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Neal Bascomb is the national award–winning and New York Times bestselling author of Faster, The Winter Fortress, Red Mutiny, The Perfect Mile, and The Nazi Hunters, among others. A former international journalist, he has appeared in numerous documentaries and is a sought-after speaker. He lives in Philadelphia, a hundred miles south of the coal country at the heart of this tale. For more, visit nealbascomb.com or find him on Substack at @workcraftlife.

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The Perfect Mile

Three Athletes, One Goal, and Less Than Four Minutes to Achieve ItBy Neal Bascomb

Mariner Books

Copyright © 2005 Neal Bascomb
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780618562091
Prologue

How did he know he would not die?" a Frenchman asked of the first runner to
break the four-minute mile. Half a century ago the ambition to achieve that
goal equaled scaling Everest or sailing alone around the world. Most people
considered running four laps of the track in four minutes to be beyond the
limits of human speed. It was foolhardy and possibly dangerous to attempt.
Some thought that rather than a lifetime of glory, honor, and fortune, a hearse
would be waiting for the first person to accomplish the feat.
The four-minute mile: this was the barrier, both physical and
psychological, that begged to be broken. The number had a certain
mathematical elegance. As one writer explained, the figure "seemed so
perfectly round—four laps, four quarter miles, four-point-oh-oh minutes —that
it seemed God himself had established it as man"s limit." Under four
minutes—the place had the mysterious and heroic resonance of reaching
sport"s Valhalla. For decades the best middle-distance runners had tried and
failed. They had come to within two seconds, but that was as close as they
were able to get. Attempt after spirited attempt had proved futile. Each effort
was like a stone added to a wall that looked increasingly impossible to
breach.
But the four-minute mile had a fascination beyond its
mathematical roundness and assumed impossibility. Running the mile was
an art form in itself. The distance—unlike the 100-yard sprint or the
marathon —required a balance of speed and stamina. The person to break
that barrier would have to be fast, diligently trained, and supremely aware of
his body so that he would cross the finish line just at the point of complete
exhaustion. Further, the four-minute mile had to be won alone. There could
be no teammates to blame, no coach during halftime to inspire a comeback.
One might hide behind the excuses of cold weather, an unkind wind, a slow
track, or jostling competition, but ultimately these obstacles had to be defied.
Winning a footrace, particularly one waged against the clock, was ultimately
a battle with oneself, over oneself.
In August 1952 the battle commenced. Three young men in their
early twenties set out to be the first to break the barrier. Born to run fast,
Wes Santee, the "Dizzy Dean of the Cinders," was a natural athlete and the
son of a Kansas ranch hand. He amazed crowds with his running feats,
basked in the publicity, and was the first to announce his intention of running
the mile in four minutes. "He just flat believed he was better than anybody
else," said one sportswriter. Few knew that running was his escape from a
brutal childhood.
Then there was John Landy, the Australian who trained harder
than anyone else and had the weight of a nation"s expectations on his
shoulders. The mile for Landy was more aesthetic achievement than footrace.
He said, "I"d rather lose a 3:58 mile than win one in 4:10." Landy ran night
and day, across fields, through woods, up sand dunes, along the beach in
knee-deep surf. Running revealed to him a discipline he never knew he had.
And finally there was Roger Bannister, the English medical
student who epitomized the ideal of the amateur athlete in a world being
overrun by professionals and the commercialization of sport. For Bannister
the four-minute mile was "a challenge of the human spirit," but one to be
realized with a calculated plan. It required scientific experiments, the wisdom
of a man who knew great suffering, and a magnificent finishing kick.
All three runners endured thousands of hours of training to shape
their bodies and minds. They ran more miles in a year than many of us walk
in a lifetime. They spent a large part of their youth struggling for breath. They
trained week after week to the point of collapse, all to shave off a second,
maybe two, during a mile race—the time it takes to snap one"s fingers and
register the sound. There were sleepless nights and training sessions in rain,
sleet, snow, and scorching heat. There were times when they wanted to go
out for a beer or a date yet knew they couldn"t. They understood that life was
somehow different for them, that idle happiness eluded them. If they weren"t
training or racing or gathering the will required for these efforts, they were
trying not to think about training and racing at all.
In 1953 and 1954, as Santee, Landy, and Bannister attacked the
four-minute barrier, getting closer with every passing month, their stories
were splashed across the front pages of newspapers around the world,
alongside headlines about the Korean War, Queen Elizabeth"s coronation,
and Edmund Hillary"s climb toward the world"s rooftop. Their performances
outdrew baseball pennant races, cricket test matches, horse derbies, rugby
matches, football games, and golf majors. Ben Hogan, Rocky Marciano,
Willie Mays, Bill Tilden, and Native Dancer were often in the shadows of the
three runners, whose achievements attracted media attention to track and
field that has never been equaled since. For weeks in advance of every race
the headlines heralded an impending break in the barrier: "Landy Likely to
Achieve Impossible!"; "Bannister Gets Chance of 4-Minute Mile!"; "Santee
Admits Getting Closer to Phantom Mile." Articles dissected track conditions
and the latest weather forecasts. Millions around the world followed every
attempt. When each runner failed—and there were many failures—he was
criticized for coming up short, for not having what it took. Each such episode
only motivated the others to try harder.
They fought on, reluctant heroes whose ambition was fueled by a
desire to achieve the goal and to be the best. They had fame, undeniably, but
of the three men only Santee enjoyed the publicity, and that proved to be
more of a burden than an advantage. As for riches, financial reward was
hardly a factor—they were all amateurs. They had to scrape around for
pocket change, relying on their hosts at races for decent room and board.
The prize for winning a meet was usually a watch or a small trophy. At that
time, the dawn of television, amateur sport was beginning to lose its
innocence to the new spirit of "win at any cost," but these three strove only
for the sake of the attempt. The reward was in the effort.
After four soul-crushing laps around the track, one of the three
finally breasted the tape in 3:59.4, but the race did not end there. The barrier
was broken, and a media maelstrom descended on the victor, yet the
ultimate question remained: who would be the best when they toed the
starting line together?
The answer came in the perfect mile, a race fought not against the
clock but against one another. It was won with a terrific burst around the final
bend in front of an audience spanning the globe.

If sport, as a chronicler of this battle once said, is a "tapestry of alternating
triumph and tragedy," then the first thread of this story begins with tragedy. It
occurred in a race 120...