It seems so long ago, a time when there were still physical goals for us to reach -- places we had never journeyed to ... like the top of the world  -- actual mystical standards yet to yet to be achieved. Now, sure,  we break statistical records, and we manage perfectly amazing feats of technology ... robots drive about on Mars! ... but somehow it doesn't have the same romance to it, the same glamour. . . as, for example, back when men were trying to run a statute mile in four minutes -- 5,280 feet in 240 seconds.

A hundred years ago or so, doctors actually wondered whether the human body could even run at such a speed without the heart and lungs simply bursting. Over time, though, as runners drew tantalyzingly closer to four minutes, it seemed to become more a psychological barrier than a physical one.

In 1945, a Swede named Gundar Haegg lowered the record to 4:01:4. It seemed as if surely now the barrier would fall -- especially since the war was over and those other than Swedes could concentrate on running. But no. Nobody could even approach Haegg's mark. Four minutes seemed more elusive than ever. Even Everest fell to man. But not the mile -- not, until, finally, exactly 50 ago.

Roger Bannister was a medical student at Oxford. Really, not much of an athlete. Just the right sort of lungs and legs. He was, however, quite brilliant -- would become an esteemed neurologist. The four-minute mile was something of an afterthought to him, which he sought only after he was beaten in the 1,500 meters at the 1952 Olympics. He knew he had to give up running when his medical studies ended in 1954, so there would be no more Olympics. Well, let's try for the four minutes.

The amazing thing is how quaint it all was. Never mind steroids today. Runners are professionals, full-time, devoting their lives and bodies to their work. They are cosseted machines. Bannister didn't even have a coach. He'd work out lunch hours at a park in London -- had to pay three pence to get onto the track. He figured out the strategy for the race himself, getting two other runners to pace him.

The day he had set for the challenge -- Tuesday, May 6th, 1954 -- turned up raw and cool. He went to work in the hospital in the morning, the same as always, doing rounds, all on his feet. He took the underground to catch a train to Oxford. He stood up much of the way. He ate a big, hot English lunch, and only decided to go all out minutes before the race when he saw a flag on a church steeple dip. The wind was down! All right, let's give it a go! Then, despite the wet track, Bannister ran a perfect race: 3:59:4 seconds.

In a way, it wasn't just a barrier of time that fell that day 50 years ago. Bannister was about the last of his breed -- the athlete on the side. Just as inventions are no longer made in garages, so human beings don't break records in their spare time anymore. No, thank heaven, athletes are paid for their labors like everyone else who is good at what they do. But somehow, at least back then, before Sputnik went up and the British Empire went away, it seemed right that the final, great challenge fell to one young man, who did it all by himself, the same as his forefathers. In a way, Roger Bannister was the last hero in sport. All that have followed, however great, have only been celebrities, stars and superstars.

Sports Illustrated senior contributing writer Frank Deford is a regular contributor to SI.com and appears each Wednesday on National Public Radio's Morning Edition. He is a longtime correspondent for HBO's Real Sports and his new novel, An American Summer (Sourcebooks Trade), is available at bookstores everywhere.