The Joy Of Running

We had been trying to revive the athletic matches which had taken place before the war against the American universities of Princeton, Cornell, Yale and Harvard—the Ivy League, as it was called. I dared not hope for too much in case the plans went astray. But early in June, 1949 we found ourselves climbing on board a Stratocruiser at London Airport. I was flying for the first time—as captain of a combined Oxford-Cambridge team.

I was looking forward to my races in America with a mixture of anxiety and pleasure. I had spent the summer in England, training to reach my peak in America. In my last time trial, a half-mile for the AAA against London University at Motspur Park on June 1, 1949, I ran the distance in one minute 52.7 seconds, nearly five-seconds improvement on my previous best time. I felt in good heart.

I met Jack Lovelock at Princeton for the second time. Here he ran his epic race in 1933 against Bill Bonthron, when he set up a new world record of 4 minutes 7.6 seconds. Our talk was short, but he advised me when to use my finishing burst to the most telling advantage. He said that in every race there was a moment when the burst was least expected. The only problem was to decide the moment.

I found that the whole race often depended on this factor. In my later races—against Landy, for instance—I always had this advice in mind. An opponent is usually least prepared to be overtaken at the beginning or just at the end of the straight, and it is often possible to gain a few precious yards by this use of surprise.

On June 11 at Princeton, under Lovelock's watchful eyes, I ran against Ron Wittreich, the Princeton captain-elect. My time was 4 minutes 11.1 seconds. Wooderson had done 4 minutes 12.7 seconds in 1935 at the same age of 20, so I was keeping pace with his schedule. And, because I was already looking well ahead, I was even more pleased to find that I had reached my peak of fitness as I had planned—a peak which I felt I could now time almost to a day.

In the middle of the following week at Yale I ran a test three-quarter mile easily in 3 minutes 6 seconds, which made a mile in 4 minutes 8 seconds seem possible. We stayed there in one wing of the gymnasium, christened the "cathedral of muscle." We had never before seen such facilities for sport. The athlete did not have to think or to do anything for himself—he just provided a willing, obedient body, which his university clothed in athletic dress. He had only to follow his coach's instructions. Just in case he broke down under the strain the university had four whole-time psychiatrists to help undergraduates with their problems.

When we reached Harvard, their Finnish coach, kindly, white-haired Jaakko Mikkola, was delighted to meet athletes with the European approach. He spent almost as much time coaching us as his own team. He seemed lost in the American drive for results which, even at Harvard, turned sport into a machine in which the athlete's individuality was submerged. Jaakko took away my spikes on the morning of the race, grinding them as sharp as needle points. He also rubbed graphite into the soles of the shoes so that none of the cinders would stick. Afterwards I always did this before an important race or record attempt. These precautions may make no difference, but in those last hours before a race I always imagine I must not neglect any assistance, however slight.

George Wade of Yale, my rival in the Yale-Harvard match, was one of the best American milers of that time. I always feel anxious, even uncomfortable, when I meet an opponent for the first time. I find it almost impossible to relax, because the fierceness that I shall need for the race rises unbidden inside me. My anxiety was greater than usual when I first saw Wade. It was the first time I had been confronted with someone of my own height, weight and physique. I had the uncanny feeling that I should be running against my own shadow.

My physique had changed from school days. It just happened that by now my build, with a stronger body on long legs, was almost ideal for middle-distance running. So I had more reason to fear running against my "double." I won the race on June 20, 1949 in 4 minutes 11.9 seconds. I might not have defeated Wade if he had not flown to Los Angeles the previous week for the NCAA championships. The following year he returned to his home in the Far West where he intended to marry and settle down. This was a severe loss to American sport.

In December, 1949 I was included in the Oxford cross-country team for the race against Cambridge over Roehampton Common. The seven-and-a-half-mile course leads through several V-shaped valleys. At first you freewheel down one side until the uphill slope in the opposite side brings you under control before you are sent sprawling. After wading through the flooded Beverly Brook, more and more mud stuck to my shoes, legs, vest and shorts, until I felt I was carrying half the Common round with me.