trashed! And I never did see any swamp. (Ironically, isn’t General Grant buried in New York City? Do you suppose that’s why Joel liked this place—for its name?)

STARVING IS NOT A STRATEGY

I didn’t see Joel’s monument again, of course, until well into race day. But what happened after that most memorable mountain climb was, forme, every runner’s nightmare: I got sick! All of a sudden I came down with chills and fever the night before “the night before.” This was terrible, but I ignored it.

Only much later did I realize I had probably made a tactical mistake. I hadn’t eaten anything during the entire climb, mostly because of a coaching tip to avoid eating as long as you can before weigh-in. The idea is to be as light as possible when the medical people write your weight on the wristband you’ll wear until you either finish the race or drop. Then, after weighing in, you eat! The idea there is to weigh more than the wristband says you do, so that when you do lose weight during the race, they won’t pull you for losing too much. In many 100-milers a seven percent loss from what it says on your wrist disqualifies you from continuing.

So why did this strategy backfire? At the gym when I reported for runner weigh-in, they didn’t weigh me! When I asked how they determine all the runners’ weights, the nurse smiled sweetly and said, “We take your word for it.”

So now we have a new term: Grant-Swamp Pass-Out. And I practically fainted when I realized I hadn’t had to starve myself all day, two days before the race.

RATIONING AT AID STATIONS? YOU GOTTA BE KIDDING ME!

Sick Wednesday night, screwing around with drop bags Thursday, and, believe me, not sleeping a wink on Thursday night, I was well prepared to “race” on Friday morning, eh? No, I guess not.

Standing with other runners outside the gym before 6:00 a.o., I started to worry. One of the surefire ways I’d discovered to finish a 100-mile race— where you’re guaranteed no sleep for the night—is to sleep extra well the night before that. During the Hardrock race, however, you face the very real, and very grim, prospect of not sleeping for two nights. So not having slept at all, I was standing at the start contemplating no sleep for three!

Another observation caused more pause. As I looked up and down 12th Street, I noticed a lot of runners carrying equipment I’d never seen at the start

of arace: ski poles and ice axes! I was also suddenly terrified at the thought of “crampons,” which of course I didn’t have and had never heard of until Charlie Thorn told me that’s what he uses. He said they clamp onto your shoes and help you climb things like sheer cliffs and walls of ice. Things like, you know, Hardrock has.

After a few remarks, race director Dale started the race at straight-up 6:00 A.M. All of us took off running, but I suspected the running wouldn’t last long, and I was right. There is a religious shrine on the hillside just north of town, and the course follows the road up the hill which, believe me, most of us walked. Someone commented how this feature makes a much better finish than start. The course changes direction every year. In 2000 this will again be a downhill finish coming into Silverton from the north. Upon hearing this I thought, Just my luck. I’m here the wrong year.

We turned left, however, before reaching the shrine, which I figured must be something like “Our Lady of the Lost Souls in Purgatory” or otherwise spiritually akin to my current condition. Shortly after turning, we picked up a rather rocky trail, known as Nute’s Chute, hugging the hillside. Arunner named Chris Nute discovered this former ore cart track, or whatever it was, so we could avoid the smooth asphalt of U.S. 550, so safely paved and so far below us.

But, I thought, this is the way for us Hardrockers. Where there’s a road, we take the trail. Where there’s a bridge, we go through the water. Where there’s atunnel, we climb over the top. And, of course, where there’s a valley, we take the mountain.

In the clockwise direction, the first of the five or so million major obstacles to hit you is Mineral Creek. This crossing occurs about three miles into the race after you climb down from Nute’s Chute, and everyone from town turns out to watch you attempt not to drown.

Creek? Did I say creek? Oh, no. This is a raging river. It contains the snowmelt of a hundred thousand acres of San Juan mountains. It is ice cold. Its current is moving at 40 mph. But, hey, they give you a rope to hang on to, and your fans and friends along the very dry highway cheer you wildly.

Larry Ridgeway and Heidi Schutt of Running Delights were there, cheering me wildly. Larry had agreed to be my pacer the following morning. Larry was also destined to receive a call of panic later that night.

The next order of business was Bear Creek Trail and the long ascent through Putnam Basin. I had the good fortune to fall in line (a lot of these trails dictate single file) behind Eric Robinson, an incredible runner and climber!’ d first met during the hike to Joel’s memorial. Eric paid me the ultimate compliment, saying that two years ago whenever I’d post to the Internet another chapter of my adventures at the Western States 100-miler, his productivity at work would stop while he read it. I thanked Eric for putting my pleasure before his business.

Looking down into Putnam Basin on race day.

The man was the very picture of relaxation and poise. He wrapped his jacket around his waist and set his arms akimbo. He walked up mountains as easily as my Uncle Bud walked upstairs. He never slowed or stumbled or threw out his hands or broke his stride or stopped. You’d think he was strolling up a Chattanooga sidewalk checking out cannons from the Civil War. I kept expecting him to pull outa pamphlet and peer at a plaque to check the date. Except, of course, he never did. He just kept hiking as smooth as can be and putting more and more yards between us. By the time I got to the top of Putnam-Cataract Ridge, Eric was nowhere to be seen. ICH UMIACHER

Meeting Ulrich (“call me Uli”) Kamm was memorable atop that first peak on the way to the first aid station because it (“KT”) was named for him. I asked him about that very thing, and he owned up to it. He also said something about not hating him because his Kamm Traverse added about an hour to the course. (No surprise there, huh?) Uli’s one of the original Hardrockers.

He needn’t have worried. Since this was my first HRH, I didn’t know any different, but I will say that it took an awful long time (over four hours) to get there. And when I got there, I couldn’t believe what the volunteers were telling me. “We have to ration the water,” they said. “You can’t fill your bottles all the way to the top.”

Did I mention how tough this race is? Not only is its average elevation over 11,000 feet and its total distance 101.7 miles covering 10 major climbs with 12 peaks over 12,000 feet (one of them over 14,000 feet, Handies, which is among the 54 highest in Colorado, if not North America), and not only does the course give you over 33,000 feet of total climb, but the race also requires you, roughly, to last as long between aid stations as most folks take to do a full marathon! I don’t care what anybody says, that is tough. And I thought Leadville’s aid stations were far apart!

Rich Limacher MY MOST UNFORGETTABLE ULTRAMARATHON # 89

But then to be told, after both your water bottles have been empty for over an hour, that you can’t fill them—wow! I wanted to scream! (Or yodel!) But, in the race’s defense, there was other fluid. So I filled up with Coke.

HOW CAN YOU SKI WITHOUT SKIS?

Our next objective was Grant-Swamp Pass. Boy, I knew the way and did quite well, too, passing a bunch of people on my way up. At the top, though, I was practically blown away. Not by the wind but by what I saw at Joel’s memorial. We’d all been told Wednesday that it’s Jewish custom to place a small stone on a grave marker as a loving sign it’s been visited. And of course our little hiking group did that; but now, during the race two days later, the rock pile was overwhelming! It looked as if a thousand visitors had been there. Little rocks were piled high in front of the plaque and sitting on top of it, too. There was even alittle glass jar among all the stones, with paper containing a message inside. Imagine! I wasn’t sure Joel would ever read it, but I wasn’t about to question its rationale.

I bent down and picked up two more stones from a dozen feet away and placed them carefully on top of the plaque. And linvoked Joel’s spirit in a little prayer of my own: “One stone to keep me safe today, Joel, and if you don’t mind, another one for tomorrow.” (In retrospect, I feel sure my prayer was answered. For the first day, I was kept safe on the Hardrock trail. For the second, I was safe in my hotel room.)

I was curious to see exactly how I would get down the other side of Joel’s mountain. Going up the first time two days ago, Eric and company took great

After adding hisown twostones to the pile on top of Joel’s plaque, Rich makes his way down from Grant-Swamp Pass.

JOHN PUCKETT

delight in pointing out the straight-up-and-down nature of that side of the pass. Someone said, “Imagine trying to climb up here from that direction!” Well, I couldn’t. So I decided to try instead to inch my way down.

It worked well enough going feet first with my back to the wall, and digging in my heels for all they were worth. But that’s when I had a revelation—when I got my first clue that I was in way over my head. A man behind me, one of many Id worked so hard to pass climbing up, suddenly appeared several feet to my right, balanced precariously on top of the huge snow slope I was being so careful to avoid. Just like that, he tucked back his hiking poles, assumed the downhill racer position, and disappeared like a skier down the side of the mountain. In seconds he was gone, and I was still digging in my heels and inching down the gravel. I may have struggled down that whole slope for most of an hour. My skier friend probably did it in less than five minutes. And of course he did it skiing on his shoes!

I must confess, for most of that hour I felt cheated. I imagined I’d been told we’d be playing sandlot softball, but now when I get to the park suddenly everyone’s in uniform playing hardball. Nobody said anything about skiing! I thought they were talking about glissading (which is what Chuck Bundy had done.) Yes, I thought we’d be sliding down snow slopes on our butts. But au contrare! The first definition of glissade (pronounced gliss-SOD by the veterans) as found in the prerace bookletis: “Intentionally sliding downa steep snow field standing. Using your feet like skis.” If you keep reading, however, the definition does allow for sliding “on your butt,” but that’s not what the veterans do. I guess I failed to read a lot of this booklet before the race.

NOT THE NATURAL ORDER OF THE UNIVERSE

When I finally did get all the way down the other side of Joel’s mountain, I felt like the very last person still in the race. I was met by a cheering multitude of exactly two people, and one of them took my picture. I remembered to turn right at “the coffee can on the fence post” and head into the woods to the Chapman Gulch aid station which, of course, was miles down the 4WD road. On that road it was revealed to me that I wasn’t dead last—not yet. No, a very elderly gentleman wearing a bib number passed me. After that I decided I must be dead last.

At the aid station, however, I found a surprise. All the volunteers were still there, and there was cheering going on! I wasn’t last, after all. In fact, I was at least an hour ahead of cutoff. And none other than Jose Wilkie was sitting ina chair! (A note about Jose: I met him at the Kettle Moraine 100-miler. He was on a personal quest to finish at least a dozen 100-milers this year. I’d told him he was crazy for including Hardrock in that total.)

Rich Limacher MY MOST UNFORGETTABLE ULTRAMARATHON 91

“What happened to you?” I wanted to know.

“Oh, mon,” he said (I love his accent.), “dees first climb keeled me!”

Jose is a powerful runner. He “keeled” me at Kettle Moraine. To see him sitting here at Hardrock this early was quite a surprise. I grabbed more Coke, stuffed in more food, and this time filled my bottles completely. I left that station with a new cap on my head, so to speak. But Jose was still in the chair, which bothered me. I hate to be in front of runners better than I am. This is not the natural order of the universe. Such things always portend disaster.

The next little 13,000-foot “hill” was Oscar’s Pass. On the way up I again passed people and met a few new folks. Most notable were Margaret and Mark Heaphy. Margaret’s maiden name was Smith, and she had won this race two years in a row. In the men’s division, Mark had always finished ahead of her.

I thought, What is wrong with this picture? How am I keeping up with champions from previous years? Not to worry. Again, I struggled mighty hard to beat everyone to the top of Oscar’s, only to watch, with tears in my eyes, as everybody tucked back their hiking poles and morphed into downhill skiers. Bye-bye! Whoosh!

Before Mark and Margaret took off, however, I happened to look and catch them kissing on the mountaintop. And it warmed my heart. Mark had explained to me on the way up that Margaret had just had knee surgery, which was why they were so far back in the pack. I knew he could easily be in front of it, but to see him hold back to help his wife, kiss her, and then (as I found out later) DNF with her—well, it continues still to warm my heart.

As you might expect, my descent into Telluride took forever. Again I had the sinking feeling of being dead last. But the scenery was spectacular, and I was buoyed by the thought that nobody else on earth could, or would, ever see this unless they were entrants in the HRH. I paused to whip out my camera. So naturally it began to rain.

At the Telluride aid station there was again a whole lotta shakin’ goin’ on. Here volunteers were actually taking your food order! A very nice lady made mea most delicious ham ’n’ Swiss. My Beth was there to meet me as well, and it was certainly good to see her. She had gotten a ride with other wives, one whose husband had blown me away on the way down from Oscar’s and the other whose husband was behind me. At this point, surprisingly, I was still well ahead of cutoff, and it was nice to learn at last that I was not last. [left the station and immediately took a wrong turn downtown.

SLEDDING WITHOUT THE SLED

What you do when you eventually find the right street out of Telluride is climb and climb and climb forever to reach Mendota Ridge and, after that, Virginius

Pass. Somewhere on the endless climb up, up, and still up, and still below timberline in the woods above Telluride, I lost heart. It was still comparatively early in the race, still daylight on the first day, and, I thought, much too early to be thinking thoughts like this. I whipped out my camera again, extended my arms, and tried a self-portrait. I wanted to see what I looked like at the exact moment I decided to quit a race for the very first time in my life.

Ineedn’t have been so melodramatic. The climb was doable, after all; I did it by pushing down with my hands on each knee with each step up, and then resting every 50 yards or so. This race was so far over my head it wasn’t even funny. I was just on my fourth mountain. There were six more to go.

Funny got positively hysterical when I finally arrived at Virginius Pass. My mentor Chuck had told me endless times about the brave volunteers who actually hike up there every year to camp overnight on a mountain ridge within a space smaller than most walk-in closets. They set up, if you can believe this, a complete aid station, and then fix up arope to help you slide down the other side.

“Of course,” Chuck had laughed, “the rope runs out after a hundred feet, but the slope goes on for eight hundred feet!”

He wasn’t lying. There were several absolutely wonderful, helping, and cheerful backpacking volunteers manning gear and supplies, dressed in parkas and mittens, and stirring chicken soup and hot chocolate ona camp stove. It was all positively delicious. I drank probably two cups of each. Then I looked over the side at the snow and the slide and the rope and the ice—and decided to drink three of each.

That’s when Carolyn Erdman caught up with me. (SoI wasn’t dead last, and neither was she!) Carolyn was gunning for a finish this year, after having started and not made it who knows how many times. The expression on her face was priceless. She was enjoying this! She knew she was doing it all this year, and sledding down snow, without the benefit of a sled, was just another part of the process. She took her refreshments with enthusiasm and went right away for the rope.

The author at the exact moment he decides to drop out of the Hardrock 100.

A “ RICH LIMACHER

Rich Limacher MY MOST UNFORGETTABLE ULTRAMARATHON ® 93

“Carolyn,” I said. “Show me how to do this. You go first.”

“This is fun,” she beamed. “Just watch!”

I gazed for a short time, and then she disappeared somewhere down that remaining 800 feet.

What I had watched for specifically was what she would do with that rope. She had simply tucked it under her left arm, outside her jacket, of course, but inside her armpit. In front of her she held the rope loosely in her gloves. I decided to do exactly the same thing. I grabbed the rope like that and hollered something inane for the benefit of the volunteers. They cheered back, and I was off.

At the start, the whole thing seemed kind of fun. There was a trough straight down in front of me, obviously made by other runners’ butts (not shoes), and the whole thing reminded me of—and was just as incongruous as—the Jamaican Olympic bobsled team.

But about halfway down, I began to notice yards and yards of snow in the trough that had turned red. I knew this wasn’t food coloring. There were no dyes or pigments flowing freely here. This came from the bottoms of runners who sledded before me. This was human blood.

Nobody had ever said anything about this before! And seeing it and thinking that I had six more butt-slides to go, I knew once again that I was in over my head. I’d make it to Ouray, but that was it!

The rope ran out from under my arm and I kept going, sliding about 50 mph on bare skin. Of course, I’d been warned by everybody to wear long pants for this, but how was I going to carry long pants? I’m a big guy. My pants are long. They take up a lot of room even ina suitcase. Besides, I had my camera to carry. There are priorities.

When the snowdrift at the bottom stopped me cold, literally, I stood up, took inventory, and called for damage control. I was okay, but one of my plastic tent stakes was missing. (Chuck had suggested I carry two, one for each hand, if necessary, for ice climbing.) I decided then and there that the lost stake should remain as my contribution to future campers who might be one short.

Suddenly, I heard hollering.

It was another runner-turned-bobsledder about to go down. I whipped out my camera. He pushed off, hollered again, and continued hollering the whole way to Jamaica. When the joyride was done, I waited to see if I knew who it was. It was Jose.

“Hey, mon! Wot kinda boosheet eez dees ova here?”

“J thought we were runners,” I said, “not skiers!”

“Yoo dom right abot dot sheet!”

RICH LIM,

Jose Wilkie sliding out of the trough near the bottom of Virginius Pass (left). Jose dusts himself off after surviving “the ride.”

Jose and I had a great time going down the rest of the snow slopes together, and then, when we hit bottom, trying to find the trail again. We couldn’t see any markers! So together we went crazy over all this boosheet.

UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER AT OURAY

Eventually we found footprints leading off in some unlikely direction—lots of footprints—and decided to follow them. Shortly afterward we picked up the trail markers again and were on our way. I told Jose to go on ahead because I was stopping at Ouray, and he did. Only much later did J learn that, of all the 100-milers he had so far attempted this year, Hardrock turned out to be the only one he didn’t finish. (By year’s end Jose actually finished 14 100-milers, anew record.)

Did I tell you how hard this race is?

Very sadly, I also learned later that my friend Carolyn didn’t make it this time either. But she hugged me anyway, as though she did.

I walked the rest of the way to Ouray by myself in the dark, and presented

Rich Limacher MY MOST UNFORGETTABLE ULTRAMARATHON M 95

(perhaps gladly) my right wrist to the aid station captain. He cut off the shackle with my weight on it, and I was a free man. I knew Beth would be there, along with her two lady friends in one of their camper trucks, and of course they were. It turns out that both their husbands had passed me (somewhere) and so now I really felt like I was the last runner out there.

Ah, but amazing fact: I wasn’t. There were three more people behind me, and I was even still some 50 minutes ahead of cutoff. I could have continued!

No, I couldn’t. Let me review my mental state with you. When I started, I figured: three nights without sleep? What the heck. Let’s give ita shot. (Thinking that I might actually have a shot.) Going up Oscar’s Pass, I figured: if I can do this, I won’t ever have to come back. Going up Virginius, I figured: well, if I don’t do this now, I will have to come back. Coming down to Ouray at midnight, I figured: J ain’t never coming back! And furthermore, I’m giving up running completely and devoting all my time to my home and my loved ones. I’m going to rearrange my entire life’s priorities. And I’m giving up all this boosheet forever!

Months later, I’ve already sent in my entry for next year. I can still be the first finisher from Illinois.

And What | Learned From It

TOP 10 LESSONS

. You are never so successful that you cannot ever fail.

. Being coached is a lot different from being there.

. The best people can be found in the worst situations.

. Before you shoot yourself in despair, consult those people. . The Hardrock 100 is not a running race.

. You don’t have to kill yourself climbing on this course if you can make up time by skiing on your shoes.

. Skiing on our shoes might be the only way some of us will ever beat the cutoff.

. Wait till winter, lace up the trail shoes, go to the playground, climb up the ladder, and practice skiing down the slide.

Buy poles and crampons! , . Don’t kill yourself before next July. COPY

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Ay TCE Wobble

to Death

A Classic Novel Uncovered: Murder at a Six-Day Race: Part Ill

by Peter Lovesey

Editor’s note: Parts I and II of Wobble to Death appeared in our January/ February and March/April 2000 issues, respectively.

CHAPTER 5

The tracks now crunched under a dozen marching pairs of feet. Billy Reid, three hours in credit, looked ready to collapse at any moment. From time to time his eyes turned forlornly towards the hut where his brother continued to sleep.

“Didn’t like to disturb him, young’un,” had said the old pedestrian who shared the hut. “I’d go over there and wake him if I was you. I never saw aman sleepin’ more peaceful. I feel a lot better meself. Uncommon comfy, them pallets.”

Feargus O’Flaherty had other comments to make about the sleeping arrangements as he toured the track with Williams and Chalk. By comparison with his newest experience, his brushes with banshees paled into significance.

“And there, as I live and breathe, was the spectre of death come to claim me for Purgatory. The smell it brought with it was all around me, stifling me. Holy Mother of God, how I prayed! And when I opened my eyes there was Death herself, in the form of a woman, stealing up on me.”

“Was that when you ’it the roof, Feargus?”

“Tt was. I think that was how I saved my soul. I jumped up like an avenging angel, with a great shout of defiance, and she fled.”

“Did you chase after ’er?”

“J did not.”

“Was she a shapely woman?” Williams inquired. “T think I might surrender my ’oly soul when she visits me.”

“God forgive you, Williams!” O’ Flaherty snarled at the Half-breed. “The man who jokes of death risks his own salvation.”

Duly chastened, Williams altered his approach:

“What did your little room-mate do while this was going on?”

“Double-Barrell? I saw nothing of him.”

“?Tding under ’is bloody bed, I reckon.”

“Not at all. He didn’t come in to the hut for rest or sleep. So far as I can tell he was out here blistering his little feet all the while.”

The three pedestrians regarded Mostyn-Smith, whose steady march continued, with some interest. Unlike Reid, the other invader of the small hours, he showed little sign of fatigue. The stride was as easy and precise as it had been hours before. While others were sleeping he had lapped the track twenty-eight times.

On the inner circuit, unexpected things were happening. Charles Darrell was a revitalized force, cantering through his laps at a faster rate than anyone else in the race. His blistered foot might not have existed. Even Sam Monk, the advocate of uninhibited running, stood with a towel waving Darrell down, appealing to him to ease the pace. But with a sweep of his hand the runner blazoned defiance. It was not clear whether his exuberant display was calculated to upset Chadwick’s poise, but this it undoubtedly did. Whatever form he assumed Darrell’s running would take, Chadwick had not expected to surrender the initiative. His decision of the previous day to break into arun had proved a useful tactic. It gave him psychological mastery. And the sight of Darrell hobbling to his tent that night convinced Chadwick that he could dictate events in the future. Darrell would be content to leave the thinking, the planning, the pacemaking to him; the poor fellow was committed by his weakened state to a strategy of straw-clutching.

Now this cripple of three hours ago was completing his second mile in less than twelve minutes. Chadwick, by contrast, was having to force his taut muscles to work. It was hard enough walking; raising a run was unthinkable. Twice Darrell had lapped him, and now he could hear the boots bearing down on him again. This time, as though to emphasize his new role, Darrell spoke as he moved out to overtake.

“Care to run a few laps with me? Easier that way.”

“Not at present,” Chadwick answered, between gasps.

The infernal man was chopping his stride, talking over his shoulder.

“We might make six hundred by Saturday if we share the pace,” continued Darrell. “Settle the race in the final stages, but both beat the record.”

Chadwick shook his head, but said nothing, and Darrell, after shrugging his shoulders and opening his arms expansively, cruised on ahead.

The runners on the outer track were following these developments with interest. Williams spoke first.

“What’s this? Charlie Darrell’s bloody swan-song, I reckon.”

“What d’ you mean?”

“Obvious. He’s finished. Tryin’ to run Chadwick into the ground before ’e stops.”

“No, no,” said Chalk, from long experience. “Charlie ain’t the man to try that. Besides, ’e don’t look done in to me. ’E’s’ad one of Monk’s bracers. That’s what’s ’appened to him. Two hours from now ’e’ll be creeping round like the rest of us. Mark my words.”

O’Flaherty was sceptical.

“Tt’s bloody early in the race to be touching that stuff. ’ ve got a pick-meup for myself, but I shan’t let it pass my lips before Thursday.”

Williams rarely let an opportunity pass.

“Sure you didn’t take it as a night-cap, Feargus, before you saw the spook?”

The Irishman lashed out with an arm, but Williams had once earned his living as a pugilist, and ducked neatly.

In the boardroom, Herriott and Jacobson were reviewing the first day’s takings, which amounted to little over £260.

“It could be a deal worse, Walter. With the £170 we took in entries we’ ve already covered the hire of the Hall. Monday and Tuesday are never good days in these affairs. Astley reckons to double his receipts on the third and fourth days, and then double them again for the last two.”

“There’s still two and a half thousand in expenses to cover,” Jacobson reminded him. “If Darrell doesn’t blow up we ought to get good reports in the Press. But the moonstruck idiot is on the track now, spurting like a harrier. He’ Il never keep going, Sol. He wasn’t a sound investment.”

Herriott exhaled noisily.

“One moment, Walter. You’re the manager of this race, and you are responsible to me for seeing that it proceeds successfully. I picked out two of the best men in England, on good advice—the dregs and lees don’t concern us—and I’ve staked a fortune on this promotion. You”—and he laid a fat finger on Jacobson’s sleeve— “‘will see that Darrell doesn’t drop out. He runs till Saturday, or walks, or crawls. Understand me?”

“Yes, yes,” answered Jacobson, “but you understand this, Sol. I agree I’m responsible for all the arrangements. I’ ve appointed teams of judges and scorers who are working well in difficult conditions. I’ ve spent weeks over preparations—printing, advertising, hiring officials, contractors for the stand, gatekeepers, commissionaires, police—”

“All right, Walter. You’ ve done well up to now—”

“And there have been belts and medals to prepare, and all the entries to sift. That was my work, and it’s done, even if I knew nothing of pedestrianism before last June. What’s been your contribution, Sol?”

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“Three thousand pounds of my money among other things.”

Months of stifled resentment were inflaming Jacobson now.

“Well, I can tell you what those other things are. Press interviews and escorting lady visitors—and one other duty that you insisted on. That was the right to choose the main contestants. And you, Sol, you chose Darrell.”

Herriott was shaking, partly from shock, partly anger.

“I take your point. But nor am I a scapegoat for your mistaken judgments. I’ve said enough. We’ ve never had a wry word in all the years we’ve known each other.”

Herriott stood to pour sherry. His hands still trembled.

“You are right. I spoke out of place and I apologize. I think we have both been on duty here too long.”

Itcrossed Jacobson’s mind that Herriott had spent all of the previous evening out of the building, but he said no more.

“I shall hold myself responsible if anything goes wrong with Darrell—or Chadwick, for that matter,” Herriott continued. “But you, if I may say so, are on better terms with the training fraternity than I am. I should appreciate it, Walter, if you would have a word with Darrell’s man—Monk, I think he’s called—and find out what game they’re at.”

“Tl do what I can.”

Herriott handed a glass of sherry to his manager.

“Things should go better today. The band report at ten. I’m told they’re more noted for their vigour than the melody they produce, but they may help us to believe we’re feeling warmer.”

“I hope they inject some life into the runners on the outer path,” added Jacobson. “No one expects a broken down old cabber to go like aracehorse, but some of them look ready for the knacker.”

At 5:30 a.m. Francis Mostyn-Smith returned to the track after a cat-nap of thirty minutes. He resumed his walk a few yards in front of O’ Flaherty’s group, and the Irishman, as usual, slapped the little man’s shoulder.

“That wouldn’t have been you sneaking back from the huts, now would it? I thought we were a man short on this track. You can’t sleep all day, mate.”

Mostyn-Smith opened his mouth but they were already too far ahead to hear his reply. So he waited until they approached him to overtake again, but this time side-stepped smartly to his right so that they could pass inside, without the back-slapping. And as they came level, he addressed them.

“You noticed the refreshing smell of carbolic in our hut, [hope, O’ Flaherty. I managed to arrange with the management for our floor to be scrubbed each evening. It gives us a great advantage.”

“You what?” The Irishman had pulled up and rounded on Mostyn-Smith.

“Carbolic, O’ Flaherty. For hygiene, you know. The place reeked of animals. I don’t think you’ll be disturbed. I haven’t seen the cleaning-woman go in myself, but the hut smells distinctly sweeter.”

“Carbolic? Cleaning-woman?” repeated O’Flaherty. His face darkened as realization dawned on him. “Oh Father! Keep me from committing a mortal sin!”

He wielded a fist before Mostyn-Smith’s startled face, but words and action failed him. He dropped his hands limply. Utterly deflated, he trudged off after the others, praying that they had not heard the conversation.

Walter Jacobson did not immediately search for Monk. The spirit he had shown in the boardroom had shaken Herriott. He was determined not to surrender any of the new respect he had won. So he resisted the impulses that urged him to carry out orders at once. And when he eventually found Monk, towards six o’clock, the circumstances had altered. Charles Darrell’s spasm of energy had plainly subsided. He now moved along the track at a sedate plod, and the limp was back. Chadwick, however, had run off his stiffness and settled to a comfortable jog-trot, energetic enough to make inroads on his rival’s lead.

Monk was in the restaurant. “Emergency breakfasts” were being served there.

“Chadwick needs to make up a mile or two after your lad’s fine start,” Jacobson tactfully began, as he seated himself next to the trainer. “I think he surprised us all, going off at such a gallop.”

Monk shook his head.

“Too fast. It wasn’t like Charlie. He knows you can’t play about with pace. He knows that as well as anyone. What’s he doing now? Beginning to suffer, I shouldn’t wonder.”

He seemed complacent. Evidently Darrell deserved to suffer a little, in his trainer’s opinion.

“Well,” answered Jacobson, “his lapping looks a sight slower than it was. Do you mean that he wasn’t under instructions to warm up the pace?”

“T never give instructions unless I see a man’s liable to break down. If Charlie ain’t learned by now that you don’t bolt like a goose at Christmas on the second morning of a six-day wobble, then he deserves a few hours’ struggling. I got no sympathy, Mr. Jacobson.”

“You’re not worried about blistering? How are his feet?”

Monk nonchalantly buttered a piece of toast.

“Seen ’em worse—a lot worse. He won’t give up on that account.”

“T sincerely hope he won’t give up on any account. There’s a deal of public interest in this duel with Chadwick. It would be disastrous to our promotion if the race didn’t come to a finish.”

“Then you’ d better see Chadwick’s trainer, Mr. Jacobson. We ain’t the party that’ll seize up, if any does. Charlie’s record is clean.”

“Quite so,” agreed Jacobson, who still held private reservations about Darrell’s staying powers. “But, like you, I like to see amanrun to his best form.”

A voice unexpectedly hailed Monk from the restaurant door.

“You’re wanted on track, mate. Your feller’s down with cramp!”

“I bloody knew it,” the trainer told Jacobson. “He was asking for this, running himself into a lather. D’ you know how long we spent on his breathings? Six weeks! He was better prepared than any in this race.”

Grumbling profusely, Monk made for the door and marched out past the stands to the competitors’ entrance. At the side of the inner track a cluster of officials and a constable had gathered around Darrell. He lay on his side with knees bent, arms tensed and moaning. His face was ghastly pale. Monk knelt at his side and began manipulating his legs.

“That’s the second to go inside an hour,” cheerfully commented one of the onlookers. “That boy Reid fell like a stone—and his brother couldn’t be found, neither. By the looks of him he won’t see the track for a couple of hours.”

Darrell allowed Monk to work at his aching legs. The pain was easing. Chadwick jogged by, regarding these operations with interest.

Darrell spoke. “It was soft to go off like that, I own it. Just get me back on the path.”

“How are your feet?” Monk asked.

“No trouble really. Pins and needles. Part of the cramp, I suppose.”

ANDY YELENAK

“Try to stand up.”

Applause broke out in the enclosure as Darrell was seen to be vertical again. A crowd of several hundred had paid their shillings, many before commencing the day’s work.

“Now put your weight on the leg. Move around. Are you game to go on? I wouldn’t come off yet, or the cramp might take hold. I’ll bring a jacket. Must keep your blood warm.”

Darrell freed himself from the hands supporting him, and stepped on to the track. A little unsteadily he forced himself to trot away. There was cheering from the stands.

Monk slipped into the tent and brought out a Norfolk jacket. He caught up with Darrell and wrapped it around him.

“Just keep on the move, Charlie, and you’ Il run yourself back on form.”

The runner worked the jacket on and seemed to quicken his pace as he rounded the bend at the Liverpool Road end.

Sol Herriott, who was holding a Press conference at one end of the arena, was visibly affected by Darrell’s breakdown.

“Shall we adjourn for a few moments, gentlemen, to watch this dramatic development?”

They clustered on one of the bends, a wall of dark overcoats turreted with bowler hats, behind which Darrell was lost to view for seconds as he hobbled past. Monk walked anxiously at his side, encouraging him from inside the ropes. Then the reporters rearranged themselves around Herriott. Questions bombarded him.

“What happens if he throws in his hand?”

“Where’s your doctors, Mr. Herriott?”

“Will you call the race off if he pulls out?”

“What’s happened to young Reid?”

The promoter held up a hand and fixed his mouth and eyebrows in the grimace of a long-suffering schoolmaster. The questions subsided. Herriott, with deliberate slowness, lit a cigar, and resumed the conference.

“Cramp is nothing unusual in a six-day race, gentlemen. Shall we keep our perspective? If there is any question of this man retiring from the race I have no doubt that he’Il try the remedy of a few hours’ sleep before giving up. And I may remind you that Mr. Darrell is a professional sportsman of uncommon long experience. There are stratagems in this business of pedestrianism, gentlemen. Need I say more?”

“You’re telling us Darrell’s a good actor, Mr. Herriott?”

“Merely suggesting a possibility, Mr. Martin. You are from the Sporting and Dramatic, aren’t you? Your opinion is doubtless more valuable than mine.”

He simpered at the skill of his repartee.

Peter Lovesey WOBBLE TO DEATH @® 105

The questions lasted another five minutes. Herriott’s thesis (that the promotion was so impeccably staged that it could not fail to produce record performances and a momentous finish) took some knocks, but he defended it stoutly. The pity was that when he was beginning to convince some of his listeners a series of screams rang echoing across the Hall and the conference dispersed in seconds.

Awoman was ina state of hysteria in the shilling enclosure. Officials sprinted across the tracks, the newsmen converged there and the shrieking creature was subdued. What had escaped most of the Press was the reason for her outburst. On the inner track Darrell had collapsed again. He lay full length on the track, his face contorted with pain, turned towards the section of the crowd where the woman had been watching. The attention switched to him. Monk ran on the track and began working at the contracted leg-muscles. A blanket was thrown over Darrell’s shoulders. After some seconds of silence the crowd began shouting that he should be taken off, and whistles of approval greeted two stretcherbearers, who moved the runner, still gasping with pain, to his tent.

A doctor, summed by Herriott, joined Monk inside the tent, where Darrell lay on the bed, breathing more regularly and with some relaxation.

“A devil of a cramp,” the trainer diagnosed as he continued to massage the legs.

“Keep the man warm, then, and massage upwards, with the course of circulation. We must get those boots off.”

Ina matter of minutes Darrell was free of pain, but the experience had left him considerably weaker. His pulse-rate and heart-beat were taken.

“This man is not to run again today,” the doctor stated, perhaps without realizing its full implications.

Darrell spoke for the first time.

“You can’t—I must. You can’t stop me.”

His shoulders were pressed back on to the bed.

“Take a sleep, my man. You are in no state to think of continuing. When you’ ve rested you’ ll be twice the runner.”

With a nod to Monk, the doctor withdrew to report to Herriott.

“The man obviously has a saline deficiency, and he is now totally exhausted. There is no question of his running for another twelve hours.”

“Twelve? You can’t mean this. He’s one of the principals. These men recover quickly—”

“Twelve hours, sir, or I won’t answer for the man’s health. The pulse is racing dangerously.”

Herriott sought for words to influence the doctor. Twelve hours meant the ruin of his promotion. All the publicity, all the interest, had focused on the Darrell-Chadwick duel.

“Perhaps . . . another opinion. Your colleague, when he comes in, may see the possibility of a faster recovery?”

“That is for him to decide, Mr. Herriott. You have my opinion. I am sorry—”

The conversation was severed by a groan of appalling desperation from Darrell’s tent. For a shocked instant, both men stood immobile. Then they ran to the tent.

Charles Darrell lay pinned to the mattress by Monk’s straining arms. Beneath the blankets his lower body jerked woodenly in convulsions. Pain had transformed his face. His mouth gaped, struggling to shout again, but instead repeatedly gasped for breath.

The doctor pulled Monk from the restraining position which he had instinctively taken up, and allowed Darrell to roll on to his side, where he at last gave vent to agonized moaning. The spasms lessened in number and intensity as the seconds passed.

“Stretcher! We must move him out at once,” the doctor shouted. “I need a room for him, away from this row.”

Herriott, to his credit, was equal to the urgency of the situation. While the stretcher-bearers were recalled to the tent, he ordered other attendants to erect a spare bed in the boardroom. In minutes, Darrell, still conscious, but moaning with an involuntary rhythm, was carried out of the tent and across the tracks.

As the party moved towards the corridor which led to the offices, a figure in black running costume followed and caught up with the doctor.

“You will excuse me. My name is Mostyn-Smith. Possibly I can assist. I have a degree in medicine.”

The doctor received this information as calmly as though Mostyn-Smith were dressed in frock-coat and spats.

“My thanks, Doctor. I shall be much in your debt if you will give an opinion.”

Darrell was borne into the boardroom where the bed was almost ready.

“And now, Mr. Herriott, and you, sir,” the doctor said addressing Monk, “if you will leave us with the patient? Please do not go far away, as we may need urgent medical supplies.”

When the door had closed, Herriott turned to face a dozen reporters, eager for statements. He recovered a little of his poise.

“Mr. Darrell has been removed from the area of the tracks in order that he may rest, gentlemen. As you saw for yourselves, he was suffering from severe cramp—a sign of overtiredness. Please do him the kindness now of leaving him to rest. A doctor is with him as an extra precaution, and if there is any comment on his condition I shall recall you.”

For almost an hour, interrupted only when Mostyn-Smith came out briefly to ask for warm, strong tea for the patient, Herriott paced the corridor, trying

Peter Lovesey WOBBLE TO DEATH fw 107

to devise ways of salvaging something from this setback. The Press, he knew, would not be stalled for long. If Darrell were forced to withdraw from the race, and the newspapers published the information, the attendance for the second part of the week would plummet. Nobody wanted to see an exhibition by Chadwick, famous as he was; and the rest of the field could run for a year without attracting anyone to the Hall.

At length the door of the bedroom opened, and Mostyn-Smith, saying nothing, indicated with his eyes that they were ready for Herriott to enter. He understood the silence a moment later. He stood in the doorway and looked at the bed on the opposite side, where the lifeless body of Charles Darrell lay, covered by a blanket.

CHAPTER 6

By noon the runners were watched by a crowd of nearly a thousand. Boisterous and frequently insulting shouts echoed around the nine pedestrians who were circling the tracks at that stage. They were mostly too bored or weary to react. The arrival of the band, two hours before, had encouraged some horseplay from the Half-breed, who attempted to waltz with O’ Flaherty against his will. But now the eleven green-jacketed “snake-charmers” were repeating their medley of popular airs for the fourth time, and their performance was becoming as ritualized as the movement of the runners. Interest was revived, though, by Mostyn-Smith’s reappearance in the race, seconds after mid-day. With a wave to the lap-scorers he crossed the scratch-line and immediately resumed his characteristic four-mile-an-hour gait. Chalk, the Scythebearer, was the first to draw level with him, cutting his stride to keep pace.

“You got called to Charlie Darrell, then.”

Mostyn-Smith had expected to be interrogated, and decided to provide the required information at once.

“Yes. I am qualified in medicine. I did what I could to help. He was too far gone, though. Mr. Darrell died about an hour ago.”

“Died?”

“Yes.”

“You mean ’e ran ’imself to death?”

“T did not say that. Itis too early to say for certain what was the cause of death. The race-doctors have decided to hold a post-mortem examination. I shall be exceedingly surprised if overtaxing of the system proves to be the only cause.”

Williams, O’Flaherty and the veteran who shared Reid’s hut slowed to Mostyn-Smith’s pace and fell in behind. Chalk told them the essential facts.

“And this is premature, of course,” added Mostyn-Smith, “but I think it right as a doctor to warn you all—and I shall speak to the other contestants—

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that Mr. Darrell’s last hours bore several of the symptoms of tetanus—a very vicious disease.”

“Tetanus!” Williams repeated. “That’s the ostlers’ disease, ain’t it?”

“It has certainly been established that there is a tendency for workers in stables and farmyards to contract tetanus.”

“But Darrell ain’t been near a farm. ’E took his breathings at ’Ackney Wick. Monk told me that.”

Mostyn-Smith was patient.

“That may be so. However, gentlemen, if one needed to look for a building in London where tetanus might be contracted—”

He spread his hands, gazed upwards to the roof and looked resignedly at each troubled face.

“You mean—this bloody ’ole! You’re right. The biggest stinking cow-shed in the country,” Williams thundered.

“But before you vacate the Hall, gentlemen, I think it unlikely that any of us will become infected. I have arranged for the area of the huts, which is the most fouled by animal excrement, to be washed and disinfected at once. I rather think that Mr. Darrell, unfortunate man, may have become infected when he took off his boots on Monday night to run barefoot on blistered feet. Itis through an open wound that the disease enters the body. I strongly advise you to retain your footwear at every stage of the race. If you have cuts or abrasions, have them covered. The doctors will help.”

“I’m for quitting,” Chalk said. “Tetanus. That’s something doctors can’t cure.”

“That is perfectly true,” Mostyn-Smith admitted. “But we know enough about it to take reasonable precautions. If I thought there was a real danger, I should have retired from this contest already. Of course, the decision is your own. Bear in mind that we shall not be certain until after the post-mortem examination. It may be that he died from other causes.”

He actually raised his pace a fraction to put a decent distance between them and him. They conferred for several minutes as they walked. Apparently a group decision was to be made. Then O’Flaherty detached himself and approached Mostyn-Smith again.

“You say we’re not likely to catch it if we keep our feet clean?”

“Bearing in mind that you aren’t likely to suffer skin damage on any other part of your person, yes. Whether Mr. Darrell died from tetanus or some other cause, it is still good advice. That is why I arranged for our hut to be scrubbed, Mr. O’ Flaherty.”

The Irishman accepted the point in silence.

“And you’re going on with this tramp yourself?”

“J fully intend to,” Mostyn-Smith affirmed. “I shall make up the time that I lost this morning by increasing my stridelength.”

A little devilment made him add, “If you gentlemen withdraw, I should be among the leaders by Friday.”

This reminder that Darrell’s death had increased the chances of prize money tipped the scales in the pedestrians’ decision to continue. After another brief consultation the group broke into a run, and trotted away in step into a faster lap to celebrate their resolve. They raised dust, defined in pale beams of sunlight that had penetrated the grimy vaulting.

Erskine Chadwick sat at lunch in his tent, watched by Harvey. The meal was cold, but well prepared, and he consumed it noisily. The morning’s tragedy had not touched him. Darrell had scarcely existed, except as a yardstick. The poor fellow was dead, so Herriott would probably promote some other worthy trudger to the inner track and the race would continue. The tetanus scare had not bothered Chadwick either. That eccentric little medico from the outer path had made a point of mentioning the risk. But after army service the only risks that troubled Chadwick arose on the Stock Market.

The full blare of the band invaded the tent for an instant as the flap was drawn open. Walter Jacobson came in.

“Forgive this intrusion. I should like to speak with you about the race, and I don’t wish to delay you. The matter is of some importance.”

“Please sit down, then. Our furniture is sparse, but if you don’t object to sitting on the bed… ?”

Jacobson, ill at ease, fluttered his hand to decline the offer.

“To come to the point, you will have heard of Mr. Darrell’s tragic passing, and I think you will understand that this has thrown the whole future of the contest into uncertainty. We—that is, the management—would wish to continue with the race, providing that the participants feel able to go on.”

Chadwick felt totally able, but feigned a moment’s decent hesitation.

“Of course,” he ventured, “one feels reluctant in these unhappy circumstances…”

“Quite, quite. Do continue your meal, won’t you?”

“However, as a military man,” Chadwick added with an air of fortitude, “I learned to accept such things philosophically. And as an athlete I have trained my body to persevere, even when the mind protests. I think that poor Darrell would wish us to continue the race.”

“Tam so glad that you feel this way. I hope that your fellow-competitors are equally resolute.” Jacobson produced a large handkerchief and dusted the back of his neck. “What we now have to settle is how we rearrange the race.”

Chadwick had prepared for this.

“Yes. There was a good deal of interest in the duel between Darrell and me.”

“We have a problem,” Jacobson continued, “in that no single competitor seems worthy of consideration as your antagonist.”

Peter Lovesey WOBBLE TO DEATH @® 111

He paused, allowing Chadwick to savour the flattery.

“Tf, for example, I nominated Williams, who holds second place by a small margin, he might be overtaken tomorrow by O’Flaherty, or even Chalk.”

Suspicion dawned on Chadwick’s face.

“So I have come to suggest,” Jacobson said, speaking more quickly, “that instead of making the main contest a two-man race, we alter the conditions a little so that you are challenged by all-comers—which was in real terms always the case.”

“But I do not exactly follow—”

“Tn other words, we dispense with one of the tracks and all competitors run on the outer path, which is wider than the other.”

Having delivered his dart, Jacobson paused to study its effect.

Chadwick picked up a knife from the plate and held it poised on his fingers, pointing at Jacobson.

“You are seriously suggesting,” he said in a voice thick with menace, “that I appear on a track with the drunks and half-wits who are out there at the moment. Is that it, Mr. Jacobson?”

“Well-known pedestrians, many of them,” Jacobson stammered.

“Clowns or criminals, every one! Perhaps you aren’t aware, sir, that I hold the Queen’s Commission. I am not unused to dealing with the lower levels of society. I wouldn’t allow one of that rabble to clean my blasted boots!” With an air of finality he snatched an orange that Harvey was holding and bisected it savagely.

Jacobson selected his next words with care.

“So I must now inform Mr. Herriott that you are retiring from the contest?”

“That is not what I said.”

“But the effect of what you said is the same, Mr. Chadwick. First, you have no rival left. Second, you refuse to appear with the antagonists who are nominated. The conclusion is obvious.”

Chadwick was beginning to see he had no choice, but he continue to resist.

“Nominate Williams and I shall permit him to share my path.”

Jacobson played his ace.

“T doubt that Williams or any of his fellows would risk stepping on the inner track. The doctors’ suspicion is that Mr. Darrell died of tetanus, contracted when he ran barefoot on that very path. The ground may be contaminated.”

Harvey had removed Chadwick’s boots and socks for airing purposes. The naked feet, resting squarely on the stone floor, were abruptly tilted so that only the heels remained in contact.

“Tf were to accept your proposal, and move to the outer path, I should expect some form of compensation. The sacrifice, you see, would be all on my side. The benefit to the promotion and its public appeal would be immeasurable.”

This was capitulation. Jacobson was delighted.

“T think you may be confident that Mr. Herriott will make some recognition of this sporting gesture. Shall I suggest fifty?”

Chadwick reached for his socks.

“Suggest a hundred and I’ll settle for that.”

Jacobson nodded assent and turned to leave.

“One more thing,” said Chadwick. “You will arrange for this floor to be disinfected?”

“At once.”

Jacobson hurried away to secure Herriott’s agreement. It was quickly given, and when Chadwick rejoined the race at 12:30 p.m. he started on the outer circuit behind Billy Reid, whose brother had bullied him into resuming. On the other side of the track O’ Flaherty and his friends were already devising tactics to ensure that Chadwick earned every penny of his hundred pounds.

Later in the afternoon Sol Herriott was preparing a statement for the newspapers about the altered race-arrangements. He sat near the starting area on a mahogany chair taken from the boardroom. The grey tip of his cigar grew, fell and disintegrated on his pin-stripes. Officials prattling behind him did not break his concentration; the urgency of the task preoccupied him. If Wednesday morning’s Press suggested that the promotion might collapse, the effect could be disastrous. He was composing a piece to present Chadwick’s move to the second track as a sensation. The whole venture would be given an impetus.

In general, he had been pleased by the morning editions, which appeared too late to carry the news of Darrell. The careers of the main entrants were fully described, and much was made of the different backgrounds of Chadwick and Darrell. The remainder of the field had been referred to as “the huddled-up division”—a slighting reference to their accommodation—but otherwise the comments were flippant, but uncritical. Herriott had liked “the Boss of the Hippodrome,” and “that staunch sportsman.” If tragedy had not intervened, he would have enjoyed this day.

One of the competitors, Reid, had twice tottered off course during the last hour, and fresh sawdust had been put down to mark the inner edge of the track. The rest, though, were in good shape. All of them now chose to walk, and the pace varied little from man to man. Chadwick undoubtedly showed the best form, but two knots of competitors contrived to impede him whenever he overtook. Chalk’s antics in cutting across the Captain’s path were hugely enjoyed, and Williams too delighted the crowd by dogging Chadwick’s steps for a full lap, aping the upthrust chin.

This mood of mirth was cut short by the entrance of a woman in dark clothes, heavily veiled and accompanied by an elderly man. She crossed the track to

speak to Herriott. After a word to Jacobson, who took over the Press release, Herriott led them to his office.

“Tt was a great shock,” he began, when they were seated.

Cora Darrell had lifted her veil.

“A wicked thing. Mr. Herriott, may I introduce my father?”

“McCarthy is my name.”

He offered his hand.

“Tt was good of you to send word so quickly of my son-in-law’s death.”

He was mildly spoken, and dressed in a faded check overcoat. Repair-stitching showed on his shoes, which he had polished to a military standard.

“T wish that we could have informed you when he first col- r lapsed,” Herriott answered, “but Mee : ANDY YELENAK none of us suspected anything but cramp at that stage. After that, the attacks came so suddenly and so violently that we were totally taken up with his condition. The whole thing was over in less than two hours.”

“These attacks,” asked McCarthy. “Did they become steadily worse?”

“T was not with him to the end,” Herriott answered. “We had two doctors in attendance, and they told me that the attacks were in the nature of muscular spasms. He was conscious until the last moments.”

Cora covered her face, sobbing. Her fathered rested a hand on her arm.

“The doctors,” he said. “Could I see them?”

“The doctors mainly concerned left to conduct the post-mortem examination at Islington mortuary. I shall be pleased to arrange a meeting later. The other doctor volunteered his help. He is a competitor in the race—MostynSmith. If you would care to meet him—”

“Not if he is on the track at present. We should not interrupt his running again. Did either of the doctors venture an opinion of the cause?”

“They said that tetanus was a possibility.”

“Tetanus? You don’t get that running, do you? I thought it entered the body through a wound. Don’t soldiers get that? I’m sure it is due to dirty wounds.”

Herriott looked down.

“T’m sorry. I know very littlek—”

“But I really don’t understand,” McCarthy persisted. “My son-in-law apparently died in agony from a disease that has to infect the body through a wound.”

“His feet,” faltered Herriott. “The blisters had broken. There were cuts. He ran on the path without boots or socks.”

Cora Darrell suddenly veered from passive grief to hysterical anger.

“Cuts! Open wounds! And he ran on them, over this filthy ground! What was his trainer doing, to allow this? Where is Sam Monk? What kind of trainer is he? Oh, Charlie, Charlie, he killed you. Monk killed you.”

McCarthy, mumbling apologies, tried to calm his daughter. But she controlled herself, pushing him away.

“I demand to see Mr. Monk. I am entitled to a proper explanation. Where is my husband’s trainer?”

“J… don’t think you should see him today,” Herriott answered. “Like you, Mrs. … Cora, he is ina distracted state. He could give you no proper answers.”

He remembered seeing Monk in the restaurant at lunchtime, drinking alone, and heavily. By now he would be in a stupor.

“Mr. Herriott is right, my dear,” added McCarthy. “It would serve no useful purpose.”

Cora was now calm, and spoke slowly.

“We shall sue that man, for wicked negligence. And you, Sol. We are old friends, I know, but if I can prove that you are responsible in any way for Charles’s death, I shall sue. You and your ridiculous race robbed me of his love—my lawful right—for the last six weeks of his life.”

“Now, Cora,” protested her father, “you cannot—”

“There are thousands of witnesses to the filth of this building,” she continued, ignoring him. “Thousands, Sol. And if the law allows it, Pll prove you responsible.”

Herriott remained silent, stunned by the suddenness of the young widow’s attack. Cora had said all that she wanted and stood ready to leave. Her father formed an apology on his lips but only uttered a meaningless sound. Nodding awkwardly, he motioned Cora to the door and they left Herriott alone.

That evening was not a comfortable one for Herriott. Although a fair crowd accumulated in the stands they were less animated than the band. The performers on the track gave a dreary show. Only Billy Reid provided occasional diversions by sitting, on strike, at the track-edge, while his brother’s appeals

were taken up by those near by, “Go it, Billy! You’ve got ’em all beat, my beauty. Get up, Billy Boy!”—auntil he roused himself for another laborious circuit. Mid-way through the evening Sam Monk awoke from a drunken slumber in the restaurant and tottered into the arena pestering the officials for money. Herriott cast about for Jacobson, but the manager, as usual, was elsewhere, and the job of evicting Monk had to be his own.

Most of the audience had left and the pedestrians themselves were starting to retire when Jacobson reappeared. With him were two strangers.

“These gentlemen asked to meet you. They are from the police. Sergeant— er—”

“Cribb—and Police Constable Thackeray. You are Mr. Herriott, manager of this show?”

“Promoter. Jacobson here is the manager.”

“Very good. I am from the Detective Branch. Here to investigate the death of Charles Frederick Darrell. Pedestrian, I believe?”

“Yes. But why—”

“Doctors’ report came in tonight. He died of poisoning, sir. Enough strychnine in the corpse to put down a drayhorse. Where shall we talk?”

THE PEDESTRIAN CONTEST AT ISLINGTON Positions at the end of the Second Day

Name Miles Laps Capt. Erskine Chadwick 202 0 George Williams 196 2 Feargus O’Flaherty 196 2 Peter Chalk 187 5 David Stevens 182 4 James Gaffney 181 0 William Reid 180 5 Montague Lawton 179 3 Walter Holland 176 0 Matthew Jenkins 175 3 Charles Jones 174 3 Francis Mostyn-Smith 169 4

C. Darrell (125 miles), and G. Stockwell (139 miles) retired from the race.

© 1970 by Peter Lovesey. Reprinted with permission of the author and Gelfman Schneider Literary Agents, Inc.

Andy Yelenak’s drawings on pages 104 and 114 were created for this reprinting. Part IV of Wobble to Death will appear in the July/August issue.

silie on valley

www. svmarathon c 2 – g 7.0968 ; version 4.0

October 29, 2000 ) | “San Jose, CA 2

Quad Cities Marathon

Is This Spirit-Lifting Course One of Running’s Best-Kept Secrets?

M AYBETHERP’S something to this Indian lore. As legend has it, the God of Water was traveling southward carving the Mississippi River when he was so distracted by the beauty between what is now Iowa and Illinois that he cast his glances sideways. These glances caused the river’s course to be altered forever, though just for a short while before resuming its southerly direction.

What settles now on that lone east-to-west flow, straddling the mighty Mississippi, are the Quad Cities: Rock Island, Moline, and East Moline on the Illinois side, and Davenport and Bettendorf on the Iowa side. (Please overlook that technically these should be called the Quint Cities—it’s sort of like the 11team Big Ten Conference, surely a Midwestern phenomenon.) Linked by suspension, steel-arch, and swing bridges, the Quad Cities were primed for a marathon countdown: five cities connected by four bridges participating in three races across two states along one storied river.

Quad Cities Marathon 920 15th Avenue East Moline, IL 61244

PHONE: 309/751-9800

FAX: 309/788/7898

WEB SITE: www.qcmarathon.org

RACE DIRECTOR: Joe Moreno

YEAR RACE ESTABLISHED: 1998

SANCTION: USATF

START TIME: 7:30 a.m. for the marathon, relays, and 5K

COURSE RECORD HOLDERS Open men: Bob Simmons, lowa, 1999, 2:26:43 Open women: Christy Nielsen, lowa, 1999, 2:56:31 Masters men: Steve Wilson, Indiana, 1999, 2:39:30 Masters women: Mary Burns-Prine, California, 1998, 2:59:55 Five-person relay: Endurance: Bryan Glass, Dan Fredericks, Tauwon Taylor, Ravi Bhave, Jacob Kaemmer, 1999, 2:20:44; 30-Something Babes: Barb Lauff, Sandy Guise, Theresa Grimes-Beck, Jodie John, Sheryl Luense, 1999, 3:01:00 Two-person relay: Open men: Steve Brenner, Ken Lauff, 2:38:05 Open women: Lauren Thompson, Dawn Brooks, 2:58:24 PRIZEMONEY Opendivision: 1st, $1,250; 2nd, $1,000; 3rd, $750; 4th, $600; 5th, $500; 6th, $400; 7th, $300; 8th, $200; 9th, $100; 10th, $50 Masters division: 1st, $250, 2nd, $100; 3rd, $50

TIE-IN EVENTS: Kids’ runs; two-person relay; five-person relay; 5K NUMBER OF VOLUNTEERS: 900

MARATHON FINISHERS IN 1999: 573

MALE/FEMALE FINISHERS: 73% male/27% female

COURSE MARKINGS: Every mile

NUMBER OF MEDICAL STATIONS: 5

NUMBER OF WATER STATIONS: 18

FUTURE RACE DATES: 09/24/00; 09/23/01; 09/22/02

ENTRY COST FOR 2000: $35 postmarked by Sept. 11; $40 through Sept. 23; $50 race day; 5-person relay: $100 postmarked by Sept. 11; $125 through Sept. 22; $150 on Sept. 23; 2-person relay: $40 postmarked by Sept. 11; $50 through Sept. 23

GETTING THERE: The Quad Cities (Davenport and Bettendorf in lowa and Moline, Rock Island, and East Moline in Illinois) are served by three interstate highways (I-80, I-74, and I-88) and several state highways. On |-80 east from Des Moines, lowa, or I-80 west from Chicago, take |-280 to 1-74. Take the I-74 exit north to downtown Moline, which is the last exit before reaching the Mississippi River. Quad Cities is 180 miles from Des Moines, 60 from lowa City, 200 miles from Chicago, and 100 from Peoria, Illinois. The Quad Cities Airport at Moline is four exits (including the I-280 turnoff) from the downtown. A map is available at the Web site.

A RUNNING NICHE

When race director Joe Moreno approached the Quad Cities Sports Commission three years ago with his vision of having a marathon become the organization’s signature event, he wasn’t looking for a way to put the Quad Cities on the national longdistance running map. He merely wanted to give the Sports Commission, and the Quad Cities, an opportunity to put on a quality event while filling a gap for area running enthusiasts.

Little did Moreno know that the completion of the first Quad Cities Marathon in 1998 helped carve the Quad Cities a national niche of their own. It took national running hero Frank Shorter, the 1972 U.S. Olympic marathon gold medalist and spokesman for the QC Marathon since its inception, to point it out: “There

May/June 2000

are very few cities that have both a major road race and a major marathon,” said Shorter, noting the Quad Cities’ midsummer Bix 7 road race that draws over 20,000 runners annually (including longtime spokespersons Bill Rodgers and Joan Benoit Samuelson, as well as Shorter himself on a few occasions). “Boston, Chicago, and New York have major marathons but no major road races. Los Angeles has a marathon but no major road race. Yet the Quad Cities now has both.”

Plus, by drawing 1,305 runners in its five-person relay, the Quad Cities Marathon received some bonus recognition, becoming the fifth largest relay in the nation, according to USA Track & Field. In 1999, Quad Cities expanded its running opportunities even more, adding a two-person relay. Though the two-person cut into the impressive, first-year five-person numbers a bit, having 290 and 1,030 runners, respectively, both Shorter and Moreno think that offering a 13.1miler will serve the Quad Cities Marathon best in the long run.

“This will provide a unique opportunity,” Shorter said. “The niche is it being a developmental training run for marathon runners or first-time marathoners, introducing them to an actual marathon. It can be more of a regional race. Then, eventually, it will grow froma developmental run to the marathon they want to run.

“For those who run in Chicago (in October), this can be a nice complement. Maybe they run here in the reMay/June 2000

lay and run here in the marathon the next year. That’s the hope.”

DREAM COME TRUE

Aware of the Bix 7 success, Moreno figured a marathon in the Quad Cities could catch on, but it had to be more than just a marathon.

“We want this to be for the entire family,” the race director said. That’s why organizers, including the Bixoperating Cornbelt Running Club, not only added the relays but also a 5K and three different kids’ runs.

“A year ago we were very nervous because we had an unknown quantity,” Moreno added. “But we’ ve established ourselves very well.”

“We all wondered about a certain feeling of competition because of the Bix,” Shorter added, “but this is one of the few examples where people actually get along in this regard.”

PRERACE SPECIALTIES

Miss the symposium at the Health and Fitness Expo at the Lady Luck Convention Center on the eve of the race, and you’re really missing out. “This symposium is one of my favorites,” Shorter says. “They should take this show on the road.”

Shorter continued, “There was a71year-oldrunner, a first-timer, last year’s (women’s) champ, and me. We told of our attitudes and goals, but the way we expressed ourselves was the same. The feelings they had were the same as