Showdown at Shepherd's Bush: The 1908 Olympic Marathon and the Three Runners Who Launched a Sporting Craze by Davis David

Author:Davis, David [Davis, David]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2012-06-18T21:00:00+00:00

FIFTEEN

Two-thirds of a lap separates Dorando Pietri from the winning post opposite the royal box.1 About 385 yards.

On instinct, he reels to his right so that he can circle the track counterclockwise, the direction he ran when he competed in the three-mile team race at the Stadium ten days ago.

Today, it is the wrong way. In his addled state he’s forgotten—or perhaps he was never directly told in Italian—that the marathoners must run this final stretch clockwise.

Officials yell at him in a language that he doesn’t comprehend. Their voices sound as if they’re underwater. They shoo him to the left, and he pinballs in that direction. His head droops to his chest, arms at his side as he wobbles forward, trailed by Jack Andrew, Dr. Bulger, groundskeeper Perry.

He stumbles onto the cinder track. Another few steps, and then he swoons to the ground, a collection of useless limbs. Has he fainted? Is he dead?

Officials gather around him. Andrew waves his megaphone and tries to keep order as Dorando’s teammates yell encouragement from the infield.

A cry from the stands: “Let him alone!”

Seconds pass. Somehow, Dorando totters to his feet, still clutching his handkerchief and cork grips. He pitches forward into a slow dogtrot. The crowd breathes again.

“Go, Italy!”

“Run! Run!”

He falls again. Precious seconds tick away. Water is thrown in his face. His breath comes in a sputter, his pulse stammers. Dr. Bulger, a large Irishman with a Dublin accent, rubs Dorando’s chest and yells instructions to Andrew. Dorando’s feet move and he is stood up and pushed on, wobbling forward like a top.

The band plays “Conquering Hero.”

Andrew looks back to the entrance. No other runner has entered the Stadium. Less than 200 yards to go, just beyond the far curve, Dorando steps once and twice, momentum building, then sinks to the track for the third time. Something stronger is needed—brandy, smelling salts, some sort of stimulant.

“That’s not sport!”

Dorando coughs. His body quickens to life. A step forward, balance regained, and then his legs give way yet again.

From the portal beneath the J. Lyons Refreshments sign emerges Johnny Hayes. The number on his chest, 26, matches the number of miles he’s covered. Dusty, sweaty, and parched but churning under his own power, he is oblivious to what is going on in front of him. His stride eats up the yardage on the track between him and Dorando.

Pietri regains his feet. He sees nothing clearly, the 80,000 spectators and the gigantic Stadium fading into a kaleidoscopic haze. He draws breath and totters to the last bend, now 100 yards left, now 75, and then down once more. Bulger cradles him and massages his lifeless limbs, slaps his face.

“They have killed him!”

Hayes chugs on, his strides short, his feet aching. Blasts of sounds come from above.

“Go! Come on!”

“Get up, Italy!”

Cameron, from the infield, urges on Hayes. He is closing.

Dorando regains his breath. Is he done? No, he is yanked to his feet, floundering and swaying, the white cloth atop his head askew, the worsted rope of the finish line just ahead.

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