Farrington watched Nikkari's ungainly shuffle and said, as if insulted, "The bloke's got no bloody calves."
Frank said, "Boy when we go around that turn, all hell is going to break loose."
Farrington shot him a look of panic.
Usami had taken them through the last 5,000 meters in 16:21. Frank ran the next in 15:11. Several hundred yards after turning for home, he met me laboring among the stragglers.
"Put it to them," I said, needlessly. There was blood in his eye and he was running with a light, driving precision.
With nine miles to go Frank had gained 200 yards on Usami and Foster, who were running together. The crowd changed in tone. Applause for Frank was warm, but the resounding encouragement behind him was of a different order. He used it to gauge his lead.
"The race is always between 20 and 26 miles," he said later. "My only doubt was that my mind was ready to put my body through that. When I got into it, I still didn't know. There was the pain, and there was a peculiar frustration. I can run a four-minute mile. It was agonizing for a runner like me to not be able to do anything but crawl."
They ran the last three miles into the teeth of the wind. The gritty, powerful Usami shook off Foster and drove on after Frank.
"It was the hardest I've ever run," said Frank. "Even in the heat of Cali, I felt better. Here, I was so helpless."
He won by 32 seconds in 2:12:50.4.