affair. It noted that a better-organized event would be “entirely feasible” given the interest generated “by the Pyle cross-country race.’”*

BACK TO THE SPORT’S WORKING-CLASS ROOTS

The shorter bunion derbies of 1928 and 1929 gave the working people of America a taste of the herculean efforts the bunioneers put forth in their race across the United States. The derbies also brought the sport back to its working-class roots. In the 1870s, interest in endurance racing had reached an all-time high in the form of “six-day, go-as-you-please” races, where contestants had six days to cover as many miles as possible on a track of loam and sawdust. Many runners made fortunes in the sport, as did the spectators who bet on the winners. A wealthy English lord and British Member of Parliament, John Astley, sponsored a series of six-day, go-as-you-please championships pitting the best American and English racers against each other. These wildly popular races generated huge interest on both sides of the Atlantic. Most American towns and cities had their tracks where local stars competed for cash prizes. By the mid-1880s, the sport had reached its zenith when allegations of race fixing, the growth of amateur athletics, and the popularity of bicycle racing caused a huge decline in endurance events.

Pyle’s cross-country race reignited—briefly—the hope that participation in endurance races could make a better life for the contestants. It could offer a way out of poverty, and for black Americans, it was a chance to rattle the rafters of southern segregation. Distance running had again become part of the American dream—a way to pull yourself up by your bootstraps. The one- and two-day derbies of 1928 and 1929 gave the average working Joe a chance to taste that dream.

ENDNOTES

‘ Daily Oklahoman, April 6, 1928: 17.

? Seattle Post Intelligencer, Aug. 24, 1966: 24; The Seattle Times Charmed Land Magazine, Aug. 11, 1968: 2.

5 Port Angeles Evening News, May 3, 1929: 2; Port Angeles Evening News, May 2, 1929: 2.

4 The Conway Weekly Record, May 10, 1928: 4.

The Conway Weekly Record, May 31, 1928: 1.

® Black Dispatch, May 17, 1928: 6.

7 Black Dispatch, May 24, 1928: 2. i

8 Black Dispatch, May 24, 1928: 2.

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In Mar del Plata, a Cavalcade of Bikes Guards the Runners.

Part 2 of 2.

RGENTINA

My major races arrived in pairs in 1959. The Pan American Games tryout marathons were separated by five weeks and the Pan Am and the Korean marathons by 26 days. A 15-kilometer race (its 50th anniversary) on Thanksgiving in Berwick, Pennsylvania—which I won—was separated from the Mar del Plata race by 10 days. The last would be my 19th race of the year.

The reaction of Koreans and Argentineans to foreign runners differed markedly. While the former treated them reverently, as if they were scholars or dignitaries, the latter viewed them as part of their family. After landing in Seoul, each runner received a special greeting consisting of a bouquet of flowers and his own sign, for example, “Welcome Marathon Runner Mr. Geoffrey Watt.” There were flags, speeches, and a solemn procession of cars, bearing them to the hotel.

In Argentina, I was met at the airport by one member of the race-sponsoring club and delivered quietly to the hotel. There were no bands. Why would ceremony be required for a relative? At the first introduction, the Argentinean clutches the visitor’s hands, stares into his eyes to establish intimacy, and embraces him. Given this culture, Mar del Plata could never have commemorated a war, though the group in charge of organizing the race and other events during a week of celebration was the Club Defensores de San Martin (CDSM). Jose de San Martin earned fame as a soldier and statesman, but he had died more than a century before. Whatever patriotic fervor had been attached to the club had long been eclipsed by social purposes. Besides, Mar del Plata was the playground of Argentina. It was the biggest seaside resort in the country, and with its natural beauty, diverse culture, and beautiful homes, one of the most popular cities in South America. In 1995, it hosted the Pan Am Games, and exactly one decade later it was the site of the fourth Summit of the Americas, with representatives from 34 countries, including George W. Bush.

At the start of the Mar del Plata 15-kilometer race, its 10th, a large, boisterous crowd gathered, the kind of crowd you would find at a festival. There was no hint of a serious event. True, a large group of men was dressed in shorts and singlets emblazoned with the names of countries, but it was summer and all manner of dress and behavior were acceptable in this most cosmopolitan of cities.

A CELEBRATION OF SPORT

Representatives from eight countries—Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil, Chile, Uruguay, Paraguay, Columbia, and the United States—each with its own language or dialect and culture, had gathered for the race. Despite the differences, no one needed to explain or translate the rules. Hadn’t we learned them ages before on our playgrounds when someone hollered, pointing across a field, “First one to the fence wins. Ready!—Set!—Go!” Boys and girls ran for their lives and fell into a heap at the fence, gasping and laughing. The goal and the excitement hadn’t changed for the Mar del Plata race. We were still amateurs who competed for the sheer love of sport. This was at a time when being amateur was not a joke, because we received no money for competing. A bowl of beef stew after running the Boston Marathon was reward enough. Our pursuit was almost noble.

The commotion at the starting line suddenly ceased when a loud voice sounded over the public-address system. I became aware for the first time that week that Argentineans were capable of serious purpose. There was a flurry of last minute abrazos and handshakes. The crowd drew back to allow the men dressed in skimpy shorts and singlets—68 in all—to line up. Those with less ability or confidence moved to the rear. How wonderfully unofficiated is our sport. There are no rules or penalties to worry about—no officials to call balls and strikes, roughing and offsides, double dribbles and charging—or time limits. And no yellow cards. Nothing but the athletes and a starting line and a finish line. Nothing in between those lines but a relentless war of the wills.

The race had no Jock Semple to order menacingly, as he did at the start of Boston Marathons, “You would-be runners get to the back!” Gordon Dickson, experienced with racing South Americans in Sao Paulo, Brazil, warned me that their athletes were not as observant of starting lines as others. He was right. A picture of the field taken at the start shows Walter Lemos, the favorite, crouched low a full yard in front of the starting line. At the sound of the gun, he burst to the front. Now I would learn the difference between a track meet and a road race. Lemos had run the second fastest 10K, I was told, in the Western Hemisphere.

Who else was good in the field? Except for Lemos and Armando Pino, I knew nothing about my rivals, who were housed in separate hotels. Lemos and Pino had participated in the 1959 Pan Am Marathon. Pino had also won the Mar del Plata race in 1956 and Lemos in ’57. They would be dangerous. They knew the course. They knew how to win. I did know that like Korea, Argentina had an

Courtesy of Jim Green

A After edging to the front of the starting line, Argentina’s Walter Lemos bursts off the line at the sound of the gun.

extraordinary record in Olympic marathons—winner of this event in 1932 and 1948, as well as fifth in 1948 and second and sixth in 1952. South America’s finest runner, Oswaldo Suarez, fortunately for our field didn’t show up.

A few blocks into the race, a strange thing happened, something I would never experience again. A dozen bikes spurted from a side road to ride alongside the race leaders. They were close but not close enough to interfere with our progress. At the next crossing, some 20 more bikes joined us. Some of them went boldly to the front. Others found room on our flanks or as a rear guard. At every intersection thereafter, bikes streamed onto the racecourse, bikes of every kind including motorbikes, and riders of every age. They waited patiently for our approach. Just as we crossed their road, they spurted out to join us. This had become an Argentinean festival. Who could be denied admission?

With a fast early pace, the field strung out quickly. At one mile, only five runners—Lemos and Pino from Argentina, the Bolivian Alberto Garabito, the Uruguayan Manuel Ibanez, and I—remained in the lead pack accompanied by over a hundred bikes. It was astounding! In the United States, except for the Boston Marathon, no one paid the road runner any attention. Directly behind the leaders lurked four Chileans and Juan Cobaneas of Argentina.

What caused this crowd of bikes to descend upon us? It was the impulse to celebrate and to participate in sport. Cyclists assumed the role of goodwill ambassadors—trumpeting our approach along the entire 15-kilometer racecourse. At every block along the route, the crowds cheered the runners, sometimes chanting our names