tracks.’
‘There’s your field, then,’ one reporter observed. ‘Care to wager on the ones that finish the week in coffins?’
‘Not many of those poor coves could afford a decent bur-ial,’ was the reply. ‘I hope they’ve the sense to quit before they collapse. My Lord! Just look at that one!’
A late arrival from the changing-huts clambered at a sec-ond attempt over the crowd barrier and joined the shivering group in the centre. He was scarcely five feet high, bearded and with a chalk-like complexion. He blinked through expensive gold-rimmed spectacles at the other competitors and began energetically running on the spot.
His rivals regarded him with the look of bemused indif-ference that cows give to passing trains.
‘If that’s a pedestrian I’m Fred Archer,’ the massive Sporting Life representative declared. ‘Looks to me like a plucked chicken left here from the Poultry Show last week.’
Numbers were being pinned to the entrants’ jerseys. The Press checked the names of the lesser-known.
‘Who’s the tich, then? Number twelve, is he? “F. H. Mostyn-Smith.” Double-barrel for a half-pint measure, eh?’ ‘Where’s Chadwick, then? If he ain’t shown up I’m away to the bar.’
‘Chadwick?’ repeated one of Fleet Street’s oldest scribes. ‘That mean bastard won’t put a foot outside his tent until the others are toeing the scratch. You’ll see. Probably in there now waxing his moustache. It don’t do to let the Regiment down, y’know.’
Two turret-shaped tents stood inside the track perimeter. Their awnings were cone-shaped and edged with perforations, in the style of medieval jousting-tents. These had been reserved for the Galahads of pedestrianism. Over one of the tents there hung, limply, in miniature, the colours of the Third Dragoon Guards. Inside, Erskine Chadwick, cham-pion walker of England, was issuing final instructions to his trainer.
‘Champagne with the boiled fowl at dinner, Harvey, and claret tonight. You have the sole for broiling, do you? Now the socks. I shall want a change at noon. Be sure to air the new pair for at least two hours. And I shall want you to have a sponge and vinegar ready in case I require it later, when the walking heats my body. You may put on my boots now. Lace them firmly, but not tightly.’
Harvey sprinkled dusting powder into the porpoise-skins, a pair fashioned for this race by Chadwick’s Regimental cordwainer. Then he attached them expertly to the cele-brated feet. His limited knowledge of athletics was more than compensated by his long service as a batman.
‘I shall expect Darrell to start at a rush,’ Chadwick contin-ued, speaking more to himself than Harvey, ‘but this is as I plan. The man knows nothing of tactics. My wind and staying pow-ers are well superior to his, and I shall bide my time.’
‘What about them others, sir?’
Chadwick got to his feet, studied the line of his chin in the mirror that Harvey held for him, and pulled aside the tent-flap.
‘I shall try to ignore their presence,’ he replied. ‘Did you ever see such an unwholesome crowd?’
Shuddering, he marched over to the starting-line.
CHAPTER 2
‘For the benefit of those of you unable to read I shall repeat the rules. You may go as you please for six days and nights, finishing next Saturday evening at half past ten o’clock. Each of you is allowed one attendant, who may hand you refreshments as you pass the area marked on the tracks, but attendants must keep off the path. You are not allowed to wear spiked boots or shoes. Any man who wilfully jostles or blunders an opponent will be disqualified. The judges have sole control over the race and their decision is to be final and conclusive. Five hundred pounds and the belt to the winner, the Champion Pedestrian of the World. I won’t go through the list of prize money, as you’ll know that bet-ter than the rules. Are there any questions, then?’
The line of competitors was as animated as mourners beside a grave.
‘Very well, then. Bloody good luck to you all. Are you ready? Then go!.. You poor bastards.’
The final aside was for the amusement of the Press. The starters had already lurched into frantic movement, reck-lessly crashing elbows, fists and boots as they strove for a passage on the narrow track. They moved quickly- quicker than many of them had planned-but gooseflesh dictated tactics. The gas was now at its highest, but dimly lit the vast hall, and made no impression on the near-zero temperature. Press and officials, swathed in long overcoats, formed a compact group in the centre, under a canopy of warm breath and cigar smoke. The stands were empty.
There were two classes of competitor. On the inner one-eighth of a mile track moved the stars, the super- novas Chadwick and Darrell, each a five-hundred miler, while the fourteen less heavenly bodies moved in an outer orbit of one-seventh of a mile. They combated the cold in their own way, most of them with caps, mufflers, gloves and trousers. The rules about dress had set standards of minimum decency-exposure of flesh was limited to the areas above the neck and below the knees, and the forearms-which were unlikely to be flouted in November.
The entry had been limited to ‘proven pedestrians’, for a large number of vagrants and fortune-seekers had been attracted by the hand-bills and posters.
‘Six Days’ Pedestrian Contest at the Agricultural Hall, Islington. Sweepstakes of 10 sovs each, for proven pedestri-ans; each competitor to make, by running or walking, the best of his way on foot (without assistance) for six days and nights-i.e. to start at 1 o’clock a.m. on Monday, 18 November, 1879, and finish at half past 10 o’clock p.m. on the following Saturday. The man accomplishing the greatest distance in the specified time to be the Champion Pedestrian of the World, and to have entrusted to his keeping a belt, value?100, and receive?500; second?100, third?50; and any competitor covering a distance of 460 miles to receive back his stake with an additional?10. Any competitor (other than the first three men) covering more than 500 miles to have an additional?5 for every three miles over the 500 miles, such an amount not to exceed?40.’
Warmed by the exertions of the opening lap, each entrant soon settled to his formula for earning the?500. Several aped the illustrious Chadwick, striding immaculately, the fairest of walkers. Others ran far ahead, lapping at a suicidal pace. Darrell, Chadwick’s challenger on the inner track, trotted steadily, already showing an even, economical action. Timekeepers and lap-takers, harassed by the fre-quent changes of order, silently regretted agreeing to help.
Erskine Chadwick marched briskly, head high, shoulders straight, arms swinging smartly across a slightly inflated chest, leading leg quite straight, exhibiting the style that had made him champion of England, and the world, for that matter. On track or between turnpikes he had outclassed every challenger in the past decade. Unlike most of the riff-raff who competed professionally, he was a gentleman, a graduate of Balliol, a former Captain in the Guards. He liked it to be known that he made more from his Stock Exchange dealings than his prizes from pedestrianism. As if to demonstrate this he always appeared in university costume, zephyr and knee-length drawers. Others could parade themselves in circus tights: Erskine Chadwick, M.A., had no need of trappings.
His main rival of the week, Charles Darrell, had a more typical pedigree. Sometime ostler, sometime brickmaker, he had discovered his staying powers at thirty and in three years earned and spent a fortune by his former standards. Darrell was a runner, or a shuffler rather, uninterested in the niceties of style. Arguably the finest stayer in England, he had been sent by wealthy backers to Paris and New York, and had not disappointed them. When there was a monkey to be won, as there was now-almost a lifetime’s earnings at his old rate of pay-he chased it in his own way. For weeks he had prepared for this race to a punitive schedule of massage, steam-baths and abstinence, prescribed by Sam Monk, the best of all trainers. And there at the trackside was Monk, ready with sponge and bucket.
‘Easy now, easy. Step light, boy. Spare the bloody hooves.’ On the outer track some of the opposition were already a lap ahead, but they were the novices. The specialists in ultra-long distance aimed, like Darrell, for an even, silk-smooth progression. O’Flaherty, the Dublin Stag, led them, a flame-haired expatriate good for four hundred miles, so long as he was lubricated, inside and out, with whisky. A yard behind ran the Half-breed, Williams, cruelly scarred by a public-house brawl with a former trainer; and Peter Chalk, the Scythebearer, small, wiry, claiming to be forty but since he fought in the Crimea probably nearer fifty. Far in the rear came the entrant widely suspected of having bribed his way into the event. It was patently evident, after ten minutes, that the puny
