“These events aren’t for the mentally fragile. When you have twelve fit and courageous young people willing to run themselves to collapse, only three can be completely successful. The other nine leave with doubts about whether it was worth the pain and effort. Despite their disappointment today, four years from now, many of them will return to give it another shot.”
Chapter 27
FIVE THOUSAND FINALS
Sunlight bounced from the hills west of town and into the hotel room. John Corbin lay on the flowered bedspread and pondered his future. The Olympics, after all, are meaningless. Who remembers the winner of the 5,000 meters at the 1936 Games? But there’s Zatopek, Nurmi, Viren. Surely, they influenced – probably still do – hundreds of young people in countries the world over. Certainly, even the lesser lights – Mimoun, Norpoth, Gammoudi, Ritola – motivated the children of their countries. Heck, they motivate me, John realized.
He noticed the blinking light on his room phone and called the front desk.
“Do you have a message for John Corbin?”
“Yes, Mr. Corbin,” the young voice said. “Mr. Beckwith will meet you at 10:30 a.m. at the Knoxville Country Club. His car will pick you up in front of the hotel at ten o’clock.”
Good old Harry, John thought. First class every day in every city.
Corbin unloaded his gym bag and checked its contents again. Spikes, singlet, numbers pinned front and back, shorts, warm-ups. He packed his bag and set it by the door. In eight hours, he would step onto the rubbery red track and run 12-1/2 laps as fast as he could.
* * * * *
Chessy Adams was behind the stadium, refilling water coolers, when screaming tires yanked him from his task. He broke into a lumbering run toward the boulevard east of the track.
Minutes before, he had watched from the stadium steps as Sarah Herrington took a ten-meter lead into the homestretch of the 1500-meter run. A pack of pursuers, like three hyenas at her heels, found a way to sprint. One by one, they edged past her as thousands of spectators yelled, shocked but transfixed, as people are while watching a cheetah chase down a gazelle.
Chessy sprinted now, his hardest running in forty years, to reach the lanky, blue-clad woman, lying limp on the hot tarry pavement.
“Git back!” Chessy hollered at the growing crowd of motorists who left their cars and edged toward the injured athlete. “Y’all git back!”
“By God, it’s that runner,” he muttered.
Sarah was breathing but unconscious, her left thigh obviously broken from the collision with a massive SUV. The woman who had struck her was frozen to the steering wheel.
“One a’ you with a cell phone – call me an ambulance!”
Bill Szymczak was lining up to start the 5,000 with the other eleven finalists as the women’s 1500 finished 150 meters away at the opposite corner of the track. He was in his zone now and would not be distracted. The starter called them to their marks and with the pistol’s report, they were underway.
John Corbin jostled like a pinball among the eight men up front. This is it, he thought. These have been your investments: a hundred breathless miles each week; tons of weights lifted; joints stretched to the point of pain; muscles bullied into peak fitness. It’s time to let it all out.
The time at 400 meters, 60.2 seconds, said the announcer. That’s Bill Sizz-mick of St. Louis leading . . . check that, that’s Sim-zak.
Szymczak, strong, muscular, and courageous – those were Bill’s thoughts as he hit the front. These guys don’t want a fast first mile. Let me take the starch out of their legs and we’ll see who can still run hard the last two miles.
“That’s Corbin,” Harry told her, pointing, “there, in the red singlet and shorts, about fifth place.
“What’s his best time this year?” Mary asked.
“Thirteen-twelve. It will take a PR to make this team.”
Szymczak, Guthrie, and Bell surged ahead, only to be absorbed at the 1,000-meter point by the pack. Madras, Corbin, and Murphy made it six at the front. Wapiti, apparently in over his head, trailed the leaders by 60 meters. Ten laps remained.
And here’s our split at 1600 meters . . . 4:03.30. That’s Madras of Ponte Vedra Beach, Florida; Corbin of Cleveland; and Bell of Baton Rouge in the lead. Murphy, Szymczak, and Guthrie are the second trio. Eight and a half laps to go.
“Look at their courage, Daddy,” said Mary, unable to keep her seat that overlooked the homestretch. “Most of them are racing faster than they’ve ever dreamed.”
“Corbin looks good to me, Mary. He’s interval-trained and has practiced surging many times a day. It’s a real dog fight down there,” Beckwith said.
One dozen of the fittest human beings in the United States were pounding around the track at fifteen miles an hour, oblivious to the crowd of thirty-five thousand cheering supporters. Not a thought was wasted on the ninety-degree heat or the humidity that sealed sweat to their bodies like paint. Eleven men ran to the rhythm dictated by all the others in the race–no one was comfortable now.
There were still six long laps to run and every man was in crisis–every man but one.
Kivato Wapiti closed the gap to fifty meters. These guys are madmen, he thought, and glanced at the rim of the stadium where fifty state flags hung limp. Six laps to go – this isn’t so bad. A drumbeat began in his head and he willed his tiny feet to match its tempo.
And here they come through 3,000 meters, folks. It’s Guthrie, Corbin, and Szymczak, running abreast. The unofficial split is 7:50. They’re on pace to crack the Trials record of 13:08. Five laps remain to be run. And now, on the curve, Kyle Bell takes the lead.
Behind the stadium, a siren’s wail could be heard. The runners on the track heard only the grunts of competition and the fearful white noise of total exertion.
John Corbin hesitated momentarily when Bell hit the front. Let the speed demons jockey for the lead – there’s still more than a mile left. Gather yourself, John thought . . . gather yourself – and get ready for the final 800.
Madras was content to run in fifth. He was still aerobic. The high-altitude training in sand and on mountain trails, where seven-minute miles were impossible, had amazingly prepared him for this challenge. Oxygen bathed his muscles, carried by fifteen-percent more red blood cells than his rivals.
His bright pink singlet stood out among the others, and each time he rounded the final turn, the brown letters H.O.G. could be read by everyone in the stands.
Calvin Benlehr, Chris Nikolas, and Diana Bailey stood at the top of the straightaway, on the stadium rail, and shouted encouragement.
“You go, Chuck! You’re the best there is!” Diana’s small voice pierced the afternoon heat and he heard her. Nodding, he tightened the gap between himself and Guthrie and now cruised ten meters from the lead. Madras thought, for just a second, of Old Joe Falcone, and how great it felt sprinting down the grass road toward him.
Kivato could see the nearest six men sag. They came back to him suddenly, like the jackrabbit he had run down when he was twelve years old. Be relentless, his father had said, and no other living thing can elude you forever.
Four laps to go and it’s Guthrie and Bell out front. Corbin, Madras, and Szymczak in pursuit.
This result just in – Irene Dahlgren has thrown a new American record in the javelin – 217 feet, three inches.
And here are the official results for the women’s 1500: Janice Harper, Janelle Madison, and Kelley Kirkland are our top three and will represent the USA in the Olympics.
One thousand meters remained and Kyle Bell decided to go for it right now. Bell, a three-time NCAA champion in the indoor 3000, dropped his arms and lengthened his already long stride to swallow up the next 200 meters in 29 seconds. Bell’s move shocked the four men in position to see it. They wondered if there were still two laps to go.
“Is that right?” screamed Guthrie, pointing to the LAPS sign. A large “2” stared him in the face. An official yelled back, “Yes! Two laps to go!”
Now 800 meters remained Only five were still in contention – for the other seven, the Olympic dream had opened a four-year gap.
Kyle Bell holds the lead, his time is 11:04. Then Guthrie, followed by Corbin, Szymczak, and Madras.
Kivato was mentally running across the desert, as light as a roadrunner, skittering through the sagebrush in search of a plump lizard. Are there two laps left? Yes, two laps. The run up the arroyo is that far. Guthrie is thirty meters ahead. I wonder if I can catch him?
John Corbin reached deep inside his guts and found a surge strong enough to regain contact with Guthrie. Now only 600 meters remained. “Six hundred meters, John. Live in hell for just ninety more seconds.” The Demon of Pain had long since left the track and was wading in the pond across the street.
“And that’s Guthrie, taking the lead into the bell lap!” bellowed the announcer and the entire stadium roared to its feet. “It’s Guthrie, followed by Corbin, then Bell, Madras and Szymczak. And it’s Szymczak, passing around the curve to take third. Wapiti continues to close with 300 meters to go!”
Corbin reached deeper, into the recesses of the heart that had served him so well, and began to sprint. The five leaders were now just three strides apart. Wapiti incrementally closed the gap on them all with no visible increase in effort.
Madras, in lane three, poked his head into the lead and Guthrie, finding another burst of power, fought him off. Guthrie, blinded by his effort, stepped on the curb. He sprawled, face-first onto the infield grass, and skidded to a stop, both feet still moving.
Guthrie is down! Guthrie is down, and it’s Madras, Corbin, and Szymczak. And then Bell. Wapiti is fifth and closing!
“The Helsinki race!” Beckwith blurted.
“What??” screamed Mary.
“The ’52 Olympics in Helsinki. Zatopek and Chataway and the rest! I can’t believe it!”
“And it’s Madras, Szymczak, and Corbin. Bell joins them in the stretch. And here comes Wapiti!”
“Come on, John,” whispered Beckwith. “Come on, John.”
The four were in a dead sprint up the straightaway. Wapiti was closing on them all at the tape. The crowd cheered so loudly, it was impossible to think. Five men crossed the finish line together.
What a wonderful race, ladies and gentlemen. We’re going to need the photo for that one. The unofficial time for the men’s 5,000-meters, 13:04.21.
“Did he do it, Daddy?” Mary asked, bouncing with excitement, perspiration dripping from her face. “Do you think John made the team?”
“Doesn’t matter,” answered Beckwith. “They’ll all remember that race the rest of their lives.”
The ambulance wailed its way to the hospital with a beautiful unconscious woman inside, her hand held firmly by an old Black man in coveralls.