The one-hour run is rarely contested. In the 1950s, Emil Zatopek, then the world-record holder over 10,000 meters, competed in two sixty-minute races to chase the world records for fifteen kilometers and ten miles. The Czech legend became the first man to better twelve miles for the hour, a mark that stood for nearly twenty years.
Chapter 14
WORKING MAN
Beckwith looked in the mirror one morning and saw an old man. The athlete’s body had become even leaner, once-taut skin sagged, and the ability to run ten brisk miles had eroded to five at a shuffle.
The former Olympian had been born too soon. His days of glory had come when only the bold few – men like Zatopek – pushed the limits of human performance. We trained hard, Beckwith thought, but most of us didn’t suffer.
“John,” asked the old man one morning, “could you drop by my office sometime this morning? I’ve got something for you.”
“Yes sir . . . I’ll stop in at 11:00.” I wonder what this is about, John mused.
John Corbin’s ads were generating repeat business for The Beckwith Group. He dazzled the Golster Corporation with his Evolution of the Computer campaign. The ads, published in Time, Newsweek, Forbes, Wall Street Journal, and a dozen other publications, depicted Luther Burbank, Thomas Edison, and Henry Ford working to develop Golster computers while they tinkered with plants, light bulbs, and automobiles on the side.
Mayapple Industries awarded Harry Beckwith a ten-thousand-dollar bonus in appreciation for another of John’s successful campaigns. Colorful worm’s-eye views touted Mayapple farm machinery as leading “The New Renaissance” in small farm operations. Sales had soared three-hundred percent in six months and Mayapple hosted a banquet for all involved.
John loved the work; it stimulated his creativity, just as running stimulated his body. Beckwith gave John two raises and took him to the Mayapple féte in St. Louis to claim the bonus check.
On Saturday morning, Beckwith spotted the event announcement in the St. Louis Dispatch sports section: Sunday: All-Comers One Hour Run. Gateway Track Club. Call 765-7654.
“We should go out there tomorrow and get in some laps,” he said to John.
Athletics Gazette, June 27
Dateline St. Louis: The one-hour run is rarely contested. In the 1950s, Emil Zatopek, then the world-record holder over 10,000 meters, competed in two sixty-minute races to chase the world records for fifteen kilometers and ten miles. The Czech legend became the first man to better twelve miles for the hour, a mark that stood for nearly twenty years.
An unexpected match race over the sixty-minutes was held June 22 on a blue rubber track in suburban St. Louis. The quality of the competition drove two Americans to break Bill Rodgers’ US record of 12.77 miles, set in 1977. John Corbin of Cleveland and Bill Szymczak of St. Louis bettered that mark by 34 yards and 17 yards, respectively.
The pair of 5,000-meter aces – Corbin is ranked sixth and Szymczak is tenth on the US performance list – showed up at St. Claire high school for a Sunday morning training run that turned into a battle royal. Twenty-four men and women had entered the event. The track was reconfigured from 400 meters to 440 yards for ease of record-keeping for the always metrically-challenged American public.
Szymczak, who sometimes trains on the St. Claire track, hoped to cover twelve miles even, but the unexpected presence of Corbin upped the ante. Corbin was in St. Louis for a business function and learned of the race just the day before.
Corbin suggested they run seventy-five second laps for the first three miles and, according to Szymczak, “we just went crazy!” Instead of five-minute miles, the duo averaged 4:50s for the first half hour before the torrid training run turned incandescent.
“Bill and I alternated laps for the first twenty-four,” said Corbin, “but at thirty minutes, I tried to shake him and our pace increased.”
“John was magnificent, but I felt so good, I just had to try to go with him,” Szymczak said in a post-race interview. “We had a coach yell our split each lap and we kept hearing ’69’ and ’70’–we were really cruising.”
Most of the other runners were aware that something special was transpiring. By mid-race, the bulk of them were moving into Lane 2 to keep the curb lane clear for the dueling duo.
Corbin led at six miles in 28:30, Szymczak led at twelve miles in 56:45, and with two minutes to run, Corbin opened a small gap and held it to the end. Track club officials filmed the event to ensure an accurate lap count plus the extra yards covered at the finish.
Placing third overall and first woman to finish was miler/1500-meter star Sarah Herrington. Now training in the St. Louis area, Herrington ran 30:00 for five miles and then began a gradual acceleration that gave her a total of 10 miles, 408 yards, an average of 5:52 per mile over the last 30 minutes.
“I’ve been running more volume this summer,” explained the obviously pleased middle-distance specialist. I hope to PR in the mile next month.”
Corbin, Szymczak, Herrington, and a host of Olympic hopefuls are slated to compete July 20 in The Meet of Champions in Pasadena, sponsored by the California Raisin Growers Assn. Organizers have pledged to cover expenses for up to fifty US runners, giving them a world-class event without forcing them on an overseas trip.
* * * * *
“Come in, John, come in!” Harry Beckwith stood beside his huge desk, blue eyes sparkling. His large teeth emerged behind his thin lips – he was genuinely happy around his protégé. “Sit down,” he commanded.
“John Corbin’s getting quite a reputation for himself,” the old man said. Seeing John’s bashful smile, he continued.
“We’re mighty proud of your work, John. Your ideas are fresh and effective – keep them coming.”
John squirmed uneasily. “I’ll do my best, sir.”
“I’m putting you on flex time, John. The company will pay your full salary and cover all your travel and racing expenses from now through the Trials. We want to give you a clear shot at the Olympic team.”
John sat deep in the oversized leather chair that still smelled like the inside of a saddle shop. Beckwith’s words took a long time to sink in.
“You don’t have to think about it, Son! You’ve got as much time as you want to train. Take time after your workouts before coming in to work. Take any day off you need. Twenty hours a week is the most I want to see you around here! And if you need any additional money, all you have to do is ask.”
John’s quizzical look provoked a chuckle from his boss.
“I . . . I . . . thank you, Mr. Beckwith. I don’t know how to respond,” muttered the usually self-assured athlete.
“Respond by doing the best job you know how,” said Beckwith. “I’ve got you a membership at the Country Club, too.”
He dealt a golden card across the desktop to John.
“You can train on the golf course, use the fitness center, and charge any meals you care to eat there.”
“Mr. Beckwith,” John stood up and walked around the immense oak desk to face the old man. Beckwith rose to his feet.
“Sir,” John said, reaching out to grasp the still-powerful hand, “I want you to know how grateful I am to have met you.”
John gulped. His eyes shone with emotion. “You are the most important person in my life.”
“Thank you, John, for bringing some enthusiasm back into my world. I was starting to feel my age, a terrible thing to do!”
They stood grinning at each other, their hands clasped, for a long time.
Beckwith blinked a couple of times and swallowed. “Let’s go get lunch, John,” he said, and they left the office together, smiling.
THIS VIEW OF SPORT
By Ken Davis
Reason Takes a Holiday
Jeremy Stanfield, the 18-year-old Ohio farm boy who leads the 3000-meter steeplechase rankings, was refused entry into the USATF Championships last week. Stanfield did not fail a drug test nor did he send his entry form in too late. Rather, he was prevented from running because a computer printout did not list his name.
A close-minded official denied him a race number, just minutes before his preliminary heat. Stanfield was on his way to appeal to the meet director when the gun sounded. An appeal to run in the final was denied. Stanfield returned home to Wellston, Ohio, and located his entry confirmation that officials had mailed him more than a month ago. Nevertheless, despite his growing reputation among coaches, athletes, and officials, no one would help him on the day that mattered most, the U.S. Championships. Association officials are still trying to determine what went awry. The net effect is that Stanfield will not be representing the USA’s national team as it competes in a series of international track meets through the summer.
“I’m still hoping to go abroad,” said the disappointed youngster. “Racing the top Africans and Europeans is the best way for me to prepare to compete at the Olympics.”
Stanfield is the youngest steepler in U.S. history to crack the 8:20 mark. His 8:19.50 at the East Regional two months ago put him atop the rankings for America. Regardless of the glitch that kept his name from the list, any knowledgeable meet director should have been asking himself, “Why isn’t Stanfield entered?”
If American distance running fortunes are to improve, everyone involved in the sport must adopt an all-for-one, one-for-all mindset. Entry procedures are important but when a mistake has obviously been made, flexibility is the Order of the Day.
When stubborn adherence to a bookkeeping rule sabotages the chances of any aspiring athlete, we are being self-destructive.
Beckwith lifted his head from the pillow and tilted his head to the left.
The telephone blurted its sound again and the gray old athlete shuffled across the room to answer it.
“Ghhuuh!!” he roared, clearing his throat. “Hello?”
“Daddy, hi, it’s me.”
“Uhh, . . . what time is it, Honey?”
Beckwith blinked twice to focus on the red numerals of the dressing table clock. It read 12:30.
“Sorry I had to call so late, Daddy. I need some help.”
He paused, reflecting on this strange daughter of his, who had such independence and such hard luck.
“Where have you been, Sweetie?” Beckwith asked. He glanced out the window to spot the waxing moon hung over the branches of a maple tree.
“I’m not much of a daughter,” she said. “I promise to drive up to Cleveland at the end of the summer.”
Harry Beckwith smiled. She was coming. If she said she would come, she would be here. He blinked back a tear.
“How can I help you, Honey?”
“A friend of mine needs some money,” she said. “Actually, I want some money to help him because he’d never ask for any himself.”
Her voice was calm and confident. She had never asked for his help before. When she was beaten by her ex-husband and lost her twin fetuses, she dealt with that alone. It was a month before she called her father, apologizing that he would have to wait awhile to become a granddad.
“How much do you need, Sweetie?”
“Six thousand dollars. If things work out, I can repay you in three months.”
“It’s yours and it’s a gift. Just let me know if you need more.”
Beckwith’s tired eyes were wide open. He looked at his daughter’s photograph and realized how difficult it had been for her to ask him for money.
“Daddy, Daddy, you’re wonderful. Thank you.”
“I’ll transfer it to the Capital Bank of Grove City in the morning. Fill me in on the details sometime, O.K?”
“Sure, Daddy. I love you, Daddy. Good night!”
Beckwith turned off the lamp and shuffled back to bed. He smiled to himself in the dark.
He did not know he was now helping two Olympic hopefuls.