14

I felt at that moment that it was my chance to do one thing supremely well.

—ROGER BANNISTER

ON THURSDAY, May 6, Bannister woke in his Earl's Court apartment. When he glanced outside, his hope of a nice day disappeared. The wind swayed the treetops violently, and clouds of slate gray promised rain. Swallowing the fear of having to reschedule the attempt, he got ready to go to the hospital for the morning. After breakfast he went outside, and the wind buffeted his shirt like a sail. Trying for the mile record in these gales was certain to be futile. If they did go ahead and he failed—and he would most certainly fail on a day like this—then he would waste his nervous energy and find psyching himself up another time doubly difficult. Putting off the attempt until the next opportunity, May 17 at White City Stadium, would mean bearing over a week more of anxiety and strain. Neither option was very appealing.

With these thoughts in his mind, Bannister arrived at the hospital. Distraught, he had nothing to do but continue with the day as if the attempt would go ahead, all the time feeling certain that it was hopeless. At eleven o'clock he went down to the hospital laboratory to grind his spikes and rub them with graphite. Given the likely conditions, this would keep the cinder ash from clumping to the bottoms of his shoes, which could mean a few yards over the mile. When someone peered into the laboratory, found him at the grindstone, and asked, "You don't really think that's going to make any difference, do you?" Bannister knew very well that in the battle over tenths of seconds and half-seconds it would indeed make a difference. In addition, the shoes he planned on running in had been ordered from a specialist London cobbler. "They should be light," Bannister had said to the man who once supplied Jack Lovelock with his shoes. "I need them only for three races, for twelve laps." The resulting pair weighed four ounces, two less than his normal shoes. He factored this into his carefully calculated plan. Every advantage counted.

Once finished with his spikes, Bannister decided to take an early train alone to Oxford so that he could gather his thoughts and come to some resolution about whether the attempt was worth making. The mile event was not scheduled until six o'clock, which left plenty of time for the weather to change, but Bannister was already leaning toward putting off the attempt altogether. Walking to nearby Paddington Station, he waded through the sidewalks full of people wearing raincoats and carrying umbrellas. The station was dark and noisy and left one choking for breath. With the sun absent from the sky, the soot veneer on the arched glass ceiling let in very little light. Whistles blew, and "all aboard" announcements were shouted down the platforms, while smoke coughed out from train engines. After finding his platform on the information board, Bannister hurried to his train, ready to settle in for the sixty-three-mile journey he had taken so many times before. While looking for an empty seat, he unexpectedly spotted Franz Stampfl sitting in one of the compartments. Bannister pulled the door open, surprised at how glad he was to see his coach. He needed to lay bare his fears, and there was nobody better than Stampfl to help him deal with them.

Bannister wasn't alone in his worries over the weather. Stampfl too had looked out the window that morning in despair. His wife Pat, a short, kind-spirited woman who helped support them by working as a bookkeeper, sensed his concern, but Stampfl told her that he believed everything would be all right. He barely spoke through breakfast and left early to take the Underground to Paddington. Nonetheless, when Bannister found him, Stampfl conveyed nothing but complete confidence. To have shown anything else would have been disastrous to his athlete.

The doors slammed closed, and the train jarred into movement. The dull tremor of the engine reverberated through the compartment as the two sat opposite one another, not speaking of the race to come. When they cleared the cover of the station, rain slapped against the windows, and as the train gathered momentum, cutting north out of London past rows of dilapidated Victorian houses with laundry lines strung out behind them, Bannister hesitated to ask for Stampfl's advice. At this critical moment in his athletic career he disliked the idea of needing to depend on a coach.

The train sped past warehouses and factory smokestacks under the gloomy sky. As Bannister watched the trees buffeted by the gale-force winds, he finally began to talk about his concerns. He explained to Stampfl that the weather might ruin any chance of breaking four minutes. The wind would add a second to each of his four laps. This meant he would have to run the equivalent of a 3:56 mile in ideal conditions. A 3:56 mile. Given how much he had invested in today being the day, future attempts looked less hopeful. He was at his best now, mentally and physically. It was too difficult to keep himself at this peak, whether for the race at White City in ten days' time or for even later ones.

Stampfl knew the damage that doubt could do to an athlete. He assured Bannister that on a calm day he could run four seconds under the barrier. He had the legs for it. "With the proper motivation, that is, a good reason for wanting to do it," Stampfl said in his usual bellowing Austrian voice, "your mind can overcome any sort of adversity. In any case, the wind might drop. I remember J. J. Barry in Ireland. He ran a 4:08 mile without any training or even proper food—simply because he had the will to run....In any case, what if this were your only chance? Sure it'll be painful, but what's pain?" Bannister considered the question, knowing well what Stampfl had endured. Stampfl continued, absolutely convinced in his own mind that the miler was capable of the effort, no matter the weather. "If you forgo this chance, would you ever forgive yourself? Nobody knows what the future holds. Wes Santee or John Landy may do it first. You might pull a muscle. You might fall under a bus. There may never be another opportunity."

While the train rumbled over the rails toward the black cinder track at Iffley Road, Oxford, Stampfl continued to speak of other runners and their times, but Bannister scarcely heard his words. He stared out the window as they wound their way across the rolling green hills of the countryside, past the blurred trees. The miler steeled himself to the realization that despite the weather, this was his best opportunity. Stampfl had faith in him. His running partners, Chris Brasher and Chris Chataway, had faith in him. And somewhere underneath the fear and doubt, Bannister had faith in himself.

When they finally arrived at the Oxford station, coach and miler went their separate ways. Bannister's close friend Charles Wenden was waiting for him, and they drove together to the Iffley Road track so that Bannister could test his spikes on the cinders. He needed to see how well the graphite-rubbed spikes entered and released from the track's sticky ash. Wind blew in gusts across the wet track, and once again he lost hope in the attempt. His friend invited him for lunch with his family, and Bannister accepted, knowing that it would be a good place to relax and get away from his thoughts.

Wenden was an Oxford lecturer in education studies and had won the Military Cross during the war. The two young men had first met at an Oxford cross-country race years before. Bannister had turned to Wenden after the other competitors had shot quickly off the mark and asked, "Are they going to run like this?," implying that he was not capable of the pace. Wenden replied, "Well, they are, but we don't have to." Bannister was close to Wenden's family, his wife and two daughters, having stayed with them during his postgraduate research, and his friend knew him well enough not to ask any questions about that afternoon's record attempt. For several hours the miler lost himself in the domestic routine, enjoying a lunch of ham salad and prunes with custard and playing with the children.

Bannister left the Wendens in the late afternoon to visit Chris Chataway, who had arrived in Oxford early as well. At Magdalen College Bannister found his running partner reclining by a window, calm and cheerful as ever. Magically, the sun had appeared in the sky at last. Chataway said, "The day could be a lot worse, couldn't it? Just now it's fine. The forecast says the wind may drop towards evening. Let's not decide until five o'clock." Until that time, Bannister stared out the window, praying the wind would stop rustling through the treetops.

When they finally went down to the track, Bannister bumped into reporter Joseph Binks on the way. "The wind's hopeless," Binks said. They found Brasher in the wood-paneled changing rooms under the stands. There they debated whether to go ahead with the attempt. Through the narrow slit of the window Bannister stared at the red-crossed flag of St. George over the square tower of a church on Iffley Road. It whipped strongly in the wind.

Stampfl suggested that they decide nothing until closer to race time. So forty-five minutes before the race was due to start, the three runners went out to the rugby fields adjacent to the track to warm up. While they jogged on the grass, a bank of dark clouds rolled across the sky. A few minutes later a quick shower burst over them. They scrambled back to the locker room. The capricious English weather had struck again.

But precisely at 5:45 P.M., the clouds cleared and a rainbow arced over the square tower where St. George's flag flew. Stampfl approached the three runners to see whether they would try for the mile record. The first vote was: no (Bannister), neutral (Chataway), and yes (Brasher—always one to say yes to anything). As it was unlikely they would go ahead, Brasher tracked down Leslie Truelove, the AAA team manager, who was dressed as if he had come straight from a business meeting, to see whether he could switch to the two-mile event. Truelove declined, saying that it was too late. With five minutes until the start, Stampfl noticed that the wind was dying down and told the three runners, "There's nothing a man can't do if the spirit's there." Brasher agreed, saying, "We've done all this bloody work, we might as well go." They took a second vote: no (Bannister), yes (Chataway), yes (Brasher). Bannister took another 150-yard warm-up sprint, moved to the starting line, and then saw the flag over the church go slack. This was the only sign he needed. "Yes," he told Brasher and Chataway. They were going for it.

The crowd of 1,200, many of whom were undergraduates who had just arrived on their bicycles, waited anxiously for the start. Although the meet had been under way for over an hour, most had come to see the mile race. Many wore heavy coats and scarves wrapped around their necks, despite the fact that it was May. Only a few days before, the Oxford Mail had headlined: "Bannister at Oxford—May Make Attempt at 4-Minute Mile." In the center infield two men from the BBC's Sportsview had set up a 35mm camera on top of its leather-box case. They planned to shoot the race in a continuous take, 360 degrees around. Norris McWhirter, who had arranged for their appearance, had also convinced American journalist Milton Marmor to be on hand, saying he would be "ill advised" not to attend, since he would be the only one of his countrymen there. Begrudgingly, Marmor agreed. Unbeknownst to Bannister, his parents had also arrived in Oxford to watch the race. They did not tell him to avoid adding any more pressure than he already felt. Regretfully, his older sister Joyce couldn't come from Bristol, though he had written in a letter to her a few weeks before, "By the way, I may be trying for the four-minute mile at Oxford soon."

The moment had arrived. The six runners approached the starting line for event number nine, the mile. Alan Gordon and George Dole, an American studying theology at Oxford, represented the university. Brasher, Chataway, Bannister, and William Hulatt represented the AAA. As they settled at the mark, the sun reappeared in the sky. Bannister, wearing a green, gold, and blue striped singlet and the number 41 pinned to his chest, looked down at the track, arms loose by his side, his right foot slightly forward. The air was wet and cold on his skin. He was fourth from the inside, with Chataway directly to his right and Brasher a man away to his left. The crowd grew silent. Bannister coiled and readied to spring. Before the starter gun shot, Brasher jumped—a false start. After he received an official warning from the starter, the runners returned to the mark, with Bannister upset that they might have wasted valuable seconds of the pause in the wind, which could pick up again at any moment.

Again the crowd went silent. Bannister waited, shifting his spikes on the cinders to get better traction. He took a long breath. This might be his last chance to be the first through the barrier. His pacemakers were ready. The plan was set. Thanks to his training, he had the endurance and speed to manage the pace. And thanks to Stampfl, he had more than just the knowledge that a sub-four-minute mile could be run—Bannister believed he was able to do it, no matter the conditions. He was as prepared as he would ever be for the attempt.

The gun banged, and Brasher shot forward as arranged, quickly passing Dole, who was on the inside lane from the start. Bannister followed closely behind Brasher, and Chataway moved up steadily through the field as they made their way around the turn. Finally Bannister was free of the thoughts that had plagued him throughout the previous week, free at last to run, and run fast. His whole body felt electrified, as if he could move around the track without expending any effort. Five days of not running had left him with a bundle of energy. And here, at last, he could put that energy to use.

As they neared the first half-lap marker, Norris McWhirter read off the time on his stopwatch into the microphone: "Twenty-six ...twenty-seven ... twenty-eight." He had hired an electrician to wire two speakers to the microphone, one pointing down the home straight and the other on the back straight. Since he was the public-address announcer, it was entirely permissible (albeit seldom arranged) for him to give the half-lap time. This would help with the pacemaking. Bannister didn't hear him correctly and felt so fired with energy in that early part of the race that he thought Brasher was setting too slow a pace. In the back straight Bannister yelled, "Faster, Chris! Faster!"

Brasher heard the call but refused to react. He was running smartly and believed the pace was right. Plus, he was going as fast as he could without getting up on his toes and sprinting, which would have meant the end of him by the start of the second lap. He maintained his speed, and Bannister, despite remaining anxious over the pace, was forced to hold steady behind him. Bannister was so restless that he was unaware of how fast he was running. As they reached the end of the first lap McWhirter's voice boomed out of the loudspeaker, "Fifty-four . ..fifty-five . ..fifty-six ... fifty-seven." Brasher crossed the line first, Bannister a half-second behind him in 57.5, and Chataway third. The three were evenly spaced and already well ahead of the rest of the field. The crowd began to sense that something very special was afoot, particularly given how quickly and purposefully the three runners were striding.

Into the second lap, Brasher sustained the pace. Bannister continued to run on his nerves and had not yet settled into an easy stride. When they turned into the back straight, Stampfl shouted, "Relax! Relax!" Bannister was wasting energy by running so stiffly. Whether consciously or unconsciously, Bannister heard Stampfl and began to get into his rhythm. If they were running too slow, it was too late in the race to adjust. Calm descended over him, and his legs began to move as if on their own. He felt free of exertion.

"One-twenty-five ... one-twenty-six ... one-twenty-seven."

Brasher passed the 660 mark and began to feel the strain. He was running less easily than the other two and starting to chug around the track like a freight train, arms coming across his chest as he ran. Behind him, Bannister strode smoothly, beating a steady cadence on the cinder track as they approached the half-mile mark. Chataway kept to the strong pace in third position.

"One-fifty-six ... one-fifty-seven ...one-fifty-eight."

Bannister scarcely heard the time. His body was running within the groove that he had trained many months to shape. He was in the zone. Brasher continued to lead, making a mighty effort to maintain the pace. To his mind, the bend lasted an interminable amount of time. Around the stadium the crowd clapped louder and louder. They whispered among themselves that this might be the big day. Athletes in the infield stopped their warm-ups to get to the side of the track for a better view. The time was fast for the half-mile, and the officials responsible for making sure everything went according to the rules began to realize they had a reason to be especially careful.

As they approached the two-and-a-half-lap mark, Brasher was struggling. His mouth was wide open, and he looked ready to fall over at any moment. Bannister sensed that his friend was about to stall and called for Chataway to take over. "Chris," Bannister yelled. Chataway was tired, but hearing Bannister, he found the strength to spring forward. With his short but powerful strides, he quickly overtook Bannister, then Brasher. The three other men in the race had been long forgotten.

"Two-twenty-seven ... two-twenty-eight ...two-twenty-nine."

Stampfl checked his own stopwatch, reassuring himself that they were on pace. Brasher had always been the question mark in the pacemaking scheme because of his lack of natural speed, but he fought mightily through the first two and a half laps. They were on schedule. The steeplechaser had a giant heart. Now it was up to Chataway, then Bannister himself. Stampfl knew the moment would soon come for both when their fatigued legs and lack of oxygen would cry out for them to stop. The coach only hoped he had helped them enough to know they could push back this pain, convince their legs to keep striding, and will themselves onward.

Rounding the bend, Chataway focused on maintaining their speed, his lips pursed as he ran. Bannister still felt good. He allowed the motion of his arms and legs to almost lull him into a trance. It would be in the final lap that he would have to earn his chance at immortality.

"Two-fifty-eight... two-fifty-nine ... three minutes."

At the sound of the bell for the final lap, Bannister had run a 3:00.4. The crowd had been steadily clapping with the occasional cheer, but they now stood to their feet and let loose. Their voices raised into an uproar—this might very well be it. Chataway made his way around the turn, his flushed cheeks swelling with breath. At 350 yards Bannister considered bursting past him, but he waited. He needed a fifty-nine-second last lap or the attempt would fail. It was too early to begin his finishing kick. Chataway turned into the back straight, even his world-class endurance finally giving out. From the sidelines Stampfl shouted, "Go all out!" Chataway tried to hold on as long as he could, but then at the 230-yard mark Bannister swept past him on the outside, his great stride devouring the track.

"Three-twenty-eight ...three-twenty-nine ...three-thirty ...three-thirty—"

Bannister had to finish the final half-lap in less than thirty seconds. He forced himself faster, feeling as if his will to break through the tape in less than four minutes was outpacing his feet. He heard the crowd shouting his name, their support urging him forward, stronger, faster. His great stride lengthened. He accentuated the drive of his arms to keep balance. As he passed the 1,500-meter mark, his face drained of color and contorted with effort, Ross McWhirter took the time—3:43, world-record fast. He dashed over to his brother Norris and told him the time. The twins were convinced that Bannister was about to make history.

From over seventy yards back Brasher gasped, "Come on, Roger . ..Roger . ..Roger!"

But Bannister was beyond tired. At fifty yards from the finish he had exhausted himself completely. There was no pain. He was simply used up. Yet he forced himself ahead, drawing deep upon a reservoir of will only few ever discover. Twenty-five yards. Ten yards. Five yards. The distance from the tape appeared to lengthen. He began to push his chest forward. His legs were still moving. Two strides. His chin went up, his arms drove higher. Keep going. One stride. Keep going. He flung himself at the tape, a tortured yet glorious expression of abandon on his face.

When he crossed the finish line, his legs buckled and he collapsed into the arms of former Olympic sprinter Nicholas Stacey. Leslie Truelove stepped in and draped his arm around Bannister from the other side. The crowd spilled onto the track as the other runners finished their miles. After a few steps Bannister tried to stand again, but his legs gave out. He could barely understand what was going on around him.

"Give him air," someone shouted.

Stampfl moved forward and held Bannister up, his powerful shoulders a ballast. Meanwhile, Chataway and Brasher struggled for breath on the grass infield, unable to get to their friend because of the stampede of people surrounding him.

Bannister was barely conscious and was overwhelmed with pain. For a moment he could see only in black and white. His system was completely taxed from a lack of oxygen. His legs and arms felt as if someone were gripping them tightly. He felt certain that he had broken the barrier, although the time had yet to be announced. Chest swelling with deep breaths, he closed his eyes and rested his forehead in the crook of Stampfl's neck. The coach supported him as they took a few careful steps forward.

"Did I do it?" Bannister coughed out his first words, his face still pale.

"I think so," replied Stampfl, concerned for his runner. Two minutes later the timekeepers handed Norris McWhirter the official time of the race. It was his responsibility to give the result. Trying to keep his voice from breaking, McWhirter spoke into the microphone, resolved to give his announcement the tone that he had practiced the previous night. The pandemonium on the track silenced as the words came over the loudspeakers:

Ladies and gentlemen, here is the result of Event Number Nine, the One Mile: First, Number Forty-One, R. G. Bannister, of the Amateur Athletic Association and formerly of Exeter and Merton Colleges, with a time which is a new meeting and track record, and which subject to ratification will be a new English Native, British National, British All-Comers, European, British Empire and WORLD'S RECORD. The time is THREE...

The rest of the announcement was drowned out by the joyous cries of the 1,200 people who had witnessed history. Bannister had run the mile in 3:59.4—at last the barrier was broken.

"Three cheers for Roger Bannister!" a young undergraduate shouted. The crowd responded. "Three cheers! Three cheers!" Hundreds swarmed around Bannister, pressing closer and closer. His parents broke through the crowd and threaded their way to him. "I knew you would do it one day, Roger," his mother said, throwing her arms around him. He embraced her as newsreel cameramen, photographers, journalists, undergraduates, and children tried to get his attention.

Bannister finally recovered enough to stand on his own and raised his arms over his head in triumph, calling out for Chataway and Brasher. He hurried toward them. After so much effort spent together, he wanted to share the moment. He vigorously shook their hands, his usual reserve replaced by a warm smile. "Without them, I could not have done it," Bannister said to all around him. The three then took a victory trot around the track, a wake of well-wishers following them. While officials tried to get the meet running again, Bannister signed autographs, spoke to the press, and thanked the head groundsman, Walter Morris. Meanwhile, Chris Brasher, who had a talent for getting straight to the point, told the Daily Mail's Terry O'Connor what many were thinking: "Well, we did it," Brasher said. "That means Landy and Wes Santee can never break the four-minute mile first."

After a quick shower, Bannister went to the Vincent's for a glass of water mixed with table salt (chased with a shandy) and then was shuttled off in a waiting blue car to appear on BBC evening television. It was a far cry from how he had quietly come to Oxford earlier in the day. His great celebration was about to begin. With a covey of journalists fluttering about to file their stories, one finagling a desk and phone at the local police station, another bribing a pub owner to monopolize his phone, life promised never to be the same again for Roger Bannister.

It was a humid afternoon on May 6, one threatened by thunderstorms at the University of Kansas, when Bill Mayer, athletics writer for the Lawrence Journal World, read of the broken barrier. His office's ticker tape relayed the news amid word of a Willie Mays home run in Cincinnati and Sam Snead losing his lead in a golf tournament in New York. Before he knew it, Mayer was kicking the machine. The four-minute mile was supposed to have been for Wes Santee. Moments later Mayer left his office to find Santee. He had to move quickly since other local reporters were bound to be fast on the hunt for the miler. His reaction was sure to be flavorful. Mayer knew that at that time of the day the surest bet was to head for Memorial Stadium.

Santee was finishing his workout when the newsmen rushed toward him. He was sweating and still short of breath when he heard what Bannister had done. Instantly he went numb, feeling as he did physically when he lost a race. Easton, who was stunned as well, tried to shield Santee from the questions, but he would have had as much luck trying to hold back an avalanche.

"What do you think of the news?" one reporter asked.

"I am not exceptionally disappointed," Santee replied. "Of the milers capable of doing it, Bannister is the one I'd just as soon have seen break it. There still is the challenge to see who will be the first American to break the four-minute mile. The time is still not as low as it can be run."

"Why were you beaten to the punch?"

"Having to compete for the university, I've had to run everything from soup to nuts. I haven't been permitted to concentrate."

"Would you like to run against Bannister?" asked the University Daily Kansan reporter.

Santee was clear. "Yes, and I think I could beat him if I had the chance."

Once the reporters got their quotes, Easton talked with Santee alone. He knew Santee was stung by the news. "We tried," he said. "But we have to keep on. You still have more running to do."

Santee agreed, although it would be several days before he was convinced of it. More than anything, he wanted a chance to compete against Bannister in a real race, one man against the other without pacing. Then the world would see.

The young miler walked alone back to the locker room. He didn't want to talk about Bannister or running for a while.

At a restaurant in Turku, the ancient capital of Finland and a far cry from the shores of Melbourne, Denis Johansson strode toward Landy, holding a cable in his hand. They had been together since Landy arrived on May 3, and for the first day since his arrival the Australian had not trained, perhaps wanting to see first how Bannister ran in Oxford.

"Look at this," the Finn said, passing him the cable across the table.

Bannister had done it: a 3:59.4 mile. It was a surprising performance, Landy thought at first. He knew the English miler was about to make another attempt, but Landy had thought that Bannister would break Haegg's record at best. Unbelievable—Bannister had knocked two seconds from the record. At least this meant an end to all the talk of the barrier, and Landy would be able to run without the "four-minute mile" punctuating his every stride. Then the disappointment began to settle over him. After so much sweat and strain, he had been beaten to the record. Reporters would want his response, Johansson told him. Landy didn't feel up to it. Not now. He asked the Finn if he would reply to the cable and then told him, "Well, let's have a go [for the record] on May 31."

Johansson sent back the following quote to reporters: "It's great, great, great. He's a great runner. I think the brilliant achievement will be bettered."

The next day Landy planned two workouts, one in the morning and one in the afternoon. He still believed he had a good chance, on these beautiful Finnish tracks, of running faster than anyone before. If Bannister had been able to break four minutes, then Landy felt he should be able to do it as well. He had run many more miles under 4:05 than Bannister—or anyone else for that matter. His training was more intensive as well. It was just a matter of all the right elements coming together.

And fast times weren't everything either. He also had the Empire Games to look forward to, when he and the Englishman were likely to face off against one another. Landy had been waiting a long time to see how he would fare against the best in the world. In Australia, and even Finland, he was finding that nobody could test him in the mile.