THE HALF MILE
THE HALF MILE, by T.O.Beachcroft, in New Country, edited by Michael Roberts, London, Hogarth Press, 1933, pp. 72-85.
T. O. Beachcroft is one of the younger writers of England.
Saturday noon. The town-hall clock boomed the hour in the distance. All over the town hooters called to each other from street to street. From the gates of twenty different potteries men, women, boys, and girls streamed. Ones and twos grew to a steady flow, then died away again to ones and twos.
Andrew Williamson, a dipper at the Royal Chorley, was stopped at the gate by old Jones the doorkeeper.
“So long, Andrew,” he said, “good luck for the half mile.”
Andrew glanced at him, and looked away self-consciously.
“How did you know I was running?”
“Oh, I takes an interest,” said Joe, “used to run a half mile myself.”
“Go on?” said Andrew, “I never knew.”
“I was good for one fifty-eight,” said the old man. “That was good going in those days.”
“Go on?” said Andrew again, “but that's class running. That's a class half mile.”
“Oh, I dunno, plenty on 'em do it now!”
“Well, I wish I could. That's my ambition: to get inside two minutes, I've never beaten two four yet!”
“Well, this is just the day for it,” the veteran told him. “You have a nice trot round first: get some good summer air into your lungs: you'll win.”
“But I've never run in a class race,” Andrew persisted. “I've only done Club races. I can't hope for more'n a place; look who's running.”
“Who?” said Jones.
“Well, there's six of us in the final. Let's see: Joe Brewster, the cross-country man, he can run a four thirty mile, and now he wants to try the half.”
“Well, he'll never do minutes,” said Jones,“take it from me.”
“Then there's Perry, him as ran at the ‘Three Clubs' meet at Derby last week. He did two four then.”
“Well, who else?”
“There's that Redbrooke, the Cambridge Blue. I ain't got an earthly.”
“He's a fine runner,” said Jones, “but d'you think he's trained in May? Not likely; it'll be his first time out—trial spin like. Are you trained?”
“Pretty good,” said Andrew, “been at it evenings all the month. Had a good race a week ago.”
“Take it from me,” Jones told him slowly, “stick to Redbrooke. He'll come up at the end of the first quarter. You watch 'im. Don't mind what the others do. And don't run on the outside round bends.”
“Well, I know enough for that,” said Andrew.
“Ah, you know, you know,” said Jones. “Well, good luck, lad.”
Andrew turned back again as he was going. “If I could ever beat two minutes,” he said a little self-consciously, “it'd mean—oh, well, a hellova lot.”
Andrew left him and went alone into the square garden to eat his sandwiches. It was a bright early summer day, yet now that he was alone he felt chilly with nerves. He had a forty minutes' bus ride to the ground, and he meant to get there early. The half mile was timed for three.
What chance had he got? He had won his heat in two six the evening before, but that meant nothing. Joe Brewster was behind him, but he'd only paced out, he knew. Perry and Redbrooke had tied the other heat in two five. There was nothing to go by. Dreadful if he found himself outclassed and run off his legs. He had never been up against a class man before—a fellow like Redbrooke.
Once in the bus he tried his best not to think of the race. No good getting too much of a needle. Yet it was a big chance.
Why, if he did well, if he was placed in the race to-day, his name would be in the Sentinel. The old uns would like to see that, too. If he could beat two minutes—well, he would some day, before he died. That would be doing something really big. It would give him confidence. It would make him stronger altogether.
The bus jogged along with such pleasant fancies. Andrew reached the ground, bag in hand, at half past one. It gave him a queer feeling to see “Sixpence Entrance” on the gates, and “This stand a shilling,” and the like. It made him feel very responsible that people should pay to come to the sport that he was providing. He was practically the first comer in the changing room. He changed slowly, putting his clothes on a bench in the corner. He put on his spiked shoes with elaborate care and went out on the track. It was three laps to the mile instead of the four he was used to. Pity: every strangeness was a little disturbing in a race. There were not four corners either, but two long straights with a long semicircular sweep at each end.
Andrew found the half mile start, and took his bearing. He trotted round half a lap, took one or two sprints, then some breathing exercises. He paced up the back straight. That was where he must come up to the front. He determined to make a real sprinting start, and get an inside berth at all costs. No need for old Jones to tell him not to run on the outside round bends. It was past two by now. One or two people were coming into the stands, the first event being at 2.30. When he got back to the changing room he found it full of a noisy jostling crowd. He felt rather strange, and out of it. If only he could get it over. Three quarters of an hour to wait still. On a table a naked body was being massaged. Andrew waited his turn for a rub. This seemed really professional.
“Your turn, sir,” said the rubber.
Andrew stripped off his vest.
“Might as well take your bags off, too.”
He divested himself a bit shyly, and lay face downwards on the table.
“Front side first, old man,” said the rubber.
It seemed a bit indecent, but Andrew turned over.
The man pommeled his stomach, then his back, then his buttocks, his thighs, and his calves, rubbing in a strong-smelling oil that gingered up his skin and made his nerves tingle. Good.
He saw Brewster and Perry talking and made a remark to them about the half mile, but they did not seem to remember who he was. He found himself a seat alone. If only he could get it over.
A red-faced man thrust the door open.
“All out for the hundred,” he shouted.
“Know who that is?” someone said. “That's Major Cunliffe—the old international.”
The hundred-yards men trooped out. There were four or five heats in the hundred. Andrew watched out of the changing room window, but he couldn't concentrate and took no stock of what happened. He was acutely miserable.
At last the hundred yards was finished. A minute or so dragged by. Andrew stood up and sat down again and fastened his shoes for the fifth time. Then the door burst open and Major Cunliffe looked in again:
“All out for the half mile!”
At the same time he heard a bell ringing outside. It sounded fateful. It meant next event due. All over the ground people were turning over their programs and reading the names. As the clangor died away Andrew felt something approaching terror. He sprang to his feet and crossed towards the door.
Now a new awkwardness arose. Why did none of the other half milers move? He waited for a moment for them to join him, but each man of them seemed to have found some last-minute adjustment to a shoe or bandage.
“Well,” said Brewster, “I suppose we'd better be moving.”
“Wait a bit, Joe,” said Perry, “I must get my ankle strap on.”
Andrew hovered miserably in the doorway of the changing room. Why couldn't they buck up and get it over? If only he could get it over. At last, finding it ridiculous to hold the door open any longer, he went through it and waited outside in the concrete passage. He certainly could not walk on to the track without the others, nor could he go back into the changing room. He leant against the wall trying to think of nothing.
What could the others be doing? “Oh, come on,” he murmured,“come on!” Next time he would know better than to get up before the other men in his race were on the move.
The sunlight end of the passage was suddenly eclipsed and the Major brushed by him.
“Where are those half milers?” he said genially to Andrew.
“I think—” began Andrew, but found an answer was not expected.
The Major opened the door, and Andrew caught a glimpse of the bunch of them standing and talking as if the race meant nothing.
“Everyone out for the half mile—come on,please,” said the Major.
This time they came and with beating heart Andrew joined them.
“Well, Brewster,” said the Major, “what are you going to show us to-day?”
“Don't expect you'll notice me,” said Brewster, “after the gun's gone. I shall try and stick to young Redbrooke for the first six hundred, anyhow. I only want to see what I can do!”
It sounded splendidly casual, but Andrew had a strong feeling that what Brewster meant was: “I rather fancy myself as a class half miler, so just watch me. I believe I can beat Redbrooke. I'm not troubling about the rest, anyhow.”
Andrew stepped gingerly along the track. He felt rather better at being in the open air. Then he glanced behind him at the grand stand. He received a shock. It was full—full of banks of people looking at him, waiting to see him run.
As with the bell, the audience rushed on Andrew with a terrific new meaning. He had often seen large crowds at sports meetings. He had sat with them and watched the runners and the few officials in the center of the ground. The center of the ground had always appeared to be part of the whole picture with the crowd.
It had never occurred to him for a moment that to step in the arena was to break that unit. Now the whole picture was crowd and nothing else. Wherever he raised his eyes on all sides of him, he saw nothing but a bank of staring faces, a mob of hats and faces.
With eyes fixed on the ground, he left the track and began to walk across the grass towards the start. The half mile, being a lap and a half, led off at the farthest point from the grand stand. The half lap brought it round to the stand just at the stage where the race was getting into its stride, when everybody was beginning to feel the collar and those who meant business were jostling for places in front. The remaining complete lap brought the finish round to the grand stand again.
Andrew's path took him into the middle of the ground;here the crowd was less imminent. The summer was still new enough to greet the senses with surprise. He stepped lightly on the elastic turf. The grass breathed out delicious freshness. For years afterwards that fragrance was to set Andrew's nerves tingling with the apprehension of this moment.
The lively air fanned his head and throat. It played about his bare legs.
Andrew saw the other half milers were trotting round the track. Occasionally one would shoot forward in a muscle-stretching burst. Andrew tried a high-stepping trot across the grass to flex his own legs, but was too self-conscious to keep it up.
He reached the starting point first. Another agonizing wait followed. The others were still capering round the ash path. Would he never get it over? Surely the tension of nerves must rack the strength from his limbs? At last the starter approached.
“Jolly day for a trial spin,” he told Andrew. “Makes me feel an old fool to be out of it. I envy you boys.”
Andrew felt too miserable to answer. He nodded.
“If you want a place,” said a starter, “take my advice and watch Redbrooke. He'll probably try and take Brewster off his legs early—he knows he can't sprint, you see.”
Andrew nodded again. Of course it was a foregone conclusion that only Redbrooke and Brewster were in the race. No one had a thought for him.
The others began to arrive. Andrew stripped off his sweater. Again he was premature. The others waited. All were silent now.
Redbrooke was strolling across the ground with one of the officials. He looked up and broke into a brisk trot.
The air still freshened Andrew's face. Across the ground he could hear the murmur of the crowd. A paper boy was shouting.
Still none of the runners spoke. In silence, one by one, they took off blazers and sweaters. The well-known colors of Brewster's club appeared—a red and black band round the chest. Redbrooke cantered up unconcerned.
“Sorry,” he said, and emerged from his blazer in Achilles Club colors. Andrew glanced at his plain white things, longer and tighter than Redbrooke's.
The runners eyed each other as they took their places on the track. Redbrooke was a shade taller than Andrew and perfectly formed. His corn-colored hair was a disheveled crop, paler in hue than the tan of his face. His limbs flashed with youth and strength. His poise was quick as flame.
No wonder he can run, thought Andrew. He must win.
“I shall say on your marks—set—and then fire.”
At last, thought Andrew. His heart was beating in his throat now.
A second toiled by.
Andrew dropped to his knee for a sprinting start.
“Set!”
His knee quivered up from the track. It was toes and knuckles now, a balance quivering with tautness.
Crash.
Scurry. Shoulders jostling. Mind out.
Andrew shot clear, going at top speed. He swung into the inside place. So far so good. He'd got his inside place, and the lead too. Was he to make the running? He settled down to a stride, fast but easy.
He breathed calmly through his nose. Although the race had started he still felt very nervous—an exhilarating nervousness now. He saw each blade of grass where out turf edge met track. A groundsman set down a whitewash pail.
Andrew realized he was cutting out too fast a pace. He swung into a slower stride. So far all had gone according to plan, and he began to take courage.
As they approached the pavilion for the first time and the second long corner of the race, he found Perry was creeping up on his outside. Andrew was surprised and a little worried. In all the half miles he had run before the pace he had set would have assured him the lead. He decided to make no effort, and Perry passed stride by stride and dropped into the lead. Andrew continued at his own pace, and a gap of a yard or two opened.
As they came on to the bend there was a sudden sputter of feet and Andrew found that Brewster had filled the gap. Others were coming up and he realized that the whole field was moving faster than he was. He quickened up slightly and swung out tentatively to pass Brewster again. Before he could pass, the corner was reached. He at least knew better than to run on the outside round the curve; so he slackened again to pull back into the inside. But in the very thought of doing so, the runner behind closed smoothly and swiftly up to Brewster, and Andrew saw that Redbrooke had got his inside berth. Andrew had to take the curve on the outside. “Blinking fool” he told himself.
Old Jones and one or two other experienced runners in the crowd caught each other's eyes for a moment; the rest of the audience had no notion of the little display of bad technique that Andrew had given.
So they went round the long curve. Perry in the lead and still pressing the pace; Brewster second, with no very clear notion of what the pace ought to be, and determined not to lose Perry; Redbrooke keeping wisely within striking distance, and Andrew bunched uncomfortably on the outside of Redbrooke with two others.
By the time they came out of the long bend and completed the first half of the race Andrew was thoroughly rattled. Never had he felt such a strain at this stage of a half mile. Already it was difficult to get enough air; he was no longer breathing evenly through his nose. Already a numbing weakness was creeping down the front of his thighs. Hopeless now to think of gaining ground. With relief he found he was able to drop into the inside again behind Redbrooke. They had now been running for about one minute—it seemed an age. Could he possibly stick to it for another period, as long again? The long stretch of straight in front of him, the long sweep of curve at the end of the ground that only brought you at the beginning of the finishing straight. Then the sprint. Already he felt he could not find an ounce of sprint.
Pace by pace he stuck to it watching Redbrooke's feet.
But even now he must quicken up if he was to hold Redbrooke. At each step Redbrooke's back was leaving him. He struggled to lengthen but it was useless. Redbrooke was moving up to the front. Now he was equal with Brewster;now with Perry; now he was in the lead.
How easy Redbrooke's move down the back straight looked from the grand stand. “Pretty running,” people told each other. “Just the place to come up.” “Nicely judged.” “See how he worked himself through from the last corner.”
And this was the very place at which Andrew had meant to move up himself. He remembered nothing of his plans now. It was impossible to increase his effort. One of the men behind came smoothly by and dropped into the gap that Redbrooke had left in front of him. The sixth man came up on his outside. There was a kind of emptiness at his back. He was running equal last.
Now they came into the final curve before the finishing straight. His legs seemed powerless. He grunted for breath. The weakness in his thighs had grown to a cramping pain. And all the time with dull despair he saw Redbrooke going up, now five yards clear, now eight. Perry had dropped back to third, and Brewster was chasing Redbrooke.
Dark waves of pain swept over Andrew. Hopeless. Hopeless.
Still he must keep running with control. He must force his legs to a smooth long stride. This was the worst part of any race; nightmare moments, when the only hope was a last frenzied dash, yet still the body must be forced along with conscious control.
“Come on,” he told himself, “another fifty yards—guts, man—guts.”
Had only Andrew known what the others were feeling, he would have taken courage. The whole pace of the first quarter, thanks to Andrew's own excitement, had been faster than anyone cared for.
Redbrooke, untrained as he was, had found himself badly winded at the quarter-mile mark. He, too, doubted whether he could have any punch left at the finish. He determined, therefore, to make a surprise effort early, when he still had a powerful sprint in him. As soon as they came into the curve, he stepped on the gas as hard as he could, three hundred yards from home, and steamed away. He jumped a lead of five, eight, ten yards before Perry or Brewster realized what was happening. It was a thing the crowd could follow better than the men in the race.
Now as they came into the straight, Andrew thought Redbrooke was gathering himself for a final dash. Far from it; he was hanging on for grim death. His sparkling effort had died right away. His stride was nerveless. The sprinting muscles in his thighs had lost every ounce of their power. He was struggling and asking himself at every stride: “Can I, can I, can I—surely those steps are drawing nearer—can I last it?”
Perry was desperately run out. Brewster had already been chasing Redbrooke hard for the last thirty yards, but could not find any pace at all.
Andrew alone of the field had he known it had been nursing his remnant of strength round that grueling bend. Only forty yards to go now and he could throw all he had into a last desperate effort. Keep it up just a moment more. Thirty yards to the straight now—twenty—suddenly his control was shattered. He was fighting in a mindless fury of effort for every ounce of strength in him.
In ten yards he saw his whole fortune in the race change. He had got a sprint then!The man on his outside vanished. He raced round the outside of the fellow in front hand over fist as he came into the straight. In another few yards he had the faltering Perry taped.
He had already run into third place. New strength surged through his limbs. “Come on, come on: up, you can catch Brewster. Level. Feel him struggling. He can't hold you. Got him!”
Far, far off, a distant frenzied pain, somewhere: someone else's pain. Miles away a face on the side of the track.
Second now. Second, and he could catch Redbrooke. But could he catch him in time? They were past the start of the hundred yards now: a bare hundred to go. Could he? Could he? The first brilliance of his sprint had gone. He was fighting again an agonizing weakness that dragged his legs back. But he was doing it, foot by foot. Fists clenched, to force speed-spent muscles.
Split seconds dragged strange length out. The straight went on and on. Five yards behind, now four, now three.
Redbrooke heard him, then felt him: two yards behind, now at his shoulder. He racked himself for a new effort. Together they swept past the hundred-yards finish, ten yards from the half-mile tape, with the dull roar of the crowd in their ears. Redbrooke saw he was beaten but stuck to it till the last foot.
Then Andrew led.
A splendour of gladness as he watched the stretch of white wool break on his own chest.
“You've done it, you've done it!” Incredible precious moment.
Then he dropped half conscious on the track.
Strong arms plucked him up, and walked him to the grass.“Well done, very fine finish,” he heard. Down again, sitting now. The world swam round you. There was Redbrooke, standing up, not so done then.
Ache, how those legs ache and your thigh muscles, too—must stand up, hell, what does it matter though when you won!
Redbrooke came over to Andrew smiling and controlled.
“Well done,” he said, “you had me nicely.”
“Ow,” said Andrew, still panting, “muscles in my thighs.” He got up and limped about. His legs felt absurd. The muscles in his haunches hurt abominably.
Redbrooke smiled. “I know that feeling,” he said, “comes of running untrained!”
“Oh, I had trained a bit,” said Andrew, “a fair amount really. Do you know what the time was?”
“One fifty-nine and two fifths,” Redbrooke told him. “I was just inside two minutes. I must say I think we did fairly well for the first effort of the season.”
“One fifty-nine and two fifths,” said Andrew, “was it really?”
One of the judges joined them.
Others came up. They all said the same.
“Why on earth didn't you sprint before?”
“No idea I could,” explained Andrew.
Brewster joined the group.
“Well, that's my last half mile,” he said. “Never had to move so fast in my life before.”
But he was obviously pleased. He had finished about ten yards behind Redbrooke and must have done about two two or two three.
Now Andrew began to enjoy himself thoroughly. Gloriously relaxed in mind and body, gloriously contented, he watched the other events. He made new friends. Then he went in and soaked himself in a steaming bath and smoked, shouting to Brewster in the next compartment. Life was very kind.
He came out on to the ground, chatted with everyone he saw: discussed his race a dozen times: had three or four beers:spent a few shillings with wild extravagance. He saw, to his amazement, Redbrooke turn out again for the quarter and fight another grueling finish to win by inches in fifty-one and a fifth seconds. Andrew was the first to pat him on the back.
“Great work,” he said. “How you managed it after that half beats me!”
“Oh, well,” said Redbrooke, “it loosened me up. Why didn't you come, lazy devil?”
In the bus going home, Andrew leant back and puffed deeply at his pipe. Alone for the first time, he went over the race in his mind. Well, he had done it. He could tackle anything on earth now.
After all running was a thing men had always done. Football, other games, came and went. A good runner was a good runner for all time—with hundreds and hundreds of years of kinship behind him. And he, Andrew, was a good runner. A class runner. One fifty-nine. Damn good!
His head was slightly swimming with fatigue and excitement and beer. He leant back and sighed—as happy as it is possible to be on this planet.
Notes
hooters, whistles of the various potteries.
potteries, shops or factories where earthern ware is made.
Royal Chorley, the name of the pottery where Andrew worked as dipper.
the half mile, the half mile or the 880-yds. race.
self-consciously, as if conscious of oneself as an object of the observation of others.
one fifty-eight, one minute fifty-eight seconds, for the half mile.
class running, good running; high-class running.
two four, two minutes four seconds for the half mile.
trot, a jogging pace, not so fast, for warming up.
Club races, races conducted by various clubs, organizations, or associations.
final, a deciding heat, or trial.
cross-country, generally a long-distance race over country roads.
four thirty mile, running a mile in 4 minutes 30 seconds.
Cambridge Blue, a Cambridge University athlete who has made the varsity team.
earthly, chance; possibility.
trial spin like, like trying or testing out.
stick, follow closely and persistently.
come up, come or spring forward.
first quarter, first quarter mile.
on the outside round bends, on the outside edge of the race track, path or course.
a hellova lot, a slang expression meaning “a great deal,” a-hell-of-a-lot.
sandwiches, a sandwich consists of two slices of bread usually buttered and having a thin layer of meat, cheese, or the like, spread between them. Named after Lord Sandwich.
paced out, in racing, one's rate of movement, or speed is called the pace, which is generally a slow, regular, or measured pace. Hence, paced out means to pace or follow behind, without intending to pass the person in front.
run off his legs, to cause his legs to be tired; hence, to cause him to run himself out at the start, and thus exhaust him before he could finish the race.
too much of a needle, nervous; vexed; disquieted, too excited, too much on an edge.
“Sentinel, ” the name of the local newspaper.
“uns, ” ones. The old uns are his parents.
jogged, moved slowly, leisuredly, or monotonously.
“Sixpence Entrance, ” entrance for spectators who pay sixpence for a seat in the arena.
“This stand a shilling, ” entrance for those who pay a shilling for a seat. The seats or bleachers are known as the stand.
changing room, room where the athletes change into their uniforms.
spiked shoes, shoes with spikes, pointed irons, or nails of special design, set with the points downward fastened to the sole of a runner's shoe to prevent slipping.
three laps to the mile instead of the four. The size of the ordinary track field is so laid out that a runner going four times around the track covers distance equivalent to a mile. A three laps to the mile course is, therefore, a trifle larger track field than the ordinary one, so that three laps make the mile.
start, the starting point of the race.
sprints, short runs at top speed.
back straight, the section of a race track between the last turn and the winning post.
jostling, crowding or bumping together.
massaged, treated by means of rubbing, stroking, kneading or tapping with the hand or an instrument.
rub, massage.
bags, loose-fitting garments; especially, in England, ordinary loose trousers.
pommeled, beat with the fists; beat soundly.
buttocks, the part at the back of the hip, which in man forms one of the protuberances on which he sits.
gingered, enlivened; animated; inspirited.
international, a runner who has participated in international track competitions.
next event due, time for the next race to start.
programs, usually, printed or written lists of the features composing a performance, with the names of the performers.
hovered, hung about.
eclipsed, caused the obscuration of; hidden.
brushed, touched or rubbed in passing.
after the gun's gone, after the starter of the race has fired his gun in starting the race.
six hundred, 600 yards.
casual, incidental; having the air of a chance occurrence.
banks, tier upon tier; layer upon layer.
arena, any place of public contest or exertion.
a lap and a half, one and one-half times around the track field.
feel the collar, feel the strain; feel the pace.
imminent, near at hand.
elastic turf, springy race course.
muscle-stretching burst, breaking forth in such a speed that the muscles stretched beyond their ordinary tension.
flex, bend; loosen.
capering, skipping; jumping.
ash path, the runner's path, or course, which is paved with ash, the earthy or mineral parts of combustion, as of wood or coal.
take Brewster off his legs early, this is, take Brewster by surprise by beating him at the start of the race.
premature, arriving before the proper or usual time.
cantered, ran at an easy gait.
his blazer, his light jacket, —usually of wool, or silk and of a bright color, for wear at tennis, cricket, or other sport.
Achilles Club colors, the colors of the club of which he is a member, the Achilles Club.
disheveled crop, disarranged or ruffled hair that is cut loose or short.
on your marks, set, and then fire, the regular signals given at the start of races.
tautness, tightness.
scurry, hasten away.
Mind out, be sure to get clear of the other runners.
tentatively, experimentally.
“Blinking fool, ” big fool. Andrew realized that he had made a mistake and he was scolding himself.
bad technique, not good style of performance; poor execution.
cramping pain, a pain in the muscles in form of a cramp-spasmodic and painful involuntary contraction of a muscle or muscles.
guts, that quality of being strong, powerful, and having a capacity for exertion and endurance, whether physical, intellectual, or moral.
winded, put out of breath; rendered scant of wind by violent exertion.
quarter-mile mark, the half-way mark of the half-mile race.
punch, power; energy; “guts.”
grueling, exhausting the capacity or endurance.
与此同时，他听到外面铃声大作，听起来命运攸关。这意味着下一场比赛的开始。运动场上的所有观众都在翻看节目单，在读节目单上运动员的名字。随着叮叮当当的铃声渐渐消失，安德鲁感到恐怖也渐渐逼近了。他一跃而起，穿过更衣室直奔门口。
taped, bettered; beaten.
speed-spent, exhausted by running rapidly or at great speed.
white wool, a piece of string, thread, or worsted stretched across the finishing line and broken by the first man to finish the race.
haunches, the hind quarters.
compartment, one of the parts into which an inclosed portion, or space is divided, as by partitions, or lines; next booth.
beers, glasses of brewed liquor made with malted grain, with or without other starchy material, and with hop or other substances to give a bitter flavor; in Great Britain, and the United States, beer frequently signifies the lighter kinds and all the heavier kinds of malted liquors.
Questions
1. Who was Andrew?
2. What were his thoughts and feelings （a） before the race, （b） during the race, （c） after the race?
3. What did Andrew gain from winning the race?
参考译文
【作品简介】
《半英里》，作者T.O．比奇克罗夫特，选自迈克尔·罗伯茨编辑的《新国家》，伦敦霍加斯出版社1933年出版，72—85页。
【作者简介】
T.O．比奇克罗夫特是英格兰最年轻的作家之一。
星期六，正午时分，远处市政厅时钟的报时声沉重地响了起来，全城每条街道上的陶瓷厂里汽笛声此起彼伏。男男女女——有成年的，也有未成年的，从二十家陶瓷厂的大门口，鱼贯而出。开始还是三三两两的，很快就形成了一股稳定的人流，然后又三三两两地消失了。
安德鲁·威廉姆森是皇家乔力陶瓷厂的一名浸涂工，他在大门口被守门人琼斯给拦住了。
他说道：“再见，安德鲁，祝你跑半英里交好运。”
安德鲁扫了他一眼，目光不自在地移开了。“你怎么知道我要跑半英里比赛呢？”
乔解释道：“哦，我对这种比赛有兴趣，我以前也跑过半英里比赛。”
安德鲁追问道：“说下去，可我怎么从来没听说过呢？”
老人答道：“我跑过一分五十八秒的好成绩，这在过去算是不错的成绩了。”
“然后呢？”安德鲁继续追问道，“那可是高级赛跑比赛，高级半英里比赛。”
“哦，我不知道，现在不少人都能取得这样的成绩。”
“哎呀，我真希望我能取得这样的成绩，我的理想是：挺进两分钟。到现在为止，我还从来没有突破过二分四秒呐！”
“喔，这只是个时间问题。”老手给他打气，“先在附近好好慢跑热热身，吸点夏天的新鲜空气，你就赢定了。”
“可我从来没参加过高级赛跑啊。”安德鲁还是忧心忡忡，“我只参加过俱乐部组织的赛跑，我不敢奢望取名次拿奖，你也看看参赛的选手啊。”
“都有谁？”琼斯问道。
“嗯，决赛有六个人，咱们一个一个地说：乔·布鲁斯特，是个越野选手，他一英里能跑四分三十秒，现在他想跑半英里。”
“哦，他再少也绝对不会少几分钟，”琼斯斩钉截铁地断言，“我敢担保。”
“还有佩里，他参加上个星期‘三个俱乐部’在德比合办的大赛，跑了二分四秒。”
“嗯，还有谁？”
“还有雷德布鲁克，是剑桥大学校队的，我根本就没机会。”
“他是个优秀的赛跑选手，”琼斯评论道，“可是，你觉得他在五月训练过吗？不大可能。这可能是他第一次跑，就像测试似的。你训练过吗？”
“认真训练过，”安德鲁说道，“这个月每天晚上都训练，上周参加了一个比赛，成绩还不错。”
“听我的，”琼斯一字一顿地对他说道，“紧紧咬着布鲁斯特。他会在快到440码的时候领跑。你只要盯着他就行，别人不用管。不要跑弯道外圈。”
“嗯，这我懂。”安德鲁答道。
“啊，你懂，你懂。”琼斯说道，“那就好，祝你好运，小伙子。”
安德鲁边走边回过头来。“只要我能跑进二分，”他有点不自在地说道，“那就意味着，很多。”
安德鲁离开了他，独自一人走进广场花园吃三明治。这是个晴朗的初夏，可是他却因为紧张和孤独感到凉飕飕的。他坐了四十分钟的公共汽车去运动场，他想早点到那里，半英里比赛时间定在三点。
他有多少胜算？他已经在前一天晚上的分组赛中以二分六秒的成绩出线，可这却没有任何意义。乔·布鲁斯特在他的后面，但他是在保存实力。佩里和雷德布鲁克在另一场分组赛中打了个平手，成绩都是二分五秒。谁都不可小觑。最怕的是自己开始会用力过猛，最后腿疲劳得无法完成比赛。他以前从来没有跟雷德布鲁克这样的高级赛跑选手对过阵。
上了公共汽车以后，他尽量克制自己不去想比赛。太紧张一点用处也没有。可这是个千载难逢的机会啊。
哎呀，他要是跑好了，今天取得了名次，他的名字就会上当地的报纸《哨兵》。家里的老人也愿意看到这样的结果。假如他可以跑进二分钟，嗯，将来总有一天，在他有生之年，他会做到的。那将是了不起的成就，会给他信心，会让他大体上有影响力了。
伴随着这样愉快的幻想，公共汽车慢吞吞地走着。安德鲁一手提着包，在一点半的时候抵达了运动场。看到诸如六便士看台座位入口和一先令看台座位入口这样的设施，都让他感觉怪怪的。还让他感觉自己有很大责任，因为观众需要为看自己比赛买票。实际上，他是第一个进更衣室换衣服的赛手。他慢吞吞地换着，把衣服放到角落里的一张长凳上。他小心翼翼地穿上了钉子鞋，走到外面的跑道上。他以前习惯在普通运动场跑，普通运动场跑四圈是一英里，而这个运动场是三圈一英里。可惜啊：赛跑中的每个陌生之处都是一个小的干扰因素。不仅如此，这个运动场不是方形的，而是有两条直道，两端是长长的半圆形跑道
安德鲁找到了半英里起跑线，判明了一下方位。他慢跑了半圈，冲刺了一两次，然后做了做呼吸训练。他在终点直道上踱来踱去。他在这里必须冲到前面。他决意起跑冲刺要做好，然后不惜任何代价抢到里道的位置。用不着老琼斯告诉，他也知道不能跑弯道的外圈。此时已经是两点多了，有一两个人进了看台。第一场比赛两点半开始。他回到更衣室，发现里面到处都是人，吵吵嚷嚷，你推我搡的。他感觉很不自在，就又出来了。还要等四十五分钟，但愿他能熬过去。桌子上赤身躺着一个人，按摩师在给他按摩。安德鲁排队等着按摩。这似乎挺专业的。
“该你啦。”按摩师招呼他。
安德鲁脱下了背心。
“把裤子也脱了。”
他有点不好意思地把松松垮垮的休闲裤脱了下来，趴在了桌子上。
“先按摩正面，老兄。”按摩师说道。
这似乎有些不雅，不过安德鲁还是翻过身来。
按摩师把他的肚子敲得砰砰响，接着敲他的背，然后敲他的臀部，还有他的大腿、小腿，涂抹一种味道很冲的油，增强皮肤的活力，刺激神经。不错。
他看到布鲁斯特和佩里在说话，就过去攀谈，说了句与半英里比赛有关的话，可是他们似乎已经记不起来他是谁了。他找了个座位独自坐着。但愿能早点熬过去。
一个红脸汉猛地把门打开。
“百码比赛的都出来。”他大声喊道。
“知道他是谁吗？”有人说道，“他是卡利夫少校，参加过国际田径赛的老选手。”
百码比赛的选手急匆匆地出去了。有四五场预赛的样子。安德鲁透过更衣室的窗户向外望去，却无法集中注意力，看不出赛况。他特别难受。
最后，百码比赛结束了。一分钟，或者大约一分钟慢吞吞地过去了。安德鲁站起来又坐下，第五次把鞋带系紧。接下来，门猛地被推开了，卡利夫少校第二次朝屋里看了看，大声喊道：“半英里的都出来！”
此时，又遇到一个新的尴尬情况：为什么其他赛跑手没起身？他等了一会儿，想跟他们一起走，可是他们似乎都有鞋或者绑带要在这最后一分钟整理。
“嗳，我想我们最好上场吧。”布鲁斯特说。
“稍等，乔，”佩里说道，“我一定要戴上护膝。”
安德鲁痛苦地在更衣室的门口徘徊。他们为什么不赶紧出来跑完算了？他恨不得马上跑完比赛，省得受煎熬了。最后，他发觉再这么拉着门很傻，于是他出了门走到外面的混凝土过道上。他自然不能独自一人上跑道，也不能再回更衣室，于是他靠着墙，尽量把思想放空。
别人都在干什么？“哦，不要胡思乱想，”他低声自言自语，“哦，不要胡思乱想！”下次比赛他会找个更合适的时间起身，不会在其他赛跑手之前就起来了。
走廊尽头的阳光隐去了，少校从他身边擦过。
“那些跑半英里的人在哪里？”他态度和蔼地问安德鲁。
“我想……”安德鲁开了口，却发现他根本没想听他回答。
少校打开了门，安德鲁瞥到里面的人在站着说东道西，好像根本没把比赛当回事儿。
“跑半英里的都上场——请大家快点儿。”少校说道。
这次他们出来了，安德鲁心跳如捣，加入了他们的队伍。
“啊，布鲁斯特，”少校问道，“你今天要给我们秀什么啊？”
“没指望你注意到我，”布鲁斯特答道，“发令枪一响，第一个600码我就争取咬住小雷德布鲁克，我就是想看看我的能力！”
这听起来很随意，可安德鲁强烈地感觉到了布鲁斯特的言外之意：“我认为自己是半英里的高级赛跑手。我坚信自己可以跑过雷德布鲁克。我对剩下的人都不屑一顾。”
安德鲁小心翼翼地踏上了跑道。在户外，他感觉好多了。然后，他扫了眼身后巨大的看台，心中大为震惊，只见看台上座无虚席，密密麻麻的，观众都在看他，等着看他跑。
随着铃声响起，看台上的观众让安德鲁的心中涌起了一种新的可怕意味。对于运动会上的人山人海，他早已司空见惯。他曾经跟这些观众坐在一起，观看运动场中央的赛跑手和屈指可数的官员。运动场中央是人山人海这幅画面不可分割的组成部分。
他从来没想到过自己踏进竞技场那一刻这个画面就被打破了。此时，这幅画里只有人山人海，别无他物。不论他朝四面八方哪个方向看，只能看到一张张人脸，一双双盯着他的眼睛和一堆堆的帽子。
他眼睛盯着地面，离开跑道穿过草地向起跑线走去。半英里比赛，赛程一圈半，所以起跑线距离大看台最远。半圈之后所到达的看台，正是比赛进入精彩阶段的地方，到时候，人人都会开始有紧张感，那些认真的人开始你追我赶，奋勇争先。跑完剩下的整整一圈以后，又会回到大看台所在的地方。
安德鲁沿着脚下的路走向运动场的中部，这里离人山人海就没有那么近了。夏天依然新鲜，依然可以给感官带来惊喜。他轻轻地踏上有弹性的草皮。青草闻起来有清新的味道。此后多年，只要一闻到青草的清新味道，都会让他想起这一刻，让他心生忐忑。
清新的空气拍打着他的头和喉咙，在他裸露的双腿上嬉戏。
安德鲁看到其他半英里赛跑手在跑道附近慢跑，时不时会有人舒展着肌肉向前冲刺。安德鲁想高抬腿慢跑来活动下双腿，可是感觉太不自在，腿抬不起来。
他率先来到起跑点，紧接着是另一场痛苦的等待。其他人还在跑道附近蹦蹦跳跳。比赛什么时候才能开始啊？神经紧张肯定会对四肢的力量有损害吧？最后，发令员终于来了。
“今天是个试跑的好天气，”他对安德鲁说道，“让我觉得退出很傻，我羡慕你们这些小子。”
安德鲁太痛苦了，说不出话来，于是他点了点头算是回答。
“你要是想得个名次，”一个发令员说道，“就听我给你支招，看住雷德布鲁克，他可能会在一开始就超过布鲁斯特，让布鲁斯特大吃一惊。你看，那是因为他知道自己没有能力冲刺。”
安德鲁又点了点头。当然，这是一个预料之中的结局，比赛里只有雷德布鲁克和布鲁斯特，谁也不会想到他。
其他人开始陆陆续续地到了。安德鲁脱掉了羊毛衫。这次他又来早了。其他人还在等。大家现在都不说话了。
雷德布鲁克跟一个官员漫步穿过运动场。他抬头看了看，然后突然轻快地慢跑起来。
安德鲁脸上还有清风拂面。人海里的低语声穿过运动场，传到他的耳畔。一个报童在大声叫卖。
赛跑手们中依然没有一个人说话。他们一个接一个地默默脱掉了运动夹克和羊毛衫。大家熟知的布鲁斯特所属俱乐部的标志服色出现了，胸部有带状的红黑色。雷德布鲁克脚步轻快地跑了过来，状态放松。
“对不起。”他说道。他穿着阿基里斯俱乐部服色的运动夹克。安德鲁扫了一眼自己朴素的白色运动服，比雷德布鲁克的长而紧。
赛跑手们互相审视着，在跑道上各就各位。雷德布鲁克比安德鲁稍微高一点，身材完美。他蓬松的玉米色头发剪得短短的，比他棕褐色的脸色淡一号。他的四肢闪耀着青春和力量的光芒。他的一举一动迅疾如火。
难怪他这么能跑，安德鲁暗想，他必胜无疑。
“我会说各就各位——预备——然后放枪。”
终于开始了，安德鲁想。此刻他的心都快要从嗓子眼里跳出来了。
一秒钟艰难地挨过去了。
安德鲁跪下来准备起跑冲刺。
“预备！”
他的膝盖在跑道上打战，现在是靠脚趾和关节在保持平衡，他由于紧张在颤抖。
撞击。
你追我赶。摩肩接踵。一定要和其他赛跑手拉开距离。
安德鲁摆脱了别人，疾驰向前，全速前进。他转向里道。迄今为止，一切顺利。他已经占据了里道，而且还领先。他会赢得这场比赛吗？他已经适应了大步跑，速度快却很轻松。
他平静地用鼻子呼吸。尽管比赛已经开始了，他还是感到紧张万分，不过，此刻是一种令人兴奋的紧张了。他看着与跑道相接的草皮上每个青草的叶片。一个体育场管理员把一个白色涂料桶放了下来。
安德鲁意识到自己跑得有些过快，于是他转换成慢速大步。迄今为止，一切都在按计划按部就班地进行，他也开始有了信心。
就在他们第一次接近观众席和第二个长长的直道拐角的时候，他发现佩里慢慢地在他的外道出现了。安德鲁吃了一惊，不由得心生忧虑。在他以往所跑过的半英里比赛中，只要按照既定的步伐跑，就保证可以领先。他决定保持步伐不变，而佩里一大步接着一大步地从他身边过去了，开始领先。安德鲁继续按照自己的步伐跑，与佩里拉开了一两码的距离。
就在他们往弯道上跑的时候，突然响起了噼啪噼啪的脚步声，安德鲁发现布鲁斯特填补了他与佩里之间的空白。其他人都纷纷靠近，他意识到整个场上的赛跑手都比他跑得快。他稍稍加快了速度，试探着从外圈想再次超过布鲁斯特。就在他要赶超的时候，弯道到了。他还不至于笨到在弯道的时候跑外圈，于是他再次放慢步伐返回里道。可是就在他这么做的一瞬间，后面的赛跑手不费吹灰之力地靠近并且迅速赶上了布鲁斯特，安德鲁这才意识到雷德布鲁克已经抢占了里道。安德鲁只得在转弯的时候跑外圈了。“大傻瓜！”他对自己说道。
那一刻，人山人海里的琼斯和一两个经验丰富的赛跑手心领神会地交换了一下目光，其余观众对于安德鲁表现出的这个小的技术性失误没有概念。
就这样，他们绕起了那个长长的弯道。佩里领先，步伐依然紧迫；布鲁斯特第二，对于应该跑什么样的步伐没有特别清晰的概念，只是下定决心不输给佩里；雷德布鲁克明智地保持在攻击距离以内，而安德鲁和另外两个赛跑手则不舒服地在雷德布鲁克的外圈挤着。
他们跑出长长的弯道，完成了一半赛程的时候，安德鲁彻底乱了阵脚。他以前跑半英里赛从来没有这么紧张过。氧气不够，连呼吸都困难了。他此刻不是在用鼻子平稳地呼吸了。已经有一种让人吃惊的衰弱感在大腿的正面出现了。现在想占优势已经没有希望了。让他欣慰的是，他又转回了里道，跟在雷德布鲁克的后面了。现在他们跑了大约一分钟——却好像过去了好长时间。他还能不能保持这个速度再坚持这么一段时间？在他面前，长长的直道延展开来，直道的尽头是运动场那片长长的弯道，弯道过后才到终点直道。然后是冲刺，而他已经感到连一点点冲刺的力量都没有了。
他看着雷德布鲁克的双脚，跟着跑，一步又一步。
而此刻，要跟住雷德布鲁克，他必须加快速度了。每跑一步，雷德布鲁克的背影就离他远一些。他挣扎着把步伐迈大，可是却无济于事。雷德布鲁克已经遥遥领先。他跟布鲁斯特齐头并进了。他跟佩里齐头并进了。他领先了。
从大观众席上看，雷德布鲁克在非终点直道上跑得是多么轻松自如啊！“跑得真好看！”人们交头接耳，“正是该加速的地方。”“判断准确！”“看他怎么渐入佳境，跑最后的弯道吧。”
而这也是安德鲁要提速的地方。他此时已经把自己之前的种种计划忘了个一干二净。加速已经是不可能的了。后面的人中有一个轻松地从他身旁跑过，填补了雷德布鲁克与他之间留下的空白。第六个人跑到了他的外圈。背后有一种空荡荡的感觉，他此时跑在最后面。
此刻，他们跑到了终点直道前的最后弯道上了。他的腿好像一点力气也没有了。他喘不上来气，嘴里咕哝着。大腿的无力感变成了抽筋似的痛感。与此同时，他一直眼睁睁地看着与雷德布鲁克距离越来越远，此时是整整五码，此时是八码，不由得隐隐感到绝望。佩里落回第三名了，布鲁斯特在追赶雷德布鲁克。
模模糊糊的隐痛阵阵袭来，安德鲁感到无助，无助。
他还要跑得有节制。他要强迫自己的双腿迈轻松自然的大步。当他唯一的希望就是最后的疯狂冲刺时，他的身体却还必须被迫有节制地跑下去，这是赛跑最难熬的时候，是噩梦时刻。
“加油，”他告诫自己，“再跑五十码——勇气，老兄——勇气。”
若是安德鲁知道别人此时此刻的感觉的话，他就会信心百倍了。在比赛的第一个四分之一赛程里，多亏安德鲁自己兴奋起来了，他比别人跑得快，而别人也没有在意。雷德布鲁克由于缺乏节制，感觉在四分之一英里的标志处就已经上气不接下气了。他也怀疑自己是否有力量做最后的冲刺了。于是，他决定趁着自己还有冲刺的力气，提前来个出人意料的加速。他们一到弯道，在距离赛跑终点三百码的地方，他就使出最大的力气踩加速器，高速前进。在佩里和布鲁斯特还弄清楚怎么回事之前，他已经领先了五码、八码、十码。对于这一切，观众比参加比赛的人看得更清楚。
他们此时都上了直道，安德鲁以为雷德布鲁克在重整旗鼓做最后的冲刺。而事实恰恰相反，他在苦苦地死撑，苟延残喘。他那欢快的步伐已经转瞬不再，他的大步已经迈得毫无生气，大腿的冲刺肌肉已经一点点力量都没有了。他在挣扎，每迈一大步都要问自己：“我行吗？我行吗？我行吗？毫无疑问，每一步都离终点越来越近了。我能坚持到最后吗？”
佩里已经跑得筋疲力尽了。在最后三十码，布鲁斯特一直拼命追赶雷德布鲁克，却根本找不到节奏。
在拐那个能把人累死的弯道时，整个运动场上唯一懂得合理使用剩余体力的人是安德鲁。只剩四十码了，他现在可以拼尽全力，放手一搏了。再次加速。此刻距离直道是三十码——二十码，突然，他的自控土崩瓦解了。他在用体内的全部力量疯狂地拼搏。
在距离直道十码的时候，他看到自己在比赛中的命运彻底反转了。他已经成功冲刺了一次！他外道上的那个人看不见了。上了直道以后，他从外道击败了前面的那个人。又跑过了几码，他击败了摇摇晃晃的佩里。
他已经跑到了第三名。他四肢力量倍增。“加油，加油：加速，你能追上布鲁斯特。齐头并进。能感觉到他在挣扎。他跑不过你。把他拿下！”
在遥远，遥远的某个地方，有一种狂乱的剧痛：别人的剧痛。几英里以外的跑道旁有一张脸。
此刻该拿下第二个人了，第二个人，他能追上雷德布鲁克。可他能及时追上吗？他们此刻已经跑过了一百码的起跑线：只剩一百码了。他能吗？他能吗？他的第一个辉煌的冲刺已经完成了。身体痛苦而虚弱，他要再一次跟拖后腿的身体做斗争。而他正在一步一步地做。他紧握着拳头，强迫冲刺得筋疲力尽的肌肉奋起。
奇怪的是，时间分秒不差地在延长，直道在延长。还落后五码，此刻四码，此刻三码。
雷德布鲁克听到了他的声音，接着感觉到他在逼近：在后面两码处，此刻在肩并肩。他再一次拼尽全力发力。他们一起快速跑过一百码的终点线，距离半英里终点线的棉线还有十码，耳畔是看台观众低沉的吼叫声。雷德布鲁克看到自己被击败了，却也跟到了最后一步。
接下来，安德鲁领先了。
长长的白色的羊毛终点线被自己的胸撞开，面对辉煌的战绩，他满心欢喜。
“你成啦，你成啦！”这是令人难以置信的珍贵瞬间。
接着，他昏昏沉沉地倒在了跑道上。
几个强壮的胳膊把他拉了起来，搀扶着他走向草地。“干得好，冲刺非常漂亮！”他听到有人说。他又倒了下来，这次是坐了下来。周围天旋地转。雷德布鲁克依然站着，还没有累坏。
疼，这双腿，还有大腿肌肉多疼啊！必须站起来，见鬼！就算你赢了又怎样？
雷德布鲁克向安德鲁走了过来，脸上带着笑容，表情克制。
“干得好，”他说道，“把我赢得很漂亮。”
“啊唷，”安德鲁叫道，还气喘吁吁的，“我的大腿肌肉。”他起身，一瘸一拐地走来走去。他感觉腿怪怪的。臀部的肌肉疼得可怕。
雷德布鲁克笑了。“我知道这种感觉，”他说道，“是缺乏训练造成的！”
“哦，我有过一点点训练，”安德鲁说道，“实际上有一定的量呢。你知道比赛成绩吗？”
“一分五十九秒零四，”雷德布鲁克告诉他，“我刚刚进二分。我必须说我们为第一季赛事取得了不错的成绩。”
“一分五十九秒零四，”安德鲁说道，“真的吗？”
一个裁判向他们走了过来。
其他人走了过来。他们说的都一样。
“你不早冲刺，到底是什么原因？”
“我不知道有没有冲刺的能力。”安德鲁解释道。
布鲁斯特加入了这群人。
“嗯，这是我最后一次参加半英里比赛。”他说道，“我这辈子从来都没有被迫跑得这么快过。”
可是，显而易见，他很高兴。他在雷德布鲁克后面到达终点，距离雷德布鲁克大约十码，所以成绩大约是二分二秒或者二分三秒。
此时，安德鲁完完全全地开心起来。身心特别愉快和放松，心满意足地观看其他比赛。他交了不少新朋友。然后，他走进更衣室，泡在蒸汽浴里，抽着烟，跟隔间的布鲁斯特大声说着话。生活真是美好。
他再次来到运动场上，跟见到的每个人聊天，一次又一次地讨论他参加的这场比赛；他喝了三四杯啤酒，还奢侈地花了几先令。他惊讶地看到，雷德布鲁克又在四分之一英里比赛中出现了，成绩是五十一秒零二，以微弱优势夺取了另一个累人的比赛的第一名。安德鲁第一个过去拍了拍他的后背。
“了不起的成绩。”他说道，“我纳闷你跑完半英里以后怎么还能取得这么好的成绩！”
“哦，这个，”雷德布鲁克答道，“这场比赛让我放松了。你为什么不参加，懒鬼？”
在坐公共汽车回家的路上，安德鲁靠在椅背上一口又一口使劲儿抽着烟斗。他第一次独自把比赛的过程在脑子里过了一遍。嗯，他跑赢了。此刻，他觉得世界上的任何事都不在话下。
说到底，赛跑是人们常做的事情。足球等其他比赛来了又去了。一个优秀的赛跑手是超越时代的，几百年，几千年以后，还会有他这样的赛跑手。而他，安德鲁，是一个优秀的赛跑手，一个高级赛跑手。一分五十九秒，太棒啦！
因为疲劳和兴奋，又喝了点啤酒，他的头有点晕眩。他靠在椅背上，轻叹了一声，感觉像是这个星球上最幸福的人。
（张白桦 译）
