* * * * *

For the two-mile, the half, and the mile, each--a single athlete was
training, his heart set on the record. It seemed impossible that I
should win all three races. Yet I did.

I was all nerves and sinews for the two-mile. The night before I had
lain awake. I could not sleep so I read a poor translation of the odes
of Pindar. But behind the bad verbiage of the translator, I fed on the
shining spirit of the poetry. With Pindar's music in me, I was ready for
the two-mile.

* * * * *

Tensely we leaned forward, at the scratch. I had my plan of campaign
evolved. I would leap to the fore, at the crack of the pistol, set a
terrific pace, sprint the first quarter, and then settle into my long,
steady stride, and trust to my good lung power ... for I had paid
special attention to my lung-development, at "Perfection City."

I felt a melting fire of nervousness running through my body, a
weakness.

I bowed my face in my hands and prayed ... both to Christ and to Apollo
... in deadly seriousness ... perhaps all the gods really were....

The gun cracked. Off I leapt, in the lead ... in the first lap the field
fell behind.