Going the Distance

On August 30, 1904, at 3:03 p.m. David R. Francis, a prized local hero, fired the starting pistol in St. Louis Olympic Stadium. The men were off. Thirty-two of the globe’s most prolific and athletically gifted distance runners trudged forward for the right to bear a coveted gold medal. It was a magnificent and glorious spectacle to behold; thirty-two giants of the modern age, carved out of valor and virtue, battling with one another for the right to call themselves a champion. Well, thirty-one. One of the runners began vomiting profusely shortly after the marathon began. He had to be medically evacuated. Poor soul. He never stood a chance. Seven multi-hundred-foot hills. Sections that ran through intersections and railway stations. Only one watering station, positioned at mile twelve. In this race, only the strong would survive.

Fred Lorz hailed from the northeastern United States. He was born to a wealthy slaughterhouse owner in Boston. From the moment his feet touched the earth, one thing guided him forward: winning. In everything Lorz did, he must come first. Win, or don’t bother finishing at all. Anything else was an insult to his parents, who had sacrificed so much money for him. Lorz won the three previous Boston Marathons. He won a race against a snooty Canadian fellow who challenged him while he was abroad in Montreal. He thoroughly beat the snot out of his nephew in a chess match. Lorz led the pack out of the gate. He led them out of the stadium. He, and every other runner, already knew the lead was where he’d stay. Every runner, but one.

For Félix Carvajal, the journey to the Olympics was almost as challenging as the competition itself. He was a Cuban mailman who, lacking enough funds, ran exhibition races on the side to fuel a gambling problem. A couple of months ago, to fund a betting spree he wanted to take in Nassau, he ran across Cuba without stopping. This caught the eye of the Cuban government. They requested that he represent the country in the Olympic marathon. At first, he was distraught. His attitude changed when he saw his stipend. Safe to say, the offer was taken. When Carvajal arrived in America, he did the first thing he could think to do: get blackout drunk at a jazz festival, lose all of his stipend money in a game of craps, and forget his Olympic uniform in the tavern he stayed in the night prior. Carvajal now had no money, and with it no means of transportation: not to the games, nor to back home. With his charming and cajoling nature, he finagled a way to hitchhike all the way to St. Louis. Placing no longer mattered. Publicity did. Publicity pays. He hoped the blouse, trousers, and boots he had to run in wouldn’t slow him too much.

Thomas Hicks wanted nothing to do with the Olympics. He had a gig as a circus clown that he was thoroughly enjoying. He was only here because Truman Lima, his trainer, required him to run in some random Chicago-based marathon. Hicks did well, finishing fifth. Unfortunately, the Chicago Athletic Association, which was sponsoring the race, would deem the top-eight finishers qualified enough to compete in St. Louis that summer. Bollocks. Why did Hicks have to be so good? Why couldn’t he be wimpy like a normal person? It was simple. He couldn’t bring himself to disappoint Truman. His father-figure, his idol, his hero. Hicks hated every aspect of his distance career, except for the man who forced him into it.

These brave and triumphant souls! Embarking on a trek that would be dubbed ‘A Man-Killing Event’ by the St. Louis Dispatch the following morning!

Dear Lord in heaven, Lorz thought. This was the hottest race the man had ever participated in. Lorz followed closely behind the vanguard of officials, trainers, and journalists that drove out of the stadium. This caused a cloud of dust. One that Lorz was forced to inhale. This isn’t humane. He looked out at the various shops and gathering places by the roadside as the first miles came and went. Oh, how he’d like so dearly to sit down and drink. A water would be nice, but anything would do. He could flirt with some locals, pay for himself only, and leave. What a pleasant time that would be. Instead, he had to engage in this idiocy. Not even with real competitors, but with mailmen, bricklayers, and other buffoons. Sure, he felt the need to win, but what good is winning when the competition itself is pointless? You need to shake this loser mentality, Fred. Locals have no intention of swooning with a loser. While the thought of being lauded as a champion circled his mind, Lorz conquered the course’s initial three-hundred-foot wave. On the decline, a different thought recurred in his mind: water.

Carvajal was exhausted too. His trousers were adding tremendously to the difficulty. He glanced over his shoulder. The spectators looked just as tarnished as the runners did. Maybe not that much. Eight runners had already quit the contest. They were at mile eight, one-third of the way through. Carvajal was in the middle of the pack. He decided to make friendly banter with some fans. A particular younger gentleman fancied Carvajal’s boots. Carvajal attempted to swap them for a straw hat that he liked, but the deal didn’t come to fruition.

During a later interaction, Carvajal noticed a spectator carving up a peach with a knife. “Hey, you there,” he called. “May I have a moment with your knife?” The spectator obliged and handed it over. Ahh. Carvajal cuts the legs off his pants. He felt the breeze dance around his steamy and sweaty calves. When Carvajal gave the knife back, the fan remarked that Carvajal had chicken legs. So Carvajal stole the man’s peaches. He hated peaches. He tried to eat them regardless, but that went rather poorly. Still in desperate need of energy, he resumed his scan for audience members with consumables. One such individual was an old, wealthy-looking man carrying two glasses of water. He pulled aside at mile ten to speak with him.

“Take as many apples as you’d like.” That was what the old man had said. Boy oh boy, Carvajal planned to do just that. The elderly apple farmer had given Carvajal the keys to the kingdom. He also gave him a glass of water to drink. Competitors looked on in jealousy. The energy would surely give him a distinct advantage and propel him into the lead. Never mind the lost time. Runners were dropping by the minute anyway. Not to mention, all this attention would surely get his face in the paper, if not as a champion, then as a scoundrel. After a mile of excruciating pain, he made it to the old man’s orchard. Sweet red balls of love glistened in the sun before him, and all was worth it. He ate four of them in less than ninety seconds. So succulent, so juicy. Except they weren’t. They were rotten. Long rotten.

Carvajal got back on course and was shortly greeted with a looming hill at mile eleven. The hill was nothing to him. At the time, the most dangerous thing in the race to Carvajal was his stomach. It felt like a whirlpool. He considered squatting down and defecating. Alas, there was no substance. Onward he pressed, resisting the sick feelings that persisted within him. Soon, he pressed downward: Carvajal slowly began sinking onto the dirt road. By the time he made it to the watering hole at mile twelve, he folded onto a soft grassy patch under a fence post. Instantly, he began snoring.

Hicks stared longingly at Carvajal. Oh, how he’d love for that to be him. Just like everyone else, Hicks was dreadfully thirsty. He and Lorz, both of whom were near the lead but no longer holding it, remained at the watering station. While Lorz’s trainers kept up with Lorz via coach, Truman and Lindon ran alongside Hicks on foot. They were allowed to carry water on their person due to the extreme circumstances of the day. Under no circumstances would they ever allow Hicks to drink. Water would only hinder Hicks’s performance! Truman had packed a myriad of other tools to help kick-start their golden boy. Already, Truman had unveiled his sponge. He would soak it with some of his water and apply it to Hicks’s back and shoulders. When Hicks would shut up about ‘feeling on the verge of unconsciousness,’ Truman let him put the sponge in his mouth. Beforehand, he would squeeze out the excess water onto the dirt so Hicks would only be using it to moisten, not to hydrate. Hicks had thrown himself down to try to drink off the ground, but Truman would viciously kick him back to his feet. The way any good coach would.

While Hicks continued to recover, Lorz took off. Feeling much better, he was determined to recapture first place. He had been slacking off in the first half of the marathon. What a joke. It was time to embarrass these imbeciles and show the world what he truly is: a winner. A couple of more hills came and went. Then he had to pass through a vast open field without an ounce of shade. His trainer’s coachman continued to fling dust at him. It’s so hot. He was nearing the final third of the course, but Lorz’s desperate need for hydration was once again proving critical. He began to cough and wheeze. Knock that off, Lorz thought. You’re gasping for air like a puny man-baby. Despite his tremendous desire to push on, positive self-talk failed to invigorate him. All that filled his head was water. It seeped through into his brain, like his skull had a leak. Oh, the sweet nectar of the gods. Dust flooded Lorz’s eyes. His ankles twisted and turned as they struck stray rubble in the country streets. The upper ninety-degree heat bore down on him unimpeded. Minute by minute, runners began to pass him up. Eventually, at mile seventeen, even the broke Cuban, who literally had taken a nap, had caught up to him. Enough was enough. He halted suddenly. Waved his hand high in the air. “Trainers!” he called out. “Circle back!”

Carvajal was bewildered. In all his years of running in Cuba, he had never witnessed something like this before. Moreover, he was pissed! That joker is going to steal my cover page! Lorz took one of his trainer’s hands and jumped into the coach.

Soon, his coach arrived at a crossroads.

“Shall we take you back to the hotel?” the driver asked. Lorz thought for a moment. He looked around. No one was watching.

“Keep going straight,” Lorz instructed. “Back to the stadium.”

The driver did as he was told.

Carvajal, still in shock, was still determined to make headlines. That too would prove a herculean task. The marathon had turned to pure pandemonium. A shoeless runner from the Orange River Colony had been chased off by a wild dog. British front-runner Sammy Mellor had gotten confused at a main street intersection and went running for miles in the wrong direction. Albert Corey, a French immigrant, was actively avoiding Olympic officials and city authorities, as he failed to provide proper legal documentation at check-in. Every mile or so, Carvajal would pass another casualty lying on the ground. Some runners just up and quit. Eventually, he came upon a runner named William Garcia. Another man down. Poor fellow. Wait. Something’s not right. A pool of blood had collected under Williams’s mouth. Carvajal rolled the man onto his back, allowing air to return to his lips. Carvajal got a hold of some medics and quickly returned to the dying Garcia. Had Carvajal not acted in the way he did, Garcia’s punctured esophagus and torn stomach lining probably would have claimed his life. He had inhaled a cluster of small pebbles while running behind a horse a couple of minutes prior. At least if I don’t win, I can say I saved a life. They write stories about that, don’t they?

“Drop me off here,” Lorz said. “Drive off some place. I’ll find you after I cross the finish line.” Lorz hopped out of the coach two miles from the stadium. The buzz of the atmosphere grew louder with each step he took. The valorous horns of the divine began blaring in his ears. Fresh as a daisy, his legs powered him forward with remarkable speed. The symphony of cheers had reached the peak of its crescendo.

Inside the stadium was a jubilee. A gold medal winner, in their very sights! Lorz had run a full marathon, and look at the rate at which his legs were flying. Lorz reached his hands to the heavens, basking fully in the shower of love. Hail to Lorz! The supreme runner of the time! First Daughter Alice Roosevelt came down to meet him and place a wreath around his neck. “Congratulations Mr. Lorz,” she said with the voice of an angel.

“Fred Lorz has won!” The news spread among the onlookers like wildfire. It meant nothing to Truman Lima.

“You’re going to finish this race, damn you!”

Hicks panted profusely. “Truman. Truman, I can’t.”

Truman smacked him across the face as Hicks continued to run. It was more of a shuffle, really. “What place am I in?” Hicks asked. Truman slapped him again.

“To hell with what place you’re in. You’re going to finish this race!”

Hicks slowed to a walk. His energy was spent. “I can’t go on,” he gasped. He was on the verge of tears. Luckily, Truman had something else in his bag. He removed two eggs and a small brown glass bottle.

“Lindon,” Truman said. “Crack open these eggs. Feed Thomas the whites. He needs protein.” Lindon did as he was told, fearing slaps.

“May I please have water. Please, I beg,” Hicks asked.

Truman smirked. “I have something much more effective for you. First, consume those for me, will you?” he said, gesturing to egg whites. Anything for a drink. Hicks gulped them down. “Now. Take two shots of this.” Truman handed the small brown bottle over.

“What is this?” asked Hicks.

“Drink it first, I say.”

Hicks did so, and afterward his face contorted sharply. “What did you just give me?”

Truman put his hands up, indicating his uncertainty. “I haven’t the slightest idea. My wife uses it to kill the rats in our apartment. I accidentally took a swig of it once before a night run instead of my usual brandy. Lindon would be the first to say it was the fastest I ever ran.”

For goodness sake, Truman wasn’t lying. Like a powerful locomotive, Hicks picked up steam. Whenever Truman ordered “more speed,” Hicks obliged and threw more coal on the fire. His engines roaring, Hicks flew through the final third of the race. He drew closer to the front of the pack.

His feet began to ache as he went off the rails. “Lindon,” Truman shouted, “more eggs!” Carefully, Lindon cracked and handled two more eggs, fueling Hicks. Truman administered another shot of strychnine, the poison turned steroid. Hicks was a new man. He zoomed and dashed past runner after runner. His heavy breathing was scary and demonic-sounding. While the field of competitors was on its last legs, it was as if Hicks had just begun the race.

“Look there!” Truman cried, “Only one man remains! And it’s the mailman! Lindon!” Truman tossed over the last of his eggs to his son. Down Hicks’s hatch they went. Truman went again for the strychnine. Nuts! He was all out. Oh well, time for old reliable. Truman reached into his satchel for the holy grail. His sacred. His beloved. His brandy. “Drink boy! Drink I say!”

Thomas felt the smooth river of refined liquid prestige course through his veins.

Carvajal, try as he might, was no competitive match for the stampeding stallion that was Thomas Hicks. As a matter of fact, those apples really came back to haunt him, as he was passed by two more runners. First, Albert Corey, who had evaded the law, and then by an American named Newton.

After a couple more rocky minutes, Hicks entered the stadium. Overwhelmed by the sudden onslaughts of sensory detail, Hicks collapsed just feet away from the finish line. He was breathing, but motionless. “Drag him!” Truman shouted. Was that allowed? Probably not. But who really gave a damn? Lindon and Truman Lima practically threw Thomas over the finish line. Medical staff began tending to him immediately.

Truman met and shook hands with David R. Francis. “Congrats to your boy,” Francis said. “Quite the underdog to win gold.”

“Gold?” Truman couldn’t believe it. “I heard that Lorz fellow had won.”

“He did,” Francis replied. “Until we realized he cheated. Some fans met with us right before his medal was presented to him. He won’t be competing in the Olympics for quite some time.”

Thomas Hicks was the victor. He would be presented with his medal when he woke up in a hospital bed seventeen hours later. Hicks had the slowest winning Olympic marathon time ever recorded by over a thirty-minute margin. Truman was beyond proud.

Lorz did indeed receive a lifetime ban from Olympic competition, but after a passionately written apology letter detailing that the stunt was supposed to be a joke, the ban was lifted.

Carvajal finished fourth, but his special antics made him a national phenomenon. From the New York Times to the Washington Post, everyone wanted a glimpse of his story.

Runners continued to trickle into the stadium throughout the night. The marathon saw only fourteen men out of the starting thirty-two cross the finish line. It is the lowest ratio ever to this day.