The First Four Minutes

After three days our minds turned to running again. We suddenly became alarmed at the thought of taking any more risks and decided to return. We had slept little, our meals had been irregular. But when we tried to run those quarter-miles again the time came down to 59 seconds!

It was now less than three weeks to the Oxford University vs. AAA race, the first opportunity of the year for us to attack the four-minute mile. Chataway had decided to join Brasher and myself on the AAA team. He doubted his ability to run a three-quarter-mile in three minutes, but he generously offered to attempt it.

I had now abandoned the severe training of the previous months and was concentrating entirely on gaining speed and freshness.

A UNITY IN MOTION

There was no longer any need for my mind to force my limbs to run faster—my body became a unity in motion much greater than the sum of its component parts. I never thought of length of stride or style, or even my judgment of pace. All this had become automatically ingrained. In this way a singleness of drive could be achieved, leaving my mind free from the task of directing operations so that it could fix itself on the great objective ahead. There was more enjoyment in my running than ever before, a new health and vigor. It was as if all my muscles were a part of a perfectly tuned machine. I felt fresh now at the end of each training session.

Thursday came, May 6,1954. In my mind I had settled this as the day when, with every ounce of strength I possessed, I would attempt to run the four-minute mile. I knew the weather conditions made the chances of success practically nil. The wind was blowing a near gale; it would slow me up by a second a lap. To succeed I must run not merely a four-minute mile, but the equivalent of a 3-minute 56-second mile in calm weather.

I was met at the Oxford station by Charles Wenden, a great friend from my early days in Oxford, who drove me straight down to Iffley Road. The wind was still almost gale force. Together we walked round the deserted track. The St. George's flag on a nearby church stood out from the flagpole. The attempt seemed hopeless.

In the afternoon I called on Chris Chataway. At the moment the sun was shining, and he lay stretched on the window seat. He smiled and said, just as I knew he would, "The day could be a lot worse, couldn't it? The forecast says the wind may drop toward evening. Let's not decide until 5 o'clock."

I spent the afternoon watching from the window the swaying of the leaves. At 5:15 there was a shower of rain. The wind blew strongly, but now came in gusts, as if uncertain. As Brasher, Chataway and I warmed up, we knew the eyes of the spectators were on us; they were hoping that the wind would drop just a little—if not enough to run a four-minute mile, enough to make the attempt.

No one tried to persuade me. The decision was mine alone, and the moment was getting closer. As we lined up for the start I glanced up at the flag again. It fluttered more gently now, and the scene from Shaw's Saint Joan flashed through my mind, as she, at her desperate moment, waited for the wind to change. Yes, the wind was dropping slightly. This was the moment when I made my decision. The attempt was on.