special book bonus

Runners converge on London to pursue their competitive dreams. Part 1.

Perhaps more than the quest for the elusive four-minute mile, the prospect of a sub-two-hour marathon has been debated, analyzed, and made the thing of fable. But now that the world’s best marathon time has cracked its way into the sub-2 :04 strata, talk of a sub-two has been reignited.

But such talk isn’t anything new. Author and running journalist Paul Christman spent an entire novel flirting with the prospect of a sub-two, and that was back in the Dark Ages of 1983, when the world’s fastest marathon time was 2:08:18 by Australia’s Rob de Castella, set in Fukuoka in 1981. That novel was The Purple Runner, and over the years the novel has taken on a life of its own. It has been out of print for many years, and M&B is delighted to bring this classic tale to its readers.

In his 2003 book Running in Literature, while in the process of ranking running novels, Roger Robinson describes The Purple Runner this way. “The Purple Runner makes a story of wonders and romance emerge from a credible setting, as good fantasy should. It has strengths unusual in this field. Better than any other novel here (except the special cast of Flanagan’s Run), it brings to life a full running community, a varied cross-section of interesting people behind the cast of jive main characters, all training and seeing each other train and running together by arrangement or accident or romantic opportunism on London’s Hampstead Heath. That community sense is an important part of running experience in many places, and Christman captures it affectionately.”

Sit back and enjoy, with us, one of the classic running novels of all time. And root for the purple runner.

Chapter 1

Clad in nylon running shorts displaying the blue flag of New Zealand with its Union Jack and red stars, and a Fletcher Challenge Marathon Finisher T-shirt, Solian D. Lede (pronounced SEW-lee-en Leed) took several more sweeping strides, then jogged to a stop, the windy marine air blowing the damp explosion of her frizzy blond hair. With arms akimbo she cocked her hips to rest upon one of two statuesque legs, continuing to breathe deeply to settle the anaerobic debt acquired from the climb. Slowly she allowed her gaze to rise from the prospect of Auckland to the lone wind-blown pine, the weather-beaten branches of which gave it the appearance of a gigantic paisley-shaped lollipop. The isolated tree seemed to symbolize her solitude, once again realized through her jettisoning of Carlos, another in a long and ill-advised list of non-running boyfriends.

Solian made a promise to herself, though she often made such promises and never kept them, that he would be her last. Things had to change or she was never going to fully develop the talent she knew she had. She was just too flaky. She needed a coach and a boyfriend, both of whom would be positive forces in her running.

But she quickly cheered: the vistas from the top of the extinct volcano Maungakiekie, the Maori name for what commonly was known as One Tree Hill, were among her favorites, and Solian loved running up to the tree and its attendant obelisk to gaze out over the Waitemata and Manukau harbours—bodies of water nearly pinching the north island of New Zealand into two separate land masses.

Solian ran the fingers of one hand through her hair as she surveyed the many homes sitting like stationary cars on miniature roller coasters upon the lower reaches of Auckland’s many grass-covered extinct volcanoes. God, it’s a beautiful city, she thought to herself. The vistas, the lush vegetation, the year-round moderate temperatures, and the marine air made it perhaps the best city in the world for training—and her runs through the Waitakeres Mountains—ah well. She slowly let out another sigh: if she was ever going to be any more than a big fish in a little pond, Solian knew she was going to have to go to Europe or the States.

Lorraine, Allison, and Anne had all gone to America and made big names for themselves. She had beaten them all at one point or another back in her school days, but then a proclivity for hard-partying men began to prevent her from training up to full potential. A 1500 meters in 4:15 was more than respectable, but how many other girls could run faster?

Solian knew better times would come if she could drop the half stone she was always talking about losing, and if she could run 80-90 miles per week for an extended period. But she also knew she was going to have a rough time doing it in Auckland. Running with the guys from Lynndale or Manurewa would put her right, but somehow there was always just one more party overlooking Ladies Bay,

one more dance at the Casablanca, or one more forgettable situation in a car on top of Mount Eden to prevent her, as often as not, from arising on time to make those long weekend runs for strength and stamina.

But how was she going to get to Europe or the States? The airfares were staggering. Her father would give her the money: his mutton exporting business was still doing well when other Kiwis were having their problems. But Solian didn’t like the idea of borrowing from her parents, with the implied obligations such undertakings bring. Yet she knew her jobs as a postie delivering mail, and occasional nights of tending bar at the Alexandra Tavern were never going to allow her to save up enough money, and the more nights she worked in those smoky surroundings the more adversely her training was affected, so it became a vicious circle.

One of the girls had told her that the thing to do was to win a race where the prize was a trip to a race in the States. Then she could be given “expenses” and be flown to additional races if she did well. But how was she going to win anything in New Zealand now that the Down Under’s best were back for the summer?

She shook her kinky mane and felt the intense rays of the sun on her bronze skin. Solian knew that somehow she would do it. Perhaps the inheritance she had received from her Maori great-grandmother would provide her assistance. For the lady had endowed the great-granddaughter of seven whites not only with a tan complexion and curly hair—unusual for a blond—but also with an incredible athletic ability. As a young woman her Maori relative had even been able to outrun most of the men of her era.

Solian’s thoughts slipped to consideration of the race she planned to run in less than a week’s time. /’// have to try to run the Rotorua Marathon hard.

ES Eo *

The sun was out and the air was crisp above the volcanic lake with a 26-mile circumference, and the hilly geothermal area surrounding it. At the south end of the deep blue waters, boiling, hissing vents emitted mildly sulphurous fumes throughout the city of Rotorua. Yet it was no accident the city had grown above the vents at the end of the lake, for the location was ideal for thousands of tourists to boil away their aches and pains in the hundreds of hot mineral pools created by motel and spa owners from these natural effluences. To add to the attractiveness of the resort, the elevation of 2800 feet generally kept temperatures moderate. This was an important consideration to Solian, who hoped that heat would not become a factor in the race.

She had promised her eccentric coach, Elliot Dempsey, that she would behave herself for the week preceding the event. Plenty of rest and all of that. But sure enough she had run into Euan Holmes, the English runner she had met at a cross country camp, who was again running in New Zealand for the summer, and the two of them had experimented with just what kinds of gymnastics could

be achieved in and around a private mineral pool at the Whakarewarewa Motel. Exciting and fun, yes; but dehydration from the hot water and late hours the night before a marathon she knew had just been more of her ceaseless breaks in any thread of discipline. Had it not been for her natural abilities, Solian knew Elliot would have told her to forget it long ago.

One half hour before start time the area around the Government Gardens Sports Centre contained almost three thousand runners stretching, yawning, or prevaricating in nervous anticipation. After saying hello to several runners from Auckland she recognized, Solian quickly collected her number and starting kit from one of the alphabetical windows of the Centre.

“Hello, Solian.”

“Oh, hi Christa,” Solian replied upon recognizing the fit-looking girl in the black Waikato singlet. Christa Davis looked like she had shed at least another half stone since she had run the 2:55, so Solian knew she was going to have some good competition.

“Lovely day for a race, isn’t it? How’re you going?”

Solian thought of how Christa might live to regret running in a black singlet, but then replied:

“Ah, well, I don’t really have the miles in for a good one, but I thought I’d come down and do it as a training run. Easier than those Waiatarua runs, I suppose. You look fit.”

“T still feel quite tired, actually. I did 100 miles last week and I’m probably not rested, but I hope I can still slip under three.”

Always the same pre-race rubbish, Solian smiled to herself. The two of them were probably going to finish one-two, yet it was unacceptable pre-race strategy for any runner ever to admit to being totally fit and rested. “Well, good luck to you then.”

“Thanks. I’ll need it,” Christa laughed. “Good luck to you, too.”

The gun went off, catching Solian quite unaware. But it didn’t matter. The one thing she was good at was pacing: knowing how to hold herself back during the first half of the race, something she attributed to the confidence felt from being tall. Going out too fast made the second half of a marathon one of the more painful experiences in life, and she had only made that mistake once.

Solian looked not unlike a quarter miler with a relaxed tempo, her long legs gobbling up territory fast enough to mislead competitors having only seen her run from afar into thinking she lacked speed. She was blessed with very supple limbs, and although lacking in discipline in many of her pursuits, daily spent a certain amount of time stretching to maintain her flexibility. Being particularly limber in the hip flexors allowed her to accelerate to close to five minutes per mile by merely hyper-extending her stride rather than by increasing cadence.

“6:38 …6:39….”

That was quick.

Sauntering in a pack of male runners, Solian was surprised to pass the mile mark seemingly so quickly, yet at such a slow pace, the time being perhaps more than a minute a mile slower than her ultimate potential for marathon pace. She could see Christa’s head bobbing 50 meters in front of her. The Waikato runner’s near anorexic frame and short, choppy strides provided quite a contrast to Solian’s smooth, relaxed form, yet the former’s quick cadence was providing her with an early lead.

Let her go, Solian thought to herself. The sun was climbing, the course was a rolling one with miles 11-13 being quite hilly, and she was running the race on a base of only 50 miles per week compared to her competitor’s 100. There was a long way to go.

Proceeding north along the lake Solian skipped the first feed station at five kilometers. The temperature still seemed cool, and she had hardly begun to sweat. Besides, she was drafting off a group of Hamilton runners, and continuing on allowed her comfortably to remain in their wake, resisting the urge to accelerate by them. Christa was now out of sight.

Soon Mary Wilson appeared from out of nowhere to the right of Solian’s phalanx. The diminutive Maori lady’s face glistened with sweat, but her stride looked long and relaxed and either she was pretending not to notice Solian, or else was quite intent upon her form.

“Hel-lo, Mary.”

“Oh, hi Solian. I didn’t even see you. This is probably stupid going out so fast, but .. .” Mary shrugged with a sheepish grin to imply her foolishness. “I’m sure you’ll see me again soon.”

Solian smiled. “I doubt it. You’re looking strong.”

In reality she really did doubt that she would see either of the girls again. Well, at least she fe/t both were strong enough to hold pace and maintain a lead. It even occurred to her that she had erred in telling Mary she was looking strong, because comments on form or ability often could be taken the wrong way when competitors exchanged positions during a race. You could always live to regret just about anything said other than innocuous comments on the weather or hellos. Just run your own race.

Somewhere on a gradual uphill lined with fern trees Solian was forced to move by the Hamilton runners. They seemed to be running more conservatively than in the first several miles, and Solian knew she had to start picking it up if she were to keep alive the possibility of beating Christa and Mary.

Ten kilometers in 40:10. Not bad, she thought, dodging an Auckland YMCA runner who had abruptly stopped in front of her at a feed station. Quickly she grabbed a cup of water on the fly and dumped it over her head; then a cup of Exeraid. While continuing to run she pinched the top of the cup and took several gulps.

Ugh! The drink always tasted too sweet and usually upset her stomach for several minutes, but she was banking on the sugar and salts in it paying off later.

Damn! Beyond the 17-kilometer mark Solian could feel the pressure building up in her bladder. Even though she had probably gained back valuable time and narrowed the gap between herself and the other girls, she was undoubtedly going to have to stop. Sure, some girls just took care of such problems on the run if they were competitive enough, but that just wasn’t her style. The problem was: where was she going to go? It would be too much waste of time to run up to someone’s house and ring the doorbell; and there hadn’t been any petrol stations along the road for miles. Maybe in the hills ahead.

At the 20-kilometer mark, after having climbed at least a mile and a half up through the fern tree forests beside the north end of the lake, she knew she couldn’t hang on much longer. Then below some cabbage trees on the lake side of the road appeared what looked to be a level copse.

Solian curved off the road into the little clump of bushes and quickly squatted down beside the trunk of a tree. The relief was going to cost her at least 30 seconds, but it was more than worth it. That was, until Solian glanced to her left and discovered a partial view of her fellow competitors. Ah well, if they haven’t seen it before … And she was up and running back onto the road with renewed vigour.

The climb hadn’t seemed too difficult to her. She had hit the 20K mark in 80:05, and she still felt pretty good, threading her way through some short-striding male veterans down to the bottom of the hills where the road once again proceeded at lake level. It still seemed relatively cool, but Solian began to wonder if the two cups of water and one cup of Exer-aid she had downed were successfully stemming dehydration.

Soon a gauntlet of spectators began to form along the road just before the right turn beginning the last eight miles south. “Come on, Solian!” “Third woman “Yayyyy!” they yelled. She began to draft a large group of Auckland YMCA runners in hopes of them pulling her up the approaching half-mile long hill, but again

she was forced to push on when they began to slow at the first sign of a grade.

“.. 1:58:45…” an official called out as a runner ten meters ahead of her passed the 30K point. The hill began to get steeper and Solian mentally began to calculate her time per mile, the incline letting her know she was already quite tired. The sweat was running off of her. Maybe I should have drunk more water …let’s see… 30 kilometers is 18.8 miles . . . that’s .. . Solian shook her head imperceptibly. She kept coming up with the figure of 6:14 per mile for the last 10 kilometers, including her stops. Can that be right? Then her pulse quickened as she thought she saw Mary running between two men.

In less than a minute Solian was driving by her rival like the two were in different gears. The girl’s eyes seemed intent upon the pavement in front of her, her

stride now shorter and Otahuhu singlet drenched in sweat. Was Mary going that much slower, or was she going that much faster? It was a long hill, but it wasn’t that tough. But then after leveling off Solian began to feel a definite soreness in her quads, as if suddenly a sandbag had been attached to each. It seemed a strange sensation to find the flat part of the course more difficult than the challenging hills she had negotiated earlier—Just relax and keep your form.

The traffic was picking up alongside the runners as Solian passed the 32kilometer mark. She hated the noxious fumes put out by passing coaches filled with leering fat tourists; and she was annoyed by the sounds similar to those erupting from a dentist’s drill emitted by motorcycles such as the one blasting by her. Even several yells of encouragement from car top spectators now aggravated her.

There’s Christa! she suddenly observed, forgetting the irritations of fatigue. The girl was running behind a clump of Manurewa runners, her short, mechanical stride still looking as efficient and relaxed as that of the churning legs of a world-class cyclist. Solian’s legs were growing stiffer by the minute, but she did her best to look smooth and quiet her breathing, just as the brief look of surprise crossed and then evaporated from Christa’s face. How can I be passing her when I feel so tired and stiff?

One mile later the answer made itself apparent: the wall. Although she had felt tired at the 32K mark, Solian was beginning to experience a slight feeling of dizziness, and her energy seemed to have leaked out of the bottoms of her thin-soled racing shoes. Enthusiastic yells from the sides of the road continued to irritate rather than spur her on, and even though tiring and slowing, she was having to weave in and out of other runners who had gone out too fast and now in the last six miles were having to pay the price. God, she was hurting; and she still had over seven kilometers to go. Solian asked herself the inevitable question marathoners ask themselves in the last few miles: Why do I put up with this much pain? Shorter races could bring quite intense pain, but it never lasted as long: J should quit marathoning, and for that matter racing altogether—unless 1 lose that half stone.

God, dammit! she thought to herself as Christa and a pack of men began to ease by her like a formation of drenched egrets. You’re not slipping by that easily! Solian tried picking up her knees, but her mind was making a promise her legs couldn’t keep. Christa and company evenly receded from her grasp.

Oh, no, not you too! Solian mentally lashed herself as Mary struggled by her 90 seconds later. /’m going to drop out… no, got to keep going .. . third woman … you can still break 2:50…

Minutes later she stumbled to a stop at a feed station just beyond the 38kilometer mark, gulped a cup of water, then grabbed a sponge and squeezed it over her head. Her first few steps made her feel nauseous. She probably needed some salt, but in the last few miles of a marathon replacement drinks upset her

stomach worse than water. Solian could feel the water sloshing around in her stomach and she was getting very dizzy. The sun seemed to be penetrating right through her AUCKLAND UNIVERSITY singlet and navy-blue nylon shorts. Don’t do it! Don’t! Her mind and body were engaged in a contest: the former urging her to keep running, the latter telling her to walk. Just make it to the 39-kilometer mark… you might start feeling better . .. But 100 meters later she found herself walking. God, she hated those pitying looks from spectators when she wasn’t doing well.

“C’mon, Solian, only three kilometers to go!” a man supporting himself on two metal arm-braced crutches shouted from the side of the road. Solian felt tears well up in her eyes. Here was a man who would give anything to walk properly, and she was walking when she could still be running. But, there’s no disgrace in saving yourself for another day. Why kill yourself? Walk off the course and admit you just didn’t have the miles. But it was no go: she knew she would have to finish; the man on crutches merely a reminder of what a gift it was to be able to use her legs. Painfully she began to run again. She just wanted to see those Government Gardens.

Just a mile and a quarter, she told herself upon passing the 40-kilometer sign. It seemed as if the race officials deliberately had spaced out the kilometer signs at increasingly longer intervals in order to torment the runners.

“”, 2:44:42…” atimer called out, but Solian was too tired to compute where in the bloody hell that would put her in terms of finishing time. Who cares! Just finish the race!

Then there it was: the wrought-iron trellis over the entrance to the Government Gardens. The finish. But no! … Unnnhh! .. . A false finish. The real finish loomed 250 meters ahead, a banner overhead. Before her stretched a long tunnel of cheering faces exhorting the runners on words. Pick it up! Pick it up! She did her best to stretch out her stride and awkwardly glanced back over her shoulder to make sure no other woman was threatening to overtake her. The huge digital clock was now visible as it inexorably ticked off the seconds: .. . 2:53:51… 2:53:52… Solian clenched her teeth and pumped her sluggish knees with all she had in response to cheering spectators!

The number 2:54:01 flew above her head and she was across . . . and being slapped on the shoulders by well-wishing race officials. Trying to smile she staggered into the finishing chute, but her legs were turning to concrete and suddenly she found herself in a nauseous coughing fit, her hands upon her knees. She thought she was going to faint, then abruptly found herself moving again, arms suspended upon the shoulders of two race officials.

“TIL be O.K.,” she said as they walked her toward a table with hundreds of little white cups. “Thanks a lot.”

With a trembling hand Solian lifted a half-filled cup of amber liquid to her lips. After a second sip she again coughed violently. Her arm was so tired she dropped the cup back down on the table with a pop. God, I gotta get out of here … Keep walking to get rid of some of the lactic acid .. . Can’t face the other girls at the banquet…

“Nice race,” she wanly smiled at Christa while the latter was being interviewed by someone from the New Zealand Runner. Solian was envious and at the same time glad she didn’t have to face anyone. She felt obligated to congratulate Mary before leaving, but found herself continuing to walk out of the little park full of shattered finishers and their supporters, not even bothering to pick up her finisher’s T-shirt.

Even though Solian had finished ahead of thousands of runners now struggling by on the road beside her in their own relentless attempts, depression set in as she walked back to her motel. Why is it that you always feel so shattered after a marathon? No real feeling of accomplishment . . . Just extreme fatigue and depression … but she knew the answer. While having been prepared for shorter races, she was always approaching marathons with a ‘let’s see what happens’ philosophy rather than proper marathon training. Adequate preparation had been skillfully avoided. What did you expect?

Funny, though, how just 100 meters from the finish she was able to become anonymous again. She liked that. If you won, everyone wanted to know you; but if you finished third you could easily slip into obscurity. Ah well, time for a soak in the mineral bath.

Eo * *

Inside her pastel-green cinder block flat in Remuera Solian dropped her New Balance bag on the floor and stood motionless for several seconds. Finally with ungainly leg movements she kicked off her racing shoes left untied for the drive home, painfully reminding herself of the stiffness in her quads. Then a feeling of melancholy swept over her as she looked at the cork bulletin board to which she had affixed all kinds of running memorabilia, photos of boyfriends, snapshots of friends with whom she had gone on tramps through the bush, and concert tickets having gone unused when she had opted for last minute races away from Auckland. They made her feel life was passing her by, and that she was alone. She stared at the picture of her more extroverted former flatmate, Sue Switzer, who had gone to live with another Kiwi runner in Eugene, Oregon, in the States. Fewer friends seemed to be popping in since her animated pal had gone.

Her shoulders sagged. What am I going to do? All she knew was that she wanted to run, and run well, but when was she going to discipline herself enough to reach her potential?

Solian shuffled into the bedroom, plopped onto the bed and gazed up at the splotch of blood on the wall where she had bashed a mosquito. Tears slowly

began to stream down her cheeks like rivulets from a melting ice cube. Her entire body and mind ached, and what had she achieved? Nothing. Another lacklustre performance. The smiling faces of Allison Roe and Alberto Salazar leered down at her from a New Zealand Runner poster, making her feel victory to be an accomplishment she would never attain.

Pull yourself together. Life isn’t over. Everyone gets the post-marathon blues. All those chemicals in your body . . . distort your feelings . .. And with that she fell asleep.

ES Eo * Suddenly the telephone abrasively seemed to be ringing.

“Hello.”

“Hello, is that Solian there?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Solian, this is Clive Jameson.”

Why would her father’s good friend and attorney be phoning her on a Sunday she wondered? She felt a nervous chill.

“How did the marathon go then?”

“Not especially well,” she temporized, preoccupied with the reason for the call. “2:54.”

“Mmm, mmm,” he seemed to repeat nervously. “Solian, I… I’m sorry I can’t come over personally to tell you this,” he began with a change of inflection causing her heart to begin to pound even harder, “but the wife is . . . the wife is quite upset… and… well…”

Solian could feel the blood surging through her arteries. “Yes, yes?”

“Paul… that is, your father… aa… this is going to come as a bit of a shock, Solian, but aa…”

“Yes, what is it?”

Adrenalin was flowing like lava during a pause seeming long enough to imagine an entire encyclopaedia of negative imagery.

“Solian, your father has been killed in a motoring accident on the Harbour Bridge today. I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you, but—”

“How did it happen?” she interrupted, not knowing what she was asking; as if she couldn’t possibly have heard him properly and it was all a dream.

“Apparently an intoxicated driver crossed over the centre line and hit him head on. The police tell me there was nothing he could have done to avoid it . . .” Mr. Jameson released a sigh. “I’m terribly sorry to have to be the one to inform you of this tragic affair, but what with your mother living in Sydney and all…”

Solian’s lips slowly parted to mouth ‘I understand,’ but the words evaporated. The voice on the other end of the line continued but Solian remained oblivious.

“Deaths of loved ones are never pleasant business, but I’ve always felt that some good news at a time like this often helps to reduce the shock. I just thought

you might like to know your father has left to you in trust quite a substantial sum of money which can immediately be made available to you. And he also has left you a large house north of London .. .”

Chapter 2

Christopher Carlson allowed himself several seconds’ respite from the pressure to dote upon his running; the gallops down San Vincente with his Santa Monica cohorts, Sullivan Canyon, the breakfasts at the Good Earth. He wondered how something requiring so little cerebral involvement could give him so much pleasure, while being paid $42,000 per year to do this could drive him so mad.

“Look, man, I hate to bug you, but Irv’s on the phone, and he wants to know if you’re going to make it or not. Watdya want me to tell him—are we going to have to go live or what?” the director said into the phone from the studio one floor below.

“Fuck New York!” Chris shouted into his editing room telephone as he continued to double speed a tape of the Coldwater Canyon flooding for the field producer beside him. “We’ll make it by 3:25; and if we don’t we’ll go live into the show,” he added before slamming the phone down.

Chris was amazed at the contrast of the hardened persona he had developed for dealing with demanding fellow news workers, and the perhaps excessive sensitivities and insecurities of his true personality, carefully disguised in his life outside of QBC.

Why was it always the same? he wondered. The large group of QBC Network News pundits and technicians increased their ceaseless interruptions to his creative endeavors just before air time. QBC’s Evening News began at 6:30PM New York time, or 3:30PM Los Angeles time, so they knew on late-breaking disaster stories the editors routinely would go down to the wire, but always make it somehow or another. Even if the piece had to be fed via satellite live into the show.

The cacophony around him didn’t make matters any easier: “Bill Dervish, seven-eight; Bill, seven-eight,” squawked the page speakers. The phone rang at a steadily increasing rate approaching the afternoon deadline; the fans cooling all the monitors, tape machines, image correctors, scopes, and time base correctors kept up their continuous high-pitched whirring and humming noises; and often at overlapping intervals, myriad sounds frenetically erupted at a mixture of normal and high-speed velocities, in ever more abundant numbers and varietal decibel levels from speaker systems of four editing rooms and the recording-feeding room.

“That’s a great shot,” the field producer said, referring to a Mercedes being swept out of a garage by a cascade of brown water surging through an enormous hole in a stucco wall. “Maybe we could use it for the closing shot.”

Chris hit the pause button on his editing console to stop the Sony BVU-500 playback machine on his left—freezing the image of the Mercedes just floating out of the driveway—while his other hand hit the reverse button, activating the matching record tape machine to his right, the tape in it emitting the garbled sound of a correspondent’s recorded narration track as it played backwards. He glanced down at the copy of the script in front of him.

“Maybe we could use it over this line,” he said, hitting the forward button to play back the last shot he had assembled on the cut story (record) tape. “.. . through the night. Many valuable items were washed out of—”

“Honey, Freddie’s on the phone wondering if we’re going to make it or not,” Marsha the production assistant suddenly interrupted as she poked her head in the editing room door.

After hitting the pause button Chris sighed and leaned back in his chair. “We still don’t have the Topanga Canyon tapes yet, but —”

“Chris Carlson, seven-four; Chris, seven-four,” squawked the intercom.

“Sorry, M—just a moment,” Chris muttered as he was handed the phone.

“Somebody’s got to turn that thing down,” the field producer protested, impatiently running a hand through his hair, then struggling out of his swivel chair to search for the volume control switch on the bottom of the intercom.

“Listen, I can’t talk now—I’ll call you back in an hour, O.K.?” Chris rolled the cut story tape again without removing his gaze from the monitor in front of him, and with his arm still extended, jettisoned the receiver down on the empty chair.

“Anyway, M, where the hell’s the messenger with the Topanga tapes? If we don’t have them in five minutes, I think we’re gonna have to borrow local’s tapes. We’ ve only got another fifteen seconds of copy to cover.”

“What should I tell them, sweetie, 3:25?”

“Yah, 3:25.”

“O. K., use it,” the field producer said as he nervously dropped back into his chair and picked up a copy of the script from the desk. He pushed his black-rimmed glasses back up on the bridge of his nose. “We don’t have any more time to fuck around. I’ll go down and see if I can borrow local’s tapes,” he added before again leaping up from his chair and disappearing through the door.

“Are you O.K.?” the supervising editor asked from the doorway. “Because if you need any help, we can have somebody else cut the back end and then marry the two when we feed.”

Jesus, another fucking interruption! thought Chris. “Nah, I’m O.K. I just gotta have those Topanga tapes.”

“The desk says they’re on their way. I’Il check again.”

Chris felt a surge of adrenalin as he glanced up at the clock: 3:18. The pattern was always the same on a hot story. He could work so much faster alone, but

there were always so many people to contend with; so many people to break his flow of concentration when he most needed it. Deep down he knew he’d make it. He always did. But those nagging doubts always crept in when the producers of a show being broadcast live to twelve million people were waiting to determine if their planned format was correct: until all the stories from all over the world were safely captured on tape machines in New York.

The possibilities for screwups were boundless, and they inevitably came: camera malfunctions, sound dropouts, video or audio transmission breakups, editing machine breakdowns at remote feed locations, or even Telsatco pulling the plug during the middle of a feed when a line order time bracket had elapsed. If it really got close to airtime in Los Angeles, or even at a remote feeding location for that matter, the news piece—generally one minute and thirty seconds of narration track, picture, and background sound—could be played back and simultaneously beamed by satellite live into the show in New York.

As the anchor man in New York read the lead-in copy previously timed by the Los Angeles director, the latter would roll the story five seconds before the end of the anchor man’s lead-in. Hopefully, if the editor upstairs in the feeding room had queued the correct story’s countdown numeral 5 on his screen (only accomplished by his having both correctly written down and then read an electronic time code), and had given the studio the availability light, the story would be rolled and properly integrated into the show.

This was a dangerous practice, however, because not only could cuing, video and audio adjustment errors be made by the editor, but timing, video or audio mistakes could also be made by directors, audio men, or video men—in Los Angeles or New York—the anchor man could be given incorrect copy or could fumble his reading, the satellite or other technical equipment could break down, or a whole host of other nightmarish technical problems could develop.

Chris glanced up at the clock again: 3:20. Where the fuck are those tapes? Another shiver ran through his body as he hit the forward and then pause buttons of both machines so that if they sat in pause mode too long, the tapes wouldn’t get burned in one spot by their spinning reading drums.

Suddenly like a welcome spectre, an unshaven and unkempt man in black motorcycle jacket, boots, and oily jeans puffed in with an orange fiber QVC NEWS bag.

“Here’s the Topanga tape,” he loudly announced, nervously jerking the tape from the bag.

“Thank God there’s only one,” Chris mumbled, grabbing it and jamming it into the playback machine. “Shit!” The tape hadn’t been rewound by the recorder. They had been in too much of a hurry. So now Chris had to do it, and he knew it was just such little things—maybe only 30 seconds—that not only momentarily

delayed editors, but also interrupted their concentration and destroyed those last vestiges of equanimity.

3:22. It was time to use just about any dramatic shot he could find to cover the copy. There was just too little time, and it was better to make air than to hunt for just the right shot at this late time.

“T got local’s tapes,” gasped the field producer as he slid into his seat again.

“That’s O.K. I don’t think we’re going to need them—this is our Topanga tape. Take a look at this shot. I think I could back-time it and we could use it as one long shot for the closer.”

He rolled the tape and the Conrac monitor—suffusing the producer and himself with high-voltage, low-grade radiation—displayed a long zoom out and pan. It showed a family huddled on a rooftop as a torrent of water gushed down the canyon toward the camera, carrying with it cars, dislocated parts of houses, and a dog clutched in the arms of a floating child.

“Perfect—Screw it! Lay it down: we gotta make air!” the field producer frantically blurted while glancing first at his watch, then at the clock.

“Chris Carlson, seven-nine, Chris, seven-nine.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll get it,” the field producer said, grabbing the phone off of the wall. “Yah. Two minutes. Bye.”

Chris reached for the sound knob which would turn up the volume control on channel two of the playback tape.

“Don’t even preview it. Just back-time it and do it!” the field producer demanded.

To reverse his machines in tandem, Chris hit both pause buttons on his editor at once and prayed that the shot of the water cascade on the original tape would reach the point before the beginning of the zoom out, hopefully to coincide with the start of the last line of narration on the cut story tape. Their adrenal glands surged as it became evident the start of the last line of narration would begin in the middle of the zoom out, something generally not done in news editing.

“Just start it during the zoom—we don’t have time to fuck around!”

“Take it easy, take it easy,” Chris muttered as he allowed the machines to continue to back up. His chain of concentration was also broken by thoughts of how it was always others who panicked first, worried about his ability to make it and worried about their own skins for allowing him to delay the completion of the spot. And of course it was their impatience which nearly collapsed his composure on every hot story.

Take it easy, take it easy, he mentally warned himself. You’ve got all but the last shot. Take your time and get it right. Don’t let them pressure you into an error. He hit the pause button for the playback machine at just the point before the beginning of the zoom, and punched the ‘edit’ button on the editor, giving his record machine an electronic point at which he wished the shot to begin.

“We can —”

“Take it, take it! We’ve got five minutes ’til air!”

“New York’s on line five,” interjected the supervising editor from the doorway. “Are ya’ going to make it, man?”

“He’s gonna make it! I’ll take the call,” waved off the field producer. “Yah. We’re ready to feed in one minute. He’s just putting on the closing shot.”

It always seemed as if the machines followed the electronic instructions so slowly at such times, Chris thought to himself. They cumbersomely reversed, then went forward, a little click being heard at the edit point as the shot began to be laid down over the cut story narration.

“TI slide the tag,” Chris said, referring to electronically moving the correspondent’s sign-off line down a bit so the pan completed before the last words of the narration (in this case ‘Los Angeles’). Then, if the show were short of time, the New York director might cut away from the story in the middle of a camera move—appearing on the air as an editing mistake—if the last line weren’t slid.

“Fuck it. Feed it, feed it!”

“Tt’ll just tak—”

“Forget it! Get it down there!” the field producer yelled, leaping from his chair.

Ten seconds later, Chris had jammed the cassette into the feed room playback machine, put on a set of headphones connecting him with the personnel in the studio, and was looking up at the electronic time-code reader to cue the spot while the tape was rewinding.

“Hello, studio seven.”

“Oh, there you are. Just let her roll so we can check levels,” the technical director said to give the technicians in the feeding studio a chance to check audio and video levels of the spot before it was sent to New York.

Chris located the countdown start time and rolled the spot, setting audio levels by watching a VU meter and also by listening to the relation of the correspondent’s voice and the background sound (rushing water), then adjusting color and video according to two video scopes at eye level, and a giant Conrac monitor beside his machine’s own color monitor. Behind him a group was rapidly assembling to see what the piece was going to look like.

“Bring your pedestal down just a tad,” the technical director requested.

Chris reached for the knob which would lower the black level in his video.

“That’s good.”

“O.K., recue. New York’s happy with the levels,” the director said.

Chris took a quick look at the clock while he was recuing: 3:28! By removing one hand from the video knobs he would ride during the feeding, he clicked on his headphone switch so he could talk to the studio.

“What’s the hangup in New York?” he nervously asked. “We’ve got less than two minutes to air—you’d better take it.”

The director didn’t reply. Only the ambience of the news studio one floor below could be heard through Chris’ headset, and his pulse climbed as he waited for his spot to roll.

Andy Yelenak

“Tt looks like they’re going to go live. They’ ve got some sort of problem with taking a spot from Beirut.”

Chris’ heart pounded. We’re going live, he thought to himself.

“What’s our hit time?”

“We’re the second spot in the show… aa… we hit at… at 33:15.”

More adrenalin poured through his veins as Chris began the wait.

“Are they going to take you or not?” someone behind him asked.

“Nope, we’re going to go live,” Chris impatiently answered, wishing people would keep quiet if they were going to watch the feed. He let out a brief sigh. Then he remembered to hit the internal routine switcher to his left to put the in-house feed of the show—live via telephone lines from New York—up on the Conrac monitor. That way he could see what his spot looked like coming back from New York.

The giant monitor went dark.

Then suddenly there he was: Steve Wrobak, the anchor man, rustling through his copy. Chris watched as he tidied his papers and began to sit up straight. Everyone in the feed room studied the red digital numbers below the Conrac to see if the start of the show would begin at exactly 15:30:00.

“This is the QBC Evening News, tonight with Steve…” On schedule. Now the nervous waiting and rechecking.

“One minute to air,” the director’s voice came through the headset.

Chris tightened and looked first at the digital clock, then the cut story’s start time: 09:15:30. Then he glanced at the digital time-code reader located above the playback machine’s monitor: 09:15:25. It was O.K. The giant 5 on the academy leader quivered slightly on the monitor in front of him as the show continued on the Conrac to his right. He rechecked the availability light: it was on.

“Ten seconds … nine…” the director’s voice began to count down. Chris felt his hands tightened on the video knobs.

“~.. out in the canyons . . .” Wrobak read.

“”.. seven…”

… rained continuously .. .” . Six… rollit…”

The countdown on his screen began to move. “homes washed away .. .” “.. four… three…two…”

“~.. report from Jack Straighthorse in Los Angeles.”

“Take it,” the director commanded, informing the technical director to electronically patch the piece into the satellite for transmission to New York for the live insertion into the show.

Chris remained tense as Wrobak glanced down at his monitor.

Then there it was. And it looked and sounded O.K. The little red air light was alit. His eyes went back and forth between the Conrac and the video scope as Chris corrected lighting levels from shot to shot to even out the video.

“The time is 1:28 plus five seconds pad, Irv,” Chris heard the director tell New York. “Yah. And the outcue is Jack Straighthorse, QBC News, Los Angeles.”

Suddenly it was the end of the piece and Chris watched happily: the New York director held the shot through the end of the pan as the kid and the dog floated on down the stream; and up came a bumper of QBC NEWS before the show cut to a commercial. Nice touch. Not going immediately to a commercial provided a needed transition from an emotional story, the show logo bumper giving the hopefully ‘moved’ audience a chance to readjust from the impact of the story back to the advertising messages paying for the broadcast of this entertaining information.

“O.K., thank you all,” the director announced. “‘That’s a wrap.”

“Nice spot, Chris,” someone behind him said.

He breathed a sigh as he hit the eject button on the playback machine. He had been lucky again: everything had gone right under the gun, making all the hassles seem momentarily worthwhile. But unfortunately there was always the next day, then the next; even Christmas Day, 365 days a year; many six and seven-day weeks and late nights.

Eo * * “What’s this?” the bureau chief asked him the next morning, throwing a letter down on his desk.

“Just what it says,” Chris replied, shrugging.

“T suppose you’ve sent copies of this to everyone in New York, so it’s too late. I could have gotten you the leave of absence.”

“T sent copies of my request to everyone and it was turned down. You had your chance. That’s it. I quit.”

His boss was shaking his head.

“What are you going to do?”

“Go to London.”

“London, huh,” the man temporized while the shock began to dissipate. “What are you going to do there?”

“Run.” “Run,” he nodded cynically. “What else are you going to do?” “Nothing.”

“Nothing, huh? Just gonna run,” the chief nodded at him, tucking his lower lip into his mouth. “Yah. Just run.”

The Purple Runner will continue in our November/December issue.