can be the first man under four minutes, but you must hurry on." Bannister was cited as the reason to hurry.

"Do you think he could do it?" Macmillan asked.

"I think he might be able to, but I want to beat him to it." There was a pause. "Would you be prepared to help me?"

"I'll do what I can, but I'm not very fit."

"The idea is, we go down to Motspur Park on Saturday morning [June 27]. Wes is running on the same day." Bannister explained that he could beat Santee to the punch because of the six-hour time difference. It had to be that weekend, though. Norris McWhirter had convinced the director of a schoolboys' meet (the Surrey Schools AAA Championships) to include a special invitation mile in their schedule. "I'd like you to run as far as you can at sixty seconds a lap. Chris Brasher will be there, and he will drop back and time it so when we're starting the last lap Chris will have been jogging around and he'll be a lap behind us. He'll then be fit to take me around the last lap."

"All right, I'll do my best. I'll go as far as I can," Macmillan said. If he could not push Landy to a four-minute mile, it was better to have Bannister, an Empire man, run it than an American, he thought.

"On Saturday morning you'll be picked up in a black car by one of the McWhirter brothers." Bannister's tone indicated that this was to be kept quiet. "He'll meet you at the corner of Tottenham Court Road and take you to Motspur Park."

Macmillan agreed, and they exchanged good-byes. Bannister had his hare.

Since the 4:03.6 mile highlighting Bannister's potential as the first four-minute miler, the pressure to do so had intensified. Obviously he was in good form. He had performed well in a series of races during the early summer, and as a result the press hounded him at every turn, asking whether this day would be the day. "It's becoming quite a tyranny," he chided a reporter. On May 23 at White City Stadium he had run a slow race, and a group of fans booed and harassed him for not breaking the barrier, though he easily beat the rest of the field. The next day the newspapers had Bannister "disappointing a big crowd" and "scarcely fulfilling the expectations of the 20,000 people present." When he then ran a record-breaking 1:51.9 half-mile on May 30, through a blustery wind, he barely warranted mention in the papers. The British public wanted another big achievement—four-minute-mile big—to match the recent conquest of Everest and the coronation of Queen Elizabeth. Anything less wasn't enough.

"We know the race might not be the way you would wish, but I can organize it," Norris McWhirter had told him in mid-June after a training session at the Paddington track when the McWhirter twins began putting together the Motspur Park race. The clandestine nature and overt pacing of the race were not optimal. Plus, Bannister had torn his left thigh muscle in a quarter-mile race the same day Santee ran his 4:02.4 at Compton. For a few days afterward Bannister felt like he had been kicked by a horse in the back of his leg, and he was still not confident that it could take the punishment of a fast mile attempt. Nonetheless, Norris urged him onward. "Santee's going to do it....And you simply wouldn't want to let him do it."

Bannister was as swept up as anyone by the exuberance his country was experiencing. Throughout May the country could talk of little else besides the details of Queen Elizabeth's ceremony in Westminster Abbey and the progress of the British expedition on Everest. Himalayan weather reports and procession routes were pored over. On June 2, Coronation Day, he and his fellow Britons were swelled with a pride they hadn't felt in almost a decade. The celebrations reminded the world of Britain's reputation for grandeur and greatness. That day news reached London that a member of the British expedition team, Edmund Hillary, along with Sherpa Tenzing Norgay, had reached the summit of Everest, the rooftop of the world. The Times said the achievement matched Sir Francis Drake's circumnavigating the globe in terms of historical greatness. Historian Richard Holt explained the significance: "It was the manner of this triumph as much as anything else that pleased the British. There was a charming amateurism and eccentricity about the expedition. Umbrellas had been carried up to 13,000 feet. [Colonel] John Hunt played the part of the cultured, competent, phlegmatic Englishman reading the Oxford Book of Greek Verse while organizing supplies and technical support with a minimum of fuss. There was still hope for Britain." Editorial writers and historians aside, the feeling that overwhelmed the country on June 2 was best summed up by an English father telling his son that day, "The British are the best in the world. We are the only ones who could have done it."

Bannister had closely followed the Everest expedition both in the papers and on the radio. He knew several of its members from his physiology experiments, and he had even compared his progress with the mile that summer as being at "Camp Six." With Santee fast approaching the record, it was critical for Bannister to get there first and to claim the same honor that Hillary had when staking the Union Jack on the world's tallest peak. Compared to Landy, Bannister had a greater appreciation of the historical significance of being the first to run under four minutes, and he was not going to let anything stop him.

By the morning of June 27 everything was organized for the attempt. From London, Norris McWhirter drove Bannister, Macmillan, and steeplechaser Chris Brasher, an Achilles Club member who had recently started training under the Austrian coach Franz Stampfl, to Motspur Park. Brasher was not a particularly fast mile runner, but he wouldn't have to be, given their pacemaking arrangements. Chris Chataway could not participate because he was studying for his Oxford finals in politics. They arrived at 1:15 P.M., half an hour before the race was to start. The two official timekeepers whom the McWhirter twins had arranged were on hand to validate the time—if it was record fast. Norris himself would serve as the third timekeeper. AAA officials Jack Crump and Harold Abrahams were also present. There were few others, apart from the one thousand schoolboys in attendance for the meet.

While the schoolboys broke for lunch and the three runners warmed up on the adjacent cricket field, head groundsman J. McTaggart rolled and then lightly watered the cinders in preparation for the race. At 1:50 P.M., with the sky clear, the temperature fair, and only a slight breeze blowing into the finishing straight, the three runners lined up at the start. Bannister was wearing a new pair of German spikes, and his pulled muscle felt completely healed. The 190-pound, six-foot-four-inch Macmillan, whose best mile time was 4:08.8, turned to Bannister and said he would try to run a 4:05. Brasher was silent, knowing exactly what he needed to do, and typically enthusiastic about getting started.

"Hope for the best," Bannister said, and the race was on.

As planned, the Australian led from the beginning, Bannister tethered closely behind him. Brasher, who wore thick dark glasses and had an unnatural gait on his best of days, moved purposefully slow, since his job didn't come until the end of the third lap. Although he looked like "an amputee getting used to a new limb," as McWhirter described it, his minute-and-a-half laps would keep him fresh for the end. In comparison, Bannister and Macmillan were flying. The Australian proved a superbly even pacemaker for the first two laps. He crossed the 220-yard mark in 29.5 seconds, the first 440 in 59.6, the 660 in 1:28.8, and the 880 in 1:59.7. Perfect. Brasher was over half a lap back at the halfway point. Macmillan didn't have the legs to maintain his speed. His thighs burned, and his bruised heel shot pain up his leg as he struggled to finish the next 220 at a good clip. When Bannister yelled, "Wide open, Don"—meaning full throttle—Macmillan stalled. He was exhausted. Bannister hesitated, losing a precious second, before shifting past the Australian to finish the third lap in 3:01.8. From track side McWhirter called out the time. The schoolboys in attendance chewed quietly on their sandwiches, not sure why these men were running in the middle of their meet.

At the ringing of the bell Brasher, having run only two laps, was in position to bring Bannister around the last 440 yards. Over his shoulder Brasher yelled "a stream of expletives" at his friend to hurry. Bannister crossed the 1,500-meter mark in 3:44.8—a time that would have earned him gold in Helsinki. In the last 120 yards he started to "climb the ladder," as Macmillan described the moment when exhaustion takes over and the head tilts up, the knees lift, and the arms swing higher and higher to get every inch out of the stride. Brasher shouted back again, "Come on, Roger." Bannister fought mightily to the tape, but it was not fast enough. He clocked a 4:02. The one thousand schoolboys finally erupted in cheers, more from believing that Bannister had caught Brasher in the last straight to win than from realizing that the third-fastest mile in history had been run.

Although Bannister had clocked an incredible time, the mood was somber afterward. It had taken a lot to arrange this event, yet it had been for nothing, and there was now a sense of helplessness in having to wait to hear about Santee's performance in six hours. In the locker room Bannister thanked Brasher and Macmillan for their help, despite the failed attempt. Everyone had given their best.

"Only five yards outside the world record," Bannister said, though he was still fourteen or fifteen yards from the four-minute mile, a distance that seemed much longer than the few strides it would take him to span it.

The three quickly changed and headed to the cars. Macmillan was off to Wimbledon, courtesy of tickets provided by the McWhirters. Bannister and Brasher crammed into an Aston Martin driven by Dr. John More, ready for a weekend's climbing in North Wales. They would have to wait until after they arrived in Snowdonia to learn that Wes Santee had also failed in his bid. They heard from McWhirter by telephone that he had run 4:07.6 in Dayton. That night, as Bannister rested in a hayloft before the following day's climbing, he knew that he wouldn't be able to summon the energy to make another attempt against the clock that summer. He desperately hoped that Santee would not either. Regardless of his competitors, however, Bannister was concerned about what it would take for him to cut two more seconds off his time considering how much he had improved, the sacrifices involved, and the limited time he had left in his running career.

"Maybe I could run a Four-Minute Mile behind one of my father's ranch horses," Santee replied when asked what he thought of the Motspur Park paced race. "If that's what you want." By the time Santee reached Europe on July 1 for a summer tour sponsored by the AAU, there was a groundswell of reaction to Bannister's 4:02. Some called the race "fixed" and "unsporting." Jesse Abramson in the New York Herald Tribune opined: "The world obviously would like to see a 4:00 mile, but let's keep it kosher in a regularly fixed race." Many in the British press felt the same: the Daily Mail declared the race not "bona fide," and the Daily Mirror called the miler a "clock-runner" who was "brilliant at running against that rhythmically moving second hand on the clock face, but has little relish for the cut-and-thrust of flying spikes and jolting elbows." Further, British amateur officials were considering whether or not the record time should be ratified. Given the AAU's stance on paced races, Wes Santee thought the barrier should fall in a real race—preferably one won by him.

His European trip was supposed to provide the opportunity. The fast tracks and top-class competition had many thinking that during his travels Santee would "beat the rest of the world to the Mount Everest of trackdom," as Abramson wrote in the same article in which he derided Bannister. The last month had brought many things to Santee—little rest, a lot of travel, bad food, disgruntled track officials, meager prizes, and day after day of racing—but not a mile record. The tour started in Finland, where Santee lost a 1,500-meter race to the hometown boy, Denis Johansson. Afterward Johansson took Santee to a sauna, where it was so hot that the Kansan had to use his towel as a mask to breathe before the Finn led him unsuspectingly into a pool of ice-cold water. And that was the peak of hospitality shown to Santee during his trip.

After a grinding schedule of races across Finland, he and his AAU teammates, including close friend Mal Whitfield, flew to Sweden, where Santee managed to break the American 1,500-meter record. Two days later he was entered in an 800-meter event, which he also won, before flying to continental Europe for more races. In total his two-month tour schedule had him running in twenty-two races. Santee was either at the track or in transit the entire time he was away. He missed Coach Easton, and he particularly missed Danna, to whom he had given his fraternity pin in a sure prelude to a marriage proposal. In his suitcase he had packed an eight-by-ten photograph of her. He removed it at each hotel and stared at it as he wrote to her almost every day. At one point in the tour he wanted to cut short his trip and go back to Kansas to be with her, but AAU officials demanded that he stay.

In Berlin on August 3 Santee decided he was through with being treated like a one-man dog-and-pony show. For weeks he had packed stadiums with tens of thousands of fans. Meanwhile, amateur officials in each country (who worked closely with the track promoters selling tickets) were providing him and his American teammates with spartan meals. If they wanted dessert or a second cup of coffee, they had to pay. Expense money was almost nonexistent, and if one of them didn't perform to standard, reprimands were handed out. When Santee came first in a race—a common occurrence—he was given a plaque, a mechanical pencil, or an inexpensive watch for a prize. What he should have been doing was conserving his strength for one or two good races, like the British Games a few days later, but instead he was working day in and day out for no reward. "It was work," he later said. Having labored many long hours for his father on the ranch without pay, he knew when someone was taking advantage of him.

A few days before, he had approached a German official to ask if he could pool several of his prizes for an Agfa camera. At the time it was the Rolls-Royce of cameras, and before Santee had left Kansas, Easton had even suggested that he should try to get his hands on one when he was in Europe. The official told Santee that he would take care of it. On the morning of August 3 Santee called the official at his house to ask whether he had arranged for the camera. The official put Santee off, saying that he was looking into the matter. At lunch Santee handed his unopened prizes to the official and asked for his camera. The official said that the camera was more expensive than the amateur rules allowed and that "they could not consider any such demands." This sent Santee off. After all the money they had made on him—and the sacrifice involved on his part—they could at least provide him with a camera. Santee pounded his fist on the table and yelled, "You're a damn liar."

The official said there was nothing he could do, but regardless, "We want you to stay on and run another race."

"To hell with you. I'm not staying here." Santee stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him. He was finished with this kind of treatment. He left Germany immediately for his next race in Finland. The rest of the team followed him there after they finished competing. Little was said of the affair, but everyone knew Santee would have to pay for his outburst one way or another. Amateur officials did not suffer this kind of action from their athletes.

From Finland Santee went to London for the British Games, hoping to compete against Roger Bannister. On his arrival he learned that Bannister was busy with his medical exams and had backed out of the international mile event. Still, the race was a big affair; Gundar Haegg, Sydney Wooderson, and Paavo Nurmi were paraded around the track before it was held. With Johansson and several of Britain's best middle-distance men in the event, including Chris Chataway, Bill Nankeville, and Gordon Pirie, this would have been a prime chance for Santee to get the competition he needed for a record attempt, but he was simply exhausted from the traveling and the constant competition. By the fourth lap, when most expected Santee to explode to the finish line, he had nothing left to give. Pirie sprinted past him in the back straight to win by three yards in 4:06.8.

"I've run seven races—one every other day," Santee told reporters afterward. "I'm more than a bit tired."

When he returned to the United States, news of his defeat caused the pundits to declare that Santee risked burning out before he reached his prime if he continued to compete so .often. Santee discounted the claims, but privately he knew he wasn't being given the support necessary to break the mile barrier. Like his counterparts, he needed the ability to enlist pacemakers, events featuring the top-class competition, and enough breathing room beforehand to prepare and focus properly. His confrontation with amateur officials in Berlin had ignited a firestorm, so his chances of receiving this support were almost nonexistent. Plus, his cross-country season loomed. Nonetheless, he felt that the four-minute mile was his to run first.