The Joy Of Running

Saturday, March 22, 1947, was a cold, wet day, the sort of day on which the sports invariably fall—according to the vast experience of Old Blues. It was the second meeting after a wartime interval of six years. The track was so soaked by the rain that it was of the consistency of lumpy porridge. I felt that the honor of my university was at stake and the responsibility weighed heavily on my shoulders, despite the fact that only a handful of spectators had come to the meeting. This was, after all, the White City Stadium, where I had seen Wooderson running two years before.

When the gun fired, the Cambridge runners shot into the lead, so I stayed back at a respectful distance and remained there until the middle of the back straight after the bell. I was as tired as everyone else, but suddenly for the first time I felt a crazy desire to overtake the whole field. I raced through into the lead, and a feeling of great mental and physical excitement swept over me. I forgot my tiredness. I suddenly tapped that hidden source of energy I always suspected I possessed. I won by 20 yards in a time of 4 minutes 30.8 seconds.

I had expressed something of my attitude to life in the only way it could be expressed, and it was this that gave me the thrill. It was intensity of living, joy in struggle, freedom in toil, satisfaction at the mental and physical cost. It gave me a glimpse of the future because I had discovered my gift for running—an unconscious conspiracy of mind and body that made this energy release possible. I knew from that day that I could develop this newly found ability.

In October, 1947 I received an invitation to become a "possible" for the Olympic Games to be held at Wembley the following summer. I had by this time considerably improved my running and had a good deal of competition behind me. In June, in a match at Oxford against the AAA, I ran a 4-minute 24.6-second mile at the age of 18—faster than Wooderson at the same age. I had had my first trip abroad in August, for a meet against German athletes in Cologne. Despite this, I felt I was not ready at the time for competition of Olympic standard. Though I might possibly survive these tense conditions and even reach the final, I thought it would prejudice my chances for the 1952 Games. So I declined the invitation to become a "possible"—though the AAA still allowed me to receive some of the benefits.

Six months later I was wavering in my decision. My running was going well. In three major university races my time had come down to 4 minutes 18.7 seconds. Perhaps I had been foolish in thinking that I was too young. I was gambling on a future improvement as an athlete that might never come.

I entered for the AAA Mile Championship in 1948, my first appearance in competition at this level. I thought that if I ran well I might still be considered for Olympic selection. But I hesitated about forcing myself to run flat out. The race was won by Nankeville in 4 minutes 14.2 seconds, with Barthel of Luxembourg second, De Ruyter of Belgium third, Morris fourth and myself fifth. My time was my fastest to that date, 4 minutes 16.9 seconds. I was the third Englishman, a significant position, as there were three places to be filled for the Olympic 1,500 meters. Douglas Wilson did not run, owing to a muscle injury, and he was selected as Britain's third representative. Looking back I feel very relieved on the whole that I did not earn selection for the 1948 Olympics. I did play some small part in the Games, however, as assistant to the Commandant of the British team, Col. E. A. Hunter, O.B.E.

The Olympic Games of 1948 changed my whole outlook. Until this time I had been inclined to look on athletics as a personal affair. I saw in it primarily a way of achieving that mastery over myself which I felt I was always in danger of losing—as I had done at school. I hoped my striving as an athlete would liberate other potentialities which I knew existed inside me. Some of these I had discovered. During the last year I had grown worried that the rigors of training and the strain of competition might dull my sensitivity to other things in life.

But when I was caught up in the Olympic movement this fear vanished. I grew outside my own feeble preoccupations and strivings on the track and was transported to a greater realization of the true significance of sport. Sport changed from being a jumbled striving of individual athletes and teams to a new unity, with a beauty that is evident in men's highest endeavor. In all this I felt proud to have a small part.

By the end of the Games I was restless and anxious to compete myself. There were four years to wait before my chance would come at Helsinki in 1952. I decided I could allow myself two years of carefree running before I started single-minded preparation for Helsinki. I expected the standard would be higher then, but I hoped to be better prepared.

Sooner or later we undertake an adventure that may change our lives. For me it came when I first went to the United States. America had previously seemed as far off to a third-year medical student as dinner at the Savoy to a beggar on the Embankment.