The Kings Of Distance: A Study of Five Great Runners Read online

  The Kings of Distance

  Peter Lovesey

  © Peter Lovesey, 1968

  Peter Lovesey has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1968 by Eyre & Spottiswoode.

  This edition published in 2018 by Lume Books.

  Table of Contents

  Foreword by Harold M. Abrahams

  Author’s Preface

  Deerfoot

  George

  Shrubb

  Nurmi

  Zátopek

  The Kings in Perspective

  Updating the Story

  Works Consulted

  Foreword by Harold M. Abrahams

  During the past twenty-five years I have more than once been asked to perform the launching ceremony of a book on athletics — such is the privilege of those regarded as belonging to the ‘elder-statesmen’ group of ex-athletes — but on no occasion have I approached my responsibilities with more pleasure.

  ‘But though the compliment implied

  Inflates me with legitimate pride,

  It nevertheless can’t be denied

  That it has its inconvenient side.’

  And the ‘inconvenient side’ is the anxiety that I shall not do full justice to this first-class production.

  Only those who have experienced the difficulties of research into athletic history and have spent hours and days, as I have, in the Newspaper Library at Colindale, can realize just how much work Peter Lovesey has put into this volume. And how superbly he has performed his task: presenting accurate historical information in a most attractive way, and making many famous races really come alive. One would have thought that he had seen all the events about which he writes.

  Of the five Kings, I frequently saw Paavo Nurmi and Emil Zátopek in action, and I also met Walter George and Alfred Shrubb on more than one occasion. A. B. George who won the American steeplechase title in 1889 and the British five years later was Team Manager of Great Britain’s Athletic Team at the Paris Olympic Games, and through him I had more than one conversation with his most distinguished elder brother. Alfred Shrubb was coach to the Oxford University Athletic Club in the four years that I competed for Cambridge, and in those days, 1920-1923, was still the holder of some ten world records.

  It is, I suppose, inevitable that we should try to determine which was the greatest of the five Kings of Distance, but this very human desire to find the Ace can never be satisfied — except possibly by a contest (of course under I.A.A.F. Rules) on Elysian Fields. Any comparison of ‘times’ is fraught with fallacies, for the cost of winning varies from generation to generation even more than the cost of living. Ben Hogan, winner of the British Open Golf Championship in 1953, said that ‘a man who could be a champion in one era could be a champion in any other, because he has what it takes to get to the top’. And the great Bobby Jones said quite simply on the same subject ‘All that a man can do is to beat the people around at the same time that he is. He cannot win from those who came before, any more than he can from those who come afterward’. In another sphere, the late Lord Birkett in his book Six Great Advocates, wrote: ‘Men must be judged by the standards of the age in which they lived and worked’, and if we apply this same criterion to the five Kings in this volume, we shall surely come to the conclusion that each was one of the truly great figures of the athletic world. You may say the times they accomplished look like schoolboy performances today, but this does not in any way detract from their greatness.

  Perhaps Peter Lovesey may be persuaded to follow this fine work with a companion one on ‘Five Queens’ — or even ‘Five Knaves’. I might qualify for inclusion in the latter volume, though perhaps I would prefer to be one of ‘Five Jokers’.

  If this book achieves the success it so richly deserves, it should not be very long before the sequels I have ventured to suggest are forthcoming.

  August 1967

  Author’s Preface

  A few years ago I bought second-hand a tiny annual of sport which recorded the principal events of the year 1897. Reference was made there to a professional record for running a certain distance within an hour. It was a considerable achievement, rather better than any English amateur had managed half a century later. But what commanded my attention was a picture of the professional runner whose record had been displaced. He was wearing the costume of a Red Indian, and his name was given as Deerfoot. His record had been made in 1863 — at Brompton, a stone’s throw from the site of the Victoria and Albert Museum. I was intrigued by this incongruous athletic event, and began a quest to discover more about Deerfoot. Soon I learned that recent books offered no information, and older works made only slender reference. Not only was his career too remote to be worth recalling, but he was a professional, and his times therefore of minor interest.

  By studying the newspapers of the period, I was gradually introduced to the forgotten, but glittering, era of English mid-century pedestrianism, into which Deerfoot arrived in 1861. After uncovering hundreds of day-to-day accounts of this simple, but talented, runner and his experience among the wily practitioners of pedestrianism, I marvelled that no full account of his career had been written. But, on reflection, the same could be said of many great runners.

  The literature of athletics is rich in histories and technical manuals, but the historian of athletics is overwhelmed and embarrassed by the sheer mass of material on each branch of the sport. He insists on so much statistical evidence about each performance that the human aspect of the sport is obscured. The personal information that does endure is often superficial or repetitive. Nurmi’s watch, and Zátopek’s facial contortions, have become clichés of athletics literature. Although such eccentricities are valid biographical material it is a pity if they are often our only memories of great athletes.

  I decided to study the careers of five distance runners of the past hundred years whose feats have been almost legendary. By the happiest accident they achieved distinction at neat intervals of about twenty years, which afforded me an opportunity of comparing the conditions in which they lived, trained and competed. Deerfoot was naturally the first. The next was an Englishman, Walter George, who so dominated amateur athletics in the 1880s that he had to turn professional to meet the one man who could offer him rivalry. His duels with Cummings culminated in a mile run as perfect in its precision as Roger Bannister’s removal of the four minute barrier — and in its setting George’s effort was no less sensational.

  The third distance runner was of the Edwardian era, Alfred Shrubb, the Sussex bricklayer who discovered his running ability by accident and made staggering records in the most unpromising conditions. In another twenty years the leadership in distance running had passed to Finland. Paavo Nurmi’s feats at the Paris Olympic Games are cocooned in legend: it was a challenge to extricate the man from the saga, and examine the six days of success in detail. Finally, there was Emil Zátopek, the Czech, who transformed the sport and drove himself to the most extraordinary triple victory in the history of the Olympic Games.

  Many qualities contribute to an athlete’s greatness, and a runner’s times are not the only criterion. Turn your attention away from today’s ever-improving records and consider each of these five athletes in relation to the standards, the techniques and the limitations of his era. They are the Kings of Distance.

  *

  I should like to express my gratitude to the many individuals who have assisted in the preparation of this book. Five people, in particular, have made substantial contributions. John Keddie provided valuable information on Cummings
and Shrubb. Guy Butler put at my disposal much unpublished material on George and Nurmi. Hyla Stallard gave me an illuminating account of the Paris Olympic Games. Harold Abrahams not only read the manuscript and made many helpful suggestions, but has very kindly written the Foreword. And lastly my wife, Jackie, typed the manuscript and, by her constant encouragement, ensured its completion. I dedicate this book to her.

  Deerfoot

  The paragraph in Bell’s Life on August n, 1861, was startling in its originality. Many a Victorian gentleman must have read it aloud that morning to his wondering household.

  An Indian of Catterangus, North America, known by the names of Deerfoot and Red Jacket, has visited England for the purposes of testing the fleet powers of our pedestrians and aims at nothing lower than the 10 miles Champion’s Cup and 6 miles Champion’s Belt. Ready to make a match at each distance, he has left £10 with us, and the acceptor has only to cover this sum, and meet the Indian (or his representative) at Mr Wilson’s ‘Spotted Dog’, on Friday next, and the match will go on.

  A little over a century ago athletics was almost wholly a professional sport; some schoolboys and undergraduates competed as amateurs, while amateur oarsmen or gymnasts sporadically arranged diverting afternoons on the track. But any early Victorian who felt impelled to test his athletic prowess in serious competition, as some men are in any age, could achieve personal fulfilment only by entering the seamy world of pedestrianism. Comparison with modern athletics would convey nothing of this bizarre precursor, which more obviously resembled the atmosphere of the prize-ring and the race course than an Olympic stadium. Pedestrianism, like pugilism, was administered largely from public houses up and down the country, and the most notable matches were reported in sporting newspapers. Certain hostelries, such as ‘The Snipe Inn’, near Ashton, ‘The Proud Peacock’ at Covent Garden, ‘The Ash Inn’ at Stockport and ‘The Spotted Dog’ in the Strand became nationally famous as sponsors of running events; the landlords held the stakes and often acted as referees. The runners made frequent appearances in the tap-rooms to display their trophies and enjoy the admiration, and often the hospitality, of the clientele, who would offer more beneficial support at the meetings.

  Deerfoot’s challenge was doubtless examined with tolerant scepticism by the leading runners of the day. These were men who raced perennially, in all weathers; an athletics ‘season’ would have mystified them. They drew thousands, even in the coldest months, to Brompton or Hackney Wick, London, the Copenhagen Grounds, Manchester, and a dozen other enclosed tracks. The accolade, the gold medal, for a professional runner was the earning of a popular title; ‘The Crowcatcher’, ‘The Gateshead Clipper’, ‘The Norwich Milkboy’ and ‘Treacle’ had won their track-names for courage and consistency, qualities that crowds preoccupied with betting odds had been compelled to recognize. It could not have seemed likely that an untried savage from the New World would offer serious competition. Yet it was believed that Red Indians had remarkable powers of endurance.

  There were some who said that Deerfoot was merely a refugee from the Civil War which had just erupted in America, and that he hoped to earn an easy living by causing a small sensation among the English sporting public. A few sceptics suggested that he was no Indian at all, but some old pedestrian fanning the embers of his dying popularity with a pardonable deception.

  But the majority of those who read of the mysterious newcomer accepted the announcement as fact and even enlarged on it in their imaginations. We should remember that the Victorian image of a Red Indian was not based on grease-painted cinema idols, but on frequent newspaper reports of tribal wars, burnings and massacres. Even in 1887 when a London journalist wanted a phrase sufficiently horrifying to describe Jack the Ripper, he wrote in the Star, ‘The ghoul-like creature, stalking down his victim like a Pawnee Indian, is simply drunk with blood’ — and a lady reader dropped dead on seeing the report. Although there are no reports of deaths resulting from the announcement of Deerfoot’s challenge it certainly aroused curiosity, trepidation and, perhaps, bravado, to a degree which we might find difficult to imagine. The arrival of a Red Indian in the secure and insular England of 1861 was an event sufficiently awe-inspiring to lead to sensational scenes.

  The first test of Deerfoot’s running ability was arranged for a Monday evening, September 9, at the Metropolitan Ground, Hackney Wick. He was matched with Edward Mills, a promising twenty-year-old, known to the public as ‘Young England’. The distance was set for six miles. Mills had won several exciting struggles with seasoned professionals in similar events, despite the limitations of his 5 ft 4 in, eight stone frame. Few more formidable opponents could have been found.

  Trains ran every fifteen minutes from Fenchurch Street to Victoria Park, the station which overlooked the Hackney Wick ground. Between four and six o’clock, Londoners by the thousand, members of the Stock Exchange jostling with Billingsgate porters, surrendered their sixpenny tickets and streamed from the station platform towards the entrance to the ground. There were no ladies among them; running-grounds were rough places, extensions of the public houses which always adjoined them, and equally taboo. Pedestrianism attracted to its venues many brutish customers who frequently created ugly disturbances when results were not to their taste. On this September evening, though, the Hackney Wick throng was leavened by new patrons from all strata of society.

  Mr Baum, the manager of the ‘White Lion’ and proprietor of the ground, had advertised a six o’clock start ‘so that town and country can be in time to witness the Indian’s first race in England’. By 5.30 pm over four thousand curious and noisy spectators lined the trackside. Propriety dictated that everyone present should wear some form of headgear, and the black silk of stove-pipe hats gleamed in the September afternoon. Those without ‘toppers’ had broad-brimmed ‘pudding-basins’. Almost everyone carried a walking-stick or umbrella.

  The arena was unlike any modern stadium. Its circumference was a mere 260 yards, and about half the course was lined with an avenue of trees on both sides of the track, which made the scene picturesque, but tended to screen the view of those on the other side of the ground. Most of the spectators were massed behind low fencing in the yard of the ‘White Lion’ at one end of the ground, or along the railway embankment at the other. Those who were prepared to pay half a crown were allowed into the middle of the arena, where they quite obstructed the vision of anyone who wished to see the whole progress of the race, except for a group of officials and V.I.P.s, who could follow the entire proceedings from a raised pavilion in the centre, about the size and shape of a small signal box.

  An extra commotion from the ‘White Lion’ at about 5.30 pm focused all attention that way. Surely the runners were not coming out already, a full half-hour before the scheduled start? It was the unvarying custom in pedestrian circles to start events up to fifteen minutes later than advertised, never earlier. The word was soon circulated that the excitement heralded the Indian’s arrival outside the ground in an open carriage. He and his entourage had entered the ‘White Lion’ and he was changing. Mills, too, had arrived. As the likelihood of a forfeit faded, the betting increased markedly. Mills, the known runner, was favoured to win, but speculation on the Indian steadily reduced the odds.

  Ten minutes after the scheduled start, to applause mingled with derisive shouts and whistles, a tall, tawny figure emerged from the ‘White Lion’, stepped across the track and moved regally towards the starting point at the opposite end of the ground. To everyone’s delight Deerfoot was wearing the native costume of a Seneca brave of the Eagle tribe. At his waist was a short breech-clout, from which hung a row of small brass bells, which jingled as he moved. His head-dress was a single eagle’s feather, supported by a red head-band trimmed with gold. He also wore a bead necklace and earrings. There was now no denying his nationality; no amount of burnt cork or grease-paint could have faked that pigmentation. His facial structure, its definition heightened by the evening shadows, with protruding cheek-bones, aquilin
e nose and finely shaped lips, was impressively alien to the spectators, and his eyes glinted like the darkest garnets.

  To further applause Edward Mills jogged across the arena and joined the large group who surrounded Deerfoot. The Indian’s physique was flattered by comparison with Mills, with whom he shook hands, for he was six and a half inches taller and weighed three and a half stones more. Some of the more knowledgeable spectators declared that Deerfoot looked overweight for a distance runner, particularly about the chest and loins; this was probably the result of his long and confining Atlantic crossing.

  The referee addressed the runners, informing them that they would pass him forty-one times, and that he would announce each lap distinctly as they ran past. The race was to be started by pistol-shot, rather than by word of mouth, as was customary. Jack MacDonald, Deerfoot’s adviser, prepared to help the Indian put on a pair of spiked running-shoes, but when these were shown to him and their purpose was explained Deerfoot shook his head and tossed them contemptuously aside, indicating that he preferred his moccasins.

  At 6.15 pm the words ‘Are you ready?’ rang across the ground and echoed back from the railway embankment as the starting shot was fired. The two runners moved quickly into their stride and the spectators raised a roar which would vary in strength, but never be extinguished in the next half-hour. Many were amused by the contrasting appearance of the runners: the diminutive Mills in long-sleeved vest, tights and scarlet shorts, the Indian bare-chested, with scandalously short skirt jingling at each long stride, his head-dress making him appear a foot taller than the Londoner.

  Distance running, like every other form of athletics, has been undergoing a complex evolution, a cumulative process by which successive methods of training and technique are tested and then modified or elaborated, until they have become new theories, for others to discard or develop. Standards are transformed, until the very nature of the events is seen to have undergone a revolution. What was formerly a middle distance event has become a sprint; a Marathon is now a test of sustained speed; the old pole jump is a gymnastic vault, aided by the resiliency of fibreglass. The nineteenth century professional athlete’s conception of distance running was considerably less sophisticated than our own, yet by the middle of the century a method of running had been evolved which enabled athletes, untrained by modern notions, to cover long distances without the unseemly effects of extreme exhaustion and collapse. In the previous century there had been frequent cases of untrained athletes reaching beyond their physical capacity; a tragic instance was the young Woolley Morris who ran ten miles, in 54½ minutes, on Richmond Green on May 15,1753, a new record, only to burst a blood vessel and die within the hour.