12

Yet that man is happy and poets sing of him who conquers with hand and swift foot and strength.

—PINDAR

AT FOUR O'CLOCK in the afternoon, on Thursday, January 21, 1954, a clear, windless summer day in Melbourne, they started to come—first pairs, then dozens, then hundreds—to Olympic Park. Men in suits and hats left work early to attend, crowding the trams and streets. Women in seersucker dresses joined their husbands, and schoolchildren their parents. Bars emptied of their patrons, and shopkeepers shuttered their doors to get to the track on time. The whole city looked to be descending on the stadium for the special twilight meet featuring miler John Landy. This was to be the race.

"A Perfect Night for John's Mile" headlined the Melbourne Sun. "Flat-out Attempt on 4.0 Mile," said the Melbourne Age. Landy was on the front or back page of every city newspaper, taking up inches of column space. Reporters consulted the Weather Bureau and pronounced the season's weather "hoodoo"—no longer a threat to Landy. Dick Crossley, the venerated groundsman at Olympic Park, had personally rolled the track and declared it in perfect condition. As for Landy himself, he felt good to go. Since his 4:02 mile six weeks before, he had run in two mile races, and in neither did he make a record attempt. Surely, people felt, he was saving himself for a specially arranged event.

With his university exams completed, he now trained during the day in Central Park. He was doing a lot of speed work on the 440-yard grass path inside the gravel path. On weekends half-miler Len McRae, who was now teaching at a school outside Melbourne, ran quarters with him. They trained for an hour and a half in the ninety-degree heat, rarely speaking. Landy timed himself, and McRae felt that his friend would have been just as happy to have been training alone. Occasionally runners who competed in professional sprint races like the Stawell Gift came by the park to watch Landy run. Their response was generally, "Why would you train like this?" and, "You're going to kill yourself." After they left, Landy and McRae used to joke about how much more advanced the professionals were, what with their rating of trivial matters of style, such as holding your hands out flat to reduce wind resistance, as more important than conditioning. Short of these moments, however, Landy was serious and purposeful in his training. This twilight race was to be his judgment day.

Three days before the race Landy went to Gippsland, taking a needed break from his training by stalking through the bush for butterflies that he had yet to add to his collection. The night before the race he slept for twelve hours, and throughout the big day he relaxed by reading Nehru's Discovery of India at his East Malvern home. His only interruptions were calls from reporters and a batch of telegrams delivered to his door, wishing him good luck.

Of his attempt on the mile record he told the press, "I'm not a bit worried. It's just a big gamble. It might come off and it might not....This four-minute mile business is more than just beating opponents. It is trying to achieve something that nobody else has ever done." Story after story praised the miler for his intelligence, work ethic, charm, and modesty. One reporter described Landy as the "most retiring world-class performer" he had ever met, yet he also found the miler a good talker, with "boyish laughter" and a "studious analytical mind."

By six o'clock the ticket sellers had run out of the specially made programs. The police transmitted an SOS to headquarters, requesting reinforcements to handle the unexpected snarl of traffic. Over one thousand cars sat bumper to bumper on Batman Avenue, some not having moved in over an hour. More and more people poured into the stadium. Tickets could not be sold fast enough. Lines formed hundreds of yards long behind the booths.

Landy arrived at the stadium near the height of this bedlam with Len McRae and quarter-miler Ian Ormsby. McRae had picked up Landy at his house in his red Singer Six convertible, but because of the traffic they had to park the car on a nearby hill. Landy was astonished at the mass of people in attendance—ten thousand, maybe twenty. The atmosphere seemed more appropriate for a football match than a track event, which typically drew three or four hundred fans at best. The three athletes forced their way through the crowd, but it looked impossible to get to the front. They worried that they might miss their races.

"How are we going to get in?" McRae asked. The crowd was becoming rowdy, anxious to get inside.

The three spotted the eight-foot-high wire fence surrounding Olympic Park and, after a brief conversation, decided to scale it. They tossed their gym bags over the fence. Then they climbed the pickets, making sure not to get stuck on the sharp points at the top.

As they cleared the fence a highly regarded South Yarra doctor, waiting with his son at the back of the line, shouted, "Look at those louts, getting over the fence and not paying. They're trying to gate-crash."

"Dad," the boy said, "that is John Landy."

By the time the miler had changed and begun to warm up, the crowd had swelled to such proportions that they knocked down the fence and rushed inside the stadium. Some climbed on top of the tin roof over the grandstand. Others threaded their way through the bushes and tall grass on the surrounding hills until they found a clear vantage point. By race time a wall of people had encircled the track, and many were standing on the outside lane. At one point a chicken found its way into the grounds, and a melee of men chased it around until one of them caught his dinner. The place was total chaos.

When Landy took to the track minutes before the race at 7:30 P.M., the fans cheered wildly. Newsreel cameras spun, and the runners were momentarily blinded by camera flashes. A horse-caller had been brought in to announce the race on radio. More than ever, Landy felt obligated to deliver a record or risk letting everybody down. The pressure was intense. At the starting line he shook the hands of his competitors and then settled down in a crouch in the third lane from the inside, waiting for the gun. Les Perry and Geoff Warren were by his side, hoping this was the day for their friend. But there was little they could do to help. For a moment the crowd silenced as twenty thousand pairs of eyes stared at Landy, eager to see him break the barrier for the glory of Australia.

As usual, Landy went into the lead by the first turn and never looked back. Nobody could keep up with him. He had refused pacing before the race, telling the other runners that if he suspected they weren't running to win, he would step off the track. If he broke the mile record, he wanted to have done it on his own. Landy ran the first lap in 59 seconds and the second in 61.3, but because of the crowd he couldn't hear his times called. He had a good sense of his pace, much as a seasoned golfer knows how far he will hit a ball by the force he applies to his swing. Yet it wasn't an exact science. Landy knew there were conditions—his level of relaxation, wind, temperature, track condition, pressure of competition, and a favorable crowd—that affected his speed. It was impossible to know the difference between running a 59.5- and a 60-second lap, just as the crowd could not tell simply by watching him. The only thing Landy could do was run at 100 percent effort and hope that it was enough. If the other factors aligned, he might break the record.

When the bell for the fourth lap clanged, the timekeepers read 3:02.1 on their watches. Landy was far in the lead. The crowd urged him forward. They were on their feet, their applause deafening. Landy responded, looking to push faster—harder—around the track. At two hundred yards from the finish, however, Landy felt as if someone had pulled the "master power switch," draining the electricity from his legs. He willed himself onward nonetheless, fighting against the fatigue to keep driving to the finish line, trying to refuse the temptation to slow down. It was difficult. He had run alone from the beginning, unaware of his times and without the push of competition.

Not long now. The tape was in sight. He stretched to the finish, hoping it was enough. As he broke through the tape, the spectators threw programs, handkerchiefs, and hats into the air. They followed with a standing ovation. Landy waited for his time, uncertain if he had broken the record or turned in another 4:02 performance. He rolled his head around, as if working out a kink in his neck. Finally the official time was announced on the loudspeakers: 4:02.4.

Roiled with disappointment but unwilling to show it, he jogged forward, waving at the crowd who continued to clap.

"I thought I had it," he told the Sun's Jack Dunn.

Later, after he had recovered from the effort, he explained to reporters that he couldn't hear his lap times because of the cheering crowd, but that was not the true problem: "I am convinced I must have someone to grind record figures out of me. I must have someone behind me to push me out." That was the condition that would make all the difference.

When he returned to East Malvern with McRae and Ormsby, his mother had organized a party for him. Although he had not broken the mile record, none of his friends or family bemoaned the fact. After all, he had won the race. McRae knew Landy was frustrated with not having brought his time down again, but they shared a few beers instead of talking about it. Landy was ever reluctant to open up to anyone about his disappointment. That evening Landy suspected that he would never be able to run faster unless he went overseas, where the tracks and competition were better.

The next day his run was characterized on the front pages as a "Magnificent Failure!" The Finnish miler Denis Johansson, who was in attendance in preparation for a race against Landy the following month, had a different viewpoint: "Landy is magnificent—the greatest mile runner I have seen. On a first-class cinder track with solid opposition he'll run 3:55 for the mile." Johansson promised to help him see it happen, raising the possibility of Landy traveling to Scandinavia at the end of the Australian season.

On February 10, Coach Easton and Santee made one last effort to stop the AAU from punishing the miler. Santee's amateur status was at stake, and they had little recourse to overturn any judgment the AAU sent down from its New York offices. So they sent letters to Lloyd Olds, the chairman of the Track and Field Committee. They vehemently denied reports from Germany that Santee had thrown a chair at the foreign official who refused to give the miler the Agfa camera. They also made it clear that Bob Hurt from the Saturday Evening Post had misquoted Santee about trying to make money from his running. In his letter to Olds, Santee included the two notes he had previously written to Dan Ferris explaining these matters. Neither had stopped the AAU official from continuing the investigation. Easton discounted each of the allegations in a typed letter to Olds and then appealed personally to the AAU official in a handwritten note on the last page that said, "This boy is a worker and not looking for a soft job. Also, he's had to work his way in college because his Dad is not for higher education, so won't help Wes."

A week later Hurt wrote to Ferris saying that he had inferred Santee's meaning rather than directly quoted him in his article. Further, Ferris had no evidence that Santee had broken any amateur rules in Germany and had scant corroborating proof that the miler had done anything more than raise his voice to the foreign official and slam his fist on the table. Still, the AAU issued an edict that banned Santee from competing internationally for one year. The only explanation they re-leased to the public was that the miler had broken training while in Europe the previous summer. Bitter at the AAU's decision, Santee declared to reporters:

The restriction is nothing—absolutely nothing—and Bill and I take it for exactly what it is, a token action to satisfy some higher-ups....It's why they imposed the ban, or the reason they gave, that makes us so mad. Breaking training, my foot! I no more broke training than I flew the Atlantic without an airplane.

Why don't they show some courage and nail me, if they have to nail me, for what they're really sore about—the fact I told off some of their foreign officials ...but instead of saying so they tab me with this "breaking training" deal. That's what makes me mad, not the restriction. That's a pretty nasty way to go about it, I'd say.

Soon after, Santee told reporters that he didn't need any competition to push him to run the mile record. He could do it anywhere, track and weather permitting, as long as his legs felt all right. But privately he later admitted, "For me to drive myself ...I could do it up to a point, but there was something about competition that raised the bar. ... It's like someone pulls you along. I loved to be behind....I judge my pace against his pace, and I'm coming on him. When I catch up and pass, it's great." With this ban in place, good competition was going to be hard to find.

On Friday, February 26, 1954, Bannister finished his last round in his hospital ward, done for the day with reviewing charts, checking on blood tests, and inquiring how his patients were doing. After hanging his half-length white coat in his locker down in the underground pass between the medical school and the hospital, he grabbed his gym bag and left St. Mary's, heading toward Sloane Square. He was to meet with Chataway and Brasher at the Duke of York's Barracks. The weather was no better than it had been during the past two weeks. A bitter wind from the west threatened more heavy showers, the occasional bit of hail, and a deep, pipe-bursting frost that night.

Throughout the winter, regardless of the weather, the three had trained together every week since Bannister first met with Stampfl. They started with calisthenics in the drill hall, working alongside scores of other athletes, including shot putters and discus and javelin throwers. Stampfl ran them through a series of press-ups, stretching, and resistance exercises, increasing their upper body strength but also fostering a sense of belonging to a much larger group. On occasion, he even had them wrestle one another. After twenty minutes they took a brief rest and then hit the track.

While training his other athletes, Stampfl kept his eye on the three runners as they went through their interval training together. He yelled out to them from time to time: "Do it again!" "Harder!" and "Faster—it is only pain!" The program they had worked out was only a slight variation of what Bannister had been doing on his own. It was simply more regimented. In December 1953 they had commenced with ten quarter-miles in sixty-six seconds, with a two-and-a-half- to three-minute recovery lap in between each one. The aim was to increase the lap speed gradually over several months. They carried their own stopwatches to ensure they were running to pace. They .often ran through fog, rain, and cold, and after three months they were down to a sixty-three-second average. Although they exercised throughout the week, doing either the same kind of interval work, repetition half-miles, or Fartlek sessions, Friday at the Duke of York's provided "the focus of the week," Bannister said. There they measured their progress to date, strengthened their sense of working together, and soaked up Stampfl's enthusiasm.

The Austrian coach had eased his way into Bannister's confidence slowly, knowing that the miler was uncomfortable taking direction from a coach. Instead of imposing a regimen, Stampfl offered suggestions and guidance. He tried never to push too hard. From the start, he knew that Bannister needed three things if he was to run the four-minute mile: pacemakers to carry him through the first three laps; more strength in his legs; and complete belief in himself. Over the past three months Stampfl had worked hard to realize these goals for the miler, not only because he had a passion for helping an athlete who was impassioned himself ("They've got to love it," he always said), but also because if Bannister broke the barrier under his guidance, no matter how overt that guidance was, more athletes would come to him for coaching.

Pacemaking was an obvious factor, but the question was how best to arrange it. Stampfl had seen Bannister at the Olympics and had watched him compete in England innumerable times. Like many milers, particularly British milers, Bannister stayed in the pack for most of a race and then delivered a lightning-fast finishing kick at the end. Stampfl knew that Bannister would have trouble running alone through the first three laps at a fast pace. Two pacemakers were necessary, as the Motspur Park race had shown: one to take Bannister through the first half-mile, the second to the three-quarter mark. They had to be able to maintain even sixty-second laps as well as finish the race. This was the only way to comply with amateur rules.

From the beginning, Bannister made it clear that he wanted there to be no possibility for dispute as to whether his next attempt was bona fide. The arrangement could not be made on the spur of the moment either. Bannister needed to be able to rely on his pacemakers, to know that they would deliver the goods. Chataway and Brasher had already enlisted the previous November. Their contribution was not entirely selfless: the sessions were good training for their events, the steeplechase (Brasher) and the three-mile (Chataway), and they wanted to be part of the potentially historic feat. Stampfl made sure that the team was cohesive and that Chataway and Brasher were ready.

Physically Bannister was already very close to being capable of the achievement when they met. Stampfl just needed to push him a little further. The systematic, gradual increases of speed in running the 440 laps over several months promised to better adapt Bannister's body to the stress. It was a plan that appealed to the miler's methodical approach to running. At his level improvement was difficult to discern. Running with Chataway and Brasher relieved the monotony, and Stampfl encouraged him week after week to keep at it. Ultimately, though, it was up to the miler. As the coach wrote, "Training is principally an act of faith. The athlete must believe in its efficacy: he must believe that through training he will become fitter and stronger.... He must believe that through training his performance will improve and continue to improve indefinitely for as long as he continues to train to progressively stiff standards." Stampfl simply helped to set these standards.

But Stampfl's greatest contribution to Bannister's attempt to make history was his ability to inspire the miler. Although Bannister had the scientific understanding to refUte the notion that the mile barrier couldn't be broken, believing you were the one to do it was altogether different. "The great hurdle was the mental barrier," Stampfl said. The Austrian's experiences as a coach and survivor of great hardship had proved to him that no obstacle was insurmountable. His unwavering belief in this was infectious. He loved sports and what they symbolized in life as a whole: the ability to overcome. Stampfl invested their efforts with a degree of heroic struggle. In a very real sense, he made running fun again.

After their sessions at the Duke of York's track, Stampfl joined the three for dinner near Sloane Square, where they took refuge from the cold, enjoyed a bottle of wine, and relaxed. Stampfl dominated the conversations, which usually started with a discussion of their training and how they were advancing. They spoke of Landy and Santee and how close they were coming to the four-minute mile. But as the dinner progressed the conversation shifted to politics, art, philosophy, whatever. The Austrian coach read widely, and he could take every side of an argument, making for lively dinners that the three runners looked forward to after an exhausting session.

At dinner in the last week of February, aside from potential discussions of a new Tate Gallery exhibit of French impressionist paintings and Churchill's stance on the "Sovietization" of a divided Germany, they talked more than usual about their pursuit of the four-minute mile. Week after week they had nervously waited for the latest news from the United States and Australia. The McWhirter twins continued to be their main source of information. Ross and Norris drove over to see Bannister when he trained in Paddington. They brought a watch, timed his laps, and then delivered updates on Landy's and Santee's progress over lunch at a nearby café before driving their busy doctor friend back to St. Mary's. Only three days before, the twins had brought news that Landy had run another sub-4:03 mile, the fifth in his career. They knew about the kind of training sessions that Landy was running, and yet the Australian miler was coming up short again and again. Somehow he was stuck, but with reports confirming that Johansson was bringing him to compete on Finland's fast tracks, anything was possible. As for Santee, his threat was obvious. He had recently clocked a 4:02.6 mile on an indoor, eight-lap-to-a-mile track. A meager fortyone minutes later he ran a 1:51.8 half-mile. It was the "greatest double in American track history," exclaimed the latest issue of Track and Field News, and evidence that "the honor of running the first four-minute mile will be lodged in the USA." Santee was likely to better his time once the outdoor season began. As the McWhirters had reminded Bannister, the mile barrier was becoming "an almost uninsurable risk," and "obituary notices" about it were being prepared by newspapers around the world.

Their earliest opportunity to make a bid was at the AAA versus Oxford University match in early May. Bannister understood that, like scaling Everest, his goal would require not just ability and hard work but also luck, teamwork, and a dose of inspiration. This had not always been so clear to him. When he invited Edmund Hillary to take his treadmill test a few months after he returned to England from his Everest climb, Bannister discovered that the mountaineer wasn't in the kind of otherworldly shape he had expected. After the tests he approached Hillary, shaking his head, and exclaimed, "I don't know how you did it."

Over the past sixteen months the mile barrier had withstood the greatest assaults ever. Bannister knew he needed to throw every advantage he had at the "brick wall" to have a chance of breaking through it. Two seconds had never seemed so long a time, but at least now he was part of a team, one that encouraged him when the training became tedious or his confidence faltered. It was making all the difference.

Most weekend mornings at the University of Kansas passed in a tranquil calm: students slept late, streets were empty of cars, and shops kept their doors closed. Every spring, though, the university played host to athletes from around the country for the Kansas Relays. It was a great excuse for a party.

On Saturday morning, April 17, preparations were in full gear. Since dawn, fraternity and sorority members had been finishing the construction of their floats for a grand parade. The sound of hammers banging, saws cutting, chicken wire being stretched, and paint sloshing drowned out the songs of Glenn Miller and Johnny Ray playing on the radio. High school students, many of whom had never been out of their hometowns, ran about the campus, wearing varsity letter sweaters and feeling the rush of college life. Cars jammed the streets around Mount Oread, and hundreds began to line the sidewalks for the big show. From Memorial Stadium, tinny loudspeakers announced the start of the discus event for the decathlon. A few spectators dotted the stands for the morning field events, but this was nothing compared to the thousands that would arrive for the 3:05 P.M . start of the Glenn Cunningham Mile. The sun shone brightly, and it looked as though the Kansas Relays would be staged on "one of those first-day-of-spring, glad-to-be-alive" days.

Wes Santee didn't let the beehive of activities disturb his pre-race ritual. He had his breakfast of oatmeal, hot tea, and honey, and then a few hours later he walked down to the stadium to warm up. His calm exterior belied the fact that this was a big weekend, perhaps the biggest of his life. He intended to claim the four-minute mile on Saturday and then marry Danna on Sunday.

Three months to the day had passed since his disappointment at the Pro Bowl, where the only running he did was around the stadium to burn off some nervous energy while the Eastern All-Stars football team led by Paul Brown beat Buddy Parker's Western team 20-9. Since then, he had scorched up the tracks week after week, keeping fit while fueling the four-minute fever with every stunning performance. His team waltzed away with the Big Seven indoor championship for another year, thanks in large part to Santee. At the first outdoor meet of the season in Austin, Texas, Santee arrived wearing a royal blue suit, copper tie, and orange boots. He equally dazzled with his running that day, earning his team a world record in the sprint medley with an anchor half-mile of 1:48.3 and leading the Jayhawks in the distance medley as well as the two- and four-mile relays. Santee was earning so much press that it was almost a chore for him to stay up to date with pasting the clippings that fans sent him from around the country into his scrapbooks.

A herd of reporters attended his every race, some from local papers, but many also from major national publications like Time, Newsweek, the Saturday Evening Post, the New York Times, and the New York Herald Tribune. Santee liked their headlines: "Super Sonic Santee," "Santee the Lure—May Hit Magic Number," "Mile King in Relays Here," and "Santee Is Star." The stories read even better: "Some night Santee's going to travel around that course like the wind and then he'll not only run the four-minute mile but he'll cut three or four seconds off that goal."

Despite the flood of prognostication, Santee was yet to have a good chance at the mile record because of his team obligations. At the Kansas Relays, however, Easton had set those obligations aside to give Santee a shot at a fast mile. Throughout his senior year Easton had treated his athlete almost as an assistant coach. They sat in the stadium stands after a workout, discussing how his younger teammates were running or who they were competing against in the next meet and which Jayhawk runner should compete in which events. Together they had decided that the team was in a strong enough position to risk Santee competing in the open mile rather than in four team events, as he usually did.

With Landy heading to Finland and reports that Bannister was preparing for a paced attempt in early May, it was critical that they go for the four-minute mile straight away. Santee was also running out of time because his Marine officer training began in July. He was supposed to have done his twelve weeks of boot camp during his sophomore year, but he went to the Olympics instead. After his junior year the AAU arranged for another year's reprieve because it wanted him running in Europe. Further delay, however, appeared impossible. It did not help that the AAU had banned him from competing internationally. With that restriction in place and the Marines demanding that he report for duty, the Compton Invitational was the best competition he would get for the four-minute mile. Apart from that meet, his home-field advantage at the Kansas Relays was the next best thing.

By two o'clock on Saturday afternoon the parade was over, and the floats (bearing themes that included the "Easton-Wes Express" and "Joy Through Effort") idled outside Memorial Stadium, where over sixteen thousand people were crowded. It was hot and sultry, and the concessions stands quickly sold out of soda, followed by ice, and then by cups. Spectators sheltered themselves from the sun with umbrellas and fanned themselves with Kansas Relays programs that featured a picture of "The Kansas Flyer—Wes Santee" on the cover. He was the star attraction, and many had filed into the stadium early to get the best seat for the show.

As part of his ritual preparations, an hour before the race Santee jogged outside the stadium and then came onto the infield for a few wind sprints. Back in the locker room he changed and the trainer rubbed him down. Easton was outside watching the two-mile relay, a race Santee normally would have entered. The two had said everything they needed to say to each other the night before.

"Let's try to break it," Easton said down at the track after a brief workout. "Do you have any questions?"

"No," Santee replied, and they were done. After nearly two years of planning and dreaming about how to run the mile in less than four minutes, there was no new territory to cover.

Fifteen minutes before race time Santee taped a four-inch square of cotton dipped in Kramer's analgesic hot rub to the base of his spine. It was believed to stimulate the nerves and stir the legs. Then he left the locker room with a towel draped over his head. Underneath, his face was a mask of cool determination. Outside, a bank of dark clouds hung in the sky—and then suddenly erupted in a torrent of rain. Umbrellas—used moments before to shield the sun—were now deflecting pelts of rain—then hail—from a flash storm. Gusts of wind blew across the field. Those exposed ducked for cover. As suddenly as the storm came it passed. The clouds broke, and the sun returned. Short of a few upended umbrellas, everything was just as it was—except for the track. Puddles covered the track, and there were divots in the cinders from the hail.

Santee was stunned. The track was wrecked, and it seemed that so were his hopes of a fast mile. It was hard not to think that the world was conspiring against him, that nothing was on his side. Then Coach Easton went into action. Hands buried deep in his pockets, a sure sign that he meant business, he called a group of his athletes together and told them they needed to get the track ready for the open mile. With military precision, he organized a crew of freshman athletes to shovel off the water. Then he had one of his boys go over the track twice with a power-driven roller to level it off. Easton also arranged for what amounted to a rolling propane-fueled flamethrower to further dry out the track.

Jogging off to the side, Santee tried to keep warm as his coach and teammates did everything they could to give him a shot. The largest crowd in the Kansas Relays history was waiting in silence, holding their collective breath with the hope that enough could be done to make the difference for Santee. As the young Kansas miler looked around him—Easton pointing to one section, then another, guiding Santee's teammates around frantically to the areas of the track that needed attention—he felt how much he was supported. Of course, he had made sacrifices in his efforts at the mile record for them, but he now realized what kinds of friendships he had earned in the process. Those friends were still working on the surface seconds before the race was to begin.

When Santee moved to the starting line, the track was still heavy underfoot, but at least Easton's efforts had given him a shot at a good time. Santee planned on making the best of it. Opposing him in the race were Oklahoma A&M's Bjorr Bogerud, a freshman who had placed third in the Texas Relays; Drake's Ray McConnell, winner of the Drake Relays open mile the previous year; and Oklahoma's Bruce Drummond, a graduate student and defending champion in the Cunningham Mile. None in the small field could challenge Santee, he knew that, and with the crowd already on their feet and shouting his name, he felt charged up. He just needed to stick to the pacing that he and Easton had carefully calculated. First lap—fifty-nine seconds. Second lap—sixty seconds. Third lap—sixty-one seconds. Fourth lap—go for it. His strong kick would carry him under the wire. Watching from the stands was his bride-to-be. She had wished him luck before the start of the race and now simply had to hope for the best. She knew how important this day was for Wes. These big races were difficult for her. "I just can't talk," she explained. "There's no use trying to be objective, because I can't. I get all tied in knots."

Right before the gun sounded, Santee drew in a breath and held it. The gun fired, and he burst forward. Bogerud started slightly quicker, but by the end of the first turn Santee took the lead. Bogerud tried to catch up, but there was nothing he could do—and he knew it. By the start of the second lap Santee was only a half-second off pace. Easton was calling out his times, and despite the cacophony from the stands, Santee heard him. No matter how noisy it was, he always heard his coach. His ear was tuned in to Easton's voice.

The miler was still uneasy, though. The track was soft and wet in patches, and when he drove forward, he lacked traction. There was also a strong crosswind. Nonetheless, he continued to push, extending his fifteen-yard lead over the others. The crowd spurred him forward. In the second lap he ran a second and a half over pace, and for the half-mile, he clocked 2:01. It was very good, given the conditions. Better than he thought. He began to settle into his stride. To keep his arms relaxed, he kept his index finger on his thumb in each hand, making sure not to make a fist. The crowd shouted, "Go, Wes! Go!" when he passed the stands. They knew he was close too. Into the third lap Santee was gripped by the desire to run the mile record. To do it this day in front of Danna and his home crowd.

At the bell Santee was a hundred yards ahead of Bogerud. His three competitors looked to be running in an altogether different race. The third lap was slow, much slower than he wanted: sixty-three seconds. The wind and traction might have affected him more than in the two previous laps. It was hard to say what caused the slowdown—not a lack of desire. He could still do it, though. He had run a fifty-five-second final lap in the mile before. That would give him a 3:59 mile. The four-minute mile would be his.

Easton yelled from the side of the track, "Go! Go! Go!" The crowd cheered. They want it, Santee thought to himself. Everyone wanted him to be the one. The last lap was always the hardest. He stepped up his pace. With 220 yards to go, he felt the charge from inside in his chest to keep going. He was fighting against the pain and exertion. He was running with all his heart.

"Go, Wes! Go!" boomed the crowd.

His training had prepared him for this finishing burst. He increased his arm action, looking to almost strike the air like one would a punching bag. His legs followed his arms. His exhale was heavy. By the last one hundred yards, he was working on sheer emotion and the enthusiasm of the crowd. The timekeepers waited at the finish line. A mass of athletes on the infield pressed forward at the edge of the track to get a better look. Many held their breath in suspense.

Santee took one last stride, driving with his right leg as he broke through the tape, mouth wide. It was a remarkable last lap given the conditions, but not remarkable enough: 58.6. The time flashed on the scoreboard: 4:03.1. He had come up short again. The brief downpour had stripped him of confidence in his chances, and the competition was not able to provide the jolt of adrenaline he needed.

After seeing the time, the crowd deflated for a moment and then shifted to applause, followed by chanting, "Santee. Santee. Santee." The disappointed miler accepted his trophy from Glenn Cunningham, who offered to hold the trophy until Santee had finished his distance medley relay. Santee politely declined. He passed the trophy to a policeman, who walked it up to Danna. If the weather had been better, Santee was sure he could have presented her the gift of the four-minute mile instead.

At two o'clock the next afternoon, Easter Sunday, he and Danna were married in a quiet ceremony in Lawrence. Easton and his wife stood in for Santee's parents, who had not been invited. After the ceremony a small party was thrown in their honor at a friend's apartment, and then Danna's parents and the newlywed couple drove to Kansas City. Santee honeymooned for less than twenty-four hours. By Monday afternoon he was back at the track for training. Bets had been made that he wouldn't show, and those who doubted his commitment to breaking the barrier first were the ones who lost. In any event, Easton would not have permitted Santee to miss practice. The Kansas City Star was there to report to their readers that "Wes Santee isn't going to let a little old thing like matrimony disrupt his plans for fast running....Santee still eyes the mile in four minutes."