At 2.33 a shot rips into the silence and the crowd, who had been given royal
permission to stand just outside Windsor Castle gates, erupts into a volcano
of cheering as the 55 men set out on their 26-mile journey to the feet of
the Queen.
The field had gone off fast, too fast Dorando Pietri thought. He glimpsed the
loping figure of the Canadian Indian, Tom Longboat, his arms held low,
running aggressively. The English runners are up there too, over-excited by
the cheers of their countrymen. “As one went past,” noted the Windsor
Express, “one noticed all kinds of nationalities and colour: a turbaned Turk
near Ruislip was watching with intense interest, Japanese, Indians and
Negroes were scattered here and there.”
Going up towards Wembley the terrain was tough and hilly and by 17 miles
Longboat was walking. The crowd said they had seen him down a bottle of
champagne passed to him by his handler. Every time Dorando came up behind
him, Longboat would break into a shuffle, but he couldn't get away. And as
Longboat slumped to a walk again, Dorando eventually got past.
Progress of the race had been conveyed to the stadium by the official
announcers led by the City of London Toastmaster, resplendent in scarlet
evening dress and with a booming baritone voice, who kept the crowd on “the
tiptoe of expectation”.
According to the Olympic Committee's official report on the race, “The crucial
point of this long and desperate struggle arrived when Dorando came in sight
of the South African, Charles Hefferon, in Old Oak Common Lane. For the
whole of the previous 24 miles the route had been more or less lined with
spectators until the road had all the aspect of the Thames on Boat Race day.
“But Dorando's effort had so exhausted him that he could scarcely reach the
entrance of the stadium where nearly a hundred thousand spectators were
awaiting his arrival.”
As he approached the stadium Dorando couldn't forget the words of his mother
as she had said goodbye to him in Italy. “Pull out, drop out if things are
going badly. Be careful, please take care of yourself.” His lips moved as if
in prayer repeating over and over the mantra, “Vincerò o morirò”, “I will
win or I will die”.
He silently mouthed the words, groping for any sort of rhythm that seemed to
have vanished from his stride. The drink he had been given by his brother
Ulpiano after he passed Hefferon seemed to have left him dazed, disoriented.
He felt light headed, drunk almost as if he had taken too much Chianti. One
more sharp turn and suddenly he was in the cool shadow of the stadium. The
cyclists who had been behind him, occasionally ringing their bells shouting
encouragement, had peeled off.
The shade as he turned at a right angle off Ducane Road was seductive,
welcoming, and there in the passage leading to the stadium Dorando slumped
to his knees and rolled over. Officials shouted for Dr Bulger who charged
from the trackside.
“He was in a state of absolute collapse,” said the doctor later, “quite
pulse-less. But in a short time he recovered sufficiently to enter the
stadium.”
“You're nearly there, you're nearly there,” Dorando heard the strange English
words. They got him back on his feet and he staggered blinking into the
sunshine and tottered down the nine yards of the slope of the cycle track on
to the running path. As he found his feet on the cinders the roar of the
crowd seemed to knock him over again. He turned to the right but he found
they were trying to stop him. “Wrong way, wrong way,” they shouted. He fell
again.
Dr Bulger, a big powerful man who'd played rugby for Ireland, cradled him like
a child in his arms. The thin man with the megaphone, Jack Andrew, stood up
straight and bellowed for help, for people to come with a stretcher. Now
everything stopped, everybody broke off to watch. They held their breath as
they got him up again. Above the silence somebody yelled, “For God's sake
stop him, he'll die. He's dying.”
The whisper “He's dying” rustled round the stadium as everybody strained to
glimpse him. Even in the royal box the Queen for a moment was half on her
feet. Protocol stood for nothing here, when a man, the marathon and death
seemed to be on the track all at the same time. He got up again. He squinted
down the track to see the tape. He seemed to have no idea where he was or
what he was doing. Only his lips moved. They were dry now, caked white,
flecked with salt and sweat. They moved but no sound came. “I will win or I
will die”.
The handkerchief was still on his head. He shuffled forward; every step now
was bringing him closer to the finish. Each time a foot landed the crowd
wondered whether he would totter and fall like a baby, or whether somehow he
could make it across the room to his mother's waiting arms. Behind him -
almost unnoticed except by the Americans whose cheers seemed to be out of
time with the rest of the world - appeared a runner wearing number 26,
moving rapidly. It was Johnny Hayes, the New York boy who knew about keeping
himself fresh, knew about pacing his effort and who now was moving
relentlessly towards the shadow of Dorando at around six minutes a mile.
The contrast in the two was painful, Dorando an empty shell, Hayes looking, as
one reporter put it, “as fresh as a daisy in a meadow”. With Dorando now was
a phalanx of policemen, attendants, doctors, closing in on him. The
policemen were running in their heavy hobnails, the nails in the boots
biting into the cinders of the track. They were alongside him, their hands
outstretched like slip fielders at a cricket match, waiting to catch him any
time he should fall.
Dorando managed to finish and then fell again for the last time. Behind him
Hayes was moving steadily around the track but still few noticed him. Even
the time keepers, the judges, were hardly concentrating as Hayes crossed the
line. Their fingers pressed the stopwatch buttons as if in a daze.
Dorando was out cold, unconscious like a prize fighter who's hung on in there
round after round when his seconds should have long before thrown in the
towel. Dr Bulger called for the stretcher and they lifted the tiny, damp
figure on to it and threw across him a blanket.
Jack Andrew lifted the megaphone to his lips. His words couldn't be heard over
the excited frenzy of the crowd. “Here's the result of the Marathon Race,”
he bellowed. “First, and winner of the Greek Cup, Dorando Pietri of Italy.
Second J.J.Hayes of the United States.”
In the stadium they chalked the verdict on boards and walked them around so
the crowd could see the results for themselves. In the American camp there
were howls.
The British judges debated the painful scenes for over an hour. Then the man
with the megaphone came out again. The big boards were wiped clean. It was
announced that Dorando had been disqualified for receiving assistance and
the winner of the gold medal was John Joseph Hayes of the United States.
Hefferon was awarded second place, and Joseph Forshaw of the USA was given
third.
Where there had been excitement there were now boos and scuffles in the
stands. Those same London policemen who had trotted beside Dorando, willing
him to the finish, stepped in with their truncheons to break up the trouble.
At 2.33 that afternoon they had used an electric cable to signal the start of
the marathon. Shortly after 10 that same night, the Central News Service in
London used the electric telegraph to put out a message to the world. The
clattering machines spelt out the chilling news: “Dorando is dead.”
The report was incorrect. He was up early the next morning, having slept well,
and was recovered sufficiently from the race to eat a good breakfast. In the
afternoon, Queen Alexandra presented him with a special cup.
Top that Paula!
James, Glasgow,