A Bridge To Long Ago

Hard work was his ally. He ran miles and miles and more miles, the first of the distance runners to accumulate staggering totals, as many as 100 miles a week. He trained in hard combat boots to make his feet feel lighter on race day. He experimented. He wore a gas mask to see if it helped him control his breathing. He ran the stairs of stadiums for endurance. He ran in place in his bathtub. He ran. He told the writers who needled him about his facial contortions that they should try to run five kilometers in 13 minutes and see if they "smiled like cover girls." He ran some more.

"I started late," he says. "I was almost 19 years old. I never had participated in any organized sports. I was working in a shoe factory in Zlin, where I was born. You've heard of Bata shoes? They come from Moravia. The director of the factory said one day that there would be a race through the city on Sunday, and that I should run. I did not want to go. I told him I had a cold. I told him I had a bad knee. He made me go to the company doctor. The doctor said I was fine. I had to run. I surprised myself. I finished second."

The sport was his release. He ran through the Second World War. The Nazis had taken over his country so quickly in 1939 that it hardly had a chance to whimper. He ran through the Nazi era. There were no social gatherings, no dances. He ran. There was a curfew every night at sunset. He went home. He ran in place, miles and miles in one spot. The austerity of his situation somehow helped him become a better runner. There was little meat, so he ate vegetables. There was little coaching, so he became his own coach. He ran.

"If there is luxury, there is the danger of degeneration." he says. "Sit behind the wheel of a car and a man gains time, but loses condition. There was no car. I ran instead. Look at the distance champions today. They are mostly Africans. Runners from underdeveloped countries. They are not softened by luxury."

The war ended in 1945, and he kept running. He was drafted into the new Czech army and at first thought it was a terrible fate. Terrible? The army wanted him to run. He ran in the best facilities with the best trainers. He soon was breaking national records. Running was his military avocation. He was a professional runner.

As the 1948 Olympics in London approached, promising a return to athletic normalcy, he was Czechoslovakia's best hope. A few weeks before the Games, he attended a meet at which his chances of breaking the national record for 3,000 meters became the focus of attention. He was the star.

"I was warming up when there was a great roar and the announcement that a record had been set," he says. "I said, 'What is this? A record? How can it be? I have not run yet.' I was told it was a record in the women's javelin. I was asked to congratulate the woman. I did. We had our pictures taken together. Then I set my record, and she congratulated me. More pictures."

The woman was Dana Ingrova. Shouldn't a love story be part of any legend? He was strumming songs for her on the guitar by the time they went to London. He won the 10,000 in 29:59.6, the first Czechoslovakian runner ever to win an Olympic gold medal. He finished second in the rain in the 5,000. She finished seventh in the javelin. They were married 2� months later.

Their apartment in Prague became part home, part gymnasium. Each had a separate workout schedule, but at night they would throw a medicine ball to each other. Sometimes the ball landed on the floor. The neighbors downstairs would complain. Emil and Dana would giggle. They would go for picnics in the woods on weekends. She would prepare the lunch. He would plan the direction of the training run.

"Couldn't we have a normal Sunday afternoon once?" she would complain. "A normal picnic?"