The Olympic Movement Gets Off the Ground

The Baron had dedicated his life-and his health and his fortune-to the idea of promoting peace between nations through friendly competition, and in the process, pulling up his native France by its athletic bootstraps by encouraging what he called "muscular Christianity." De Coubertin was inspired by the British practice of heavily promoting sports in schools and universities and by the exuberant affinity of American schoolboys for team sports.

The Baron's persistence overcame obstacles that would have deterred anyone who had more common sense than blind idealism. As the 19th century drew toward a close, he had convinced Greece (as the cradle of Olympic competition) to host the first modern Olympic Games. He had hoped to use Mount Olympus as the site of the Games, but it proved unsuitable for modern requirements, so Athens was chosen instead. However, as enthusiasm among the Greeks increased and they developed plans for the games, they began to shunt de Coubertin into the background, going so far as attempting to dissociate him from the very concept of a modern Olympics. They envisioned the Olympics as a wholly Greek enterprise with no share of the glory going to a Frenchman. Ultimately, through weeks of negotiations and intercessions from several influential patrons and several nations, the problem was resolved amicably, and the Greeks turned their attention from making de Coubertin persona non grata to trying to ra! ise the capital necessary to construct a suitable stadium and other facilities.

Commemorative stamps were commissioned, and a public appeal was insti- gated. Together, however, the schemes raised only $165,000. Crown Prince Constantine, resorting to an exalted form of begging, appealed to George Averoff, a Greek shipping magnate and famed philanthropist whose largesse had been directed toward Greek educational systems. Averoff obviously liked the idea of a revival of the games, because he agreed to finance the restoration of the Panathenaic Stadium, then more than 2,200 years old and in pitiful condition. The 70,000-seat stadium ultimately set Averoff back some $386,000 in 1890s dollars. But between de Coubertin, the Greek royal family, and George Averoff, the modern Olympic Games finally began to take shape. Michel Breal, a French businessman, was so taken by the revival of the games in Greece that he offered a silver cup to the winner of a special marathon event that was devised to commemorate the legend of Pheidippides's run from Marathon to Athens. It was not anticipated that the event would be repeated once the Olympiad moved out of Greece and into the world at large.

Despite the tenor of world politics at that time, with outright antagonism shown toward the proposed Olympic Games by some nations, benign disregard by others, and begrudging support by a handful, the event began to acquire an identity. Despite political strife, there was a certain naive enthusiasm for the Olympic ideal in 1896. The Greek royal family was infected by that enthusiasm about the Games and was intimately involved at every stage to bring about their success. Although the organizers lacked a model, they attempted to be as fair and equitable as they could despite their obviously passionate partisanism. The crowds (and there were huge crowds) were, of course, partisan, but they were just as likely to burst into wild cheering for an American as for a Greek-if the performance was outstanding.

And the athletes! They were a mix of national team members and complete amateurs from college teams. Because this was the first Olympiad, participating nations did not typically have selection processes by which they could pick their teams. Many teams came on their own nickel. James B. Connolly, a Bostonian attending Harvard, heard about the games and, being adept at the jumping events, wanted to enter. When Connolly applied for a leave of absence from Harvard, the school turned him down, so he dropped out, paid his own way to Greece, and only returned to Harvard many years later as a guest speaker after he had developed a reputation for his novels and stories of sea adventures.

We are first and foremost interested in the special marathon event, but to appreciate the atmosphere into which Spiridon Loues stumbled nearly three hours and 24 miles after the start of the marathon, it is valuable to follow the general Olympic competition in Athens in April of 1896, leading up to the firing of the starting gun at 2:00 P.M. on the 10th day of that month at a bridge in the town of Marathon.

A total of 311 athletes took part in the Games, representing 13 countries. Several of those countries (Australia, Bulgaria, Chile, Sweden, and Switzerland) entered only one athlete. Greece had 230 athletes.

The American Team

According to some accounts, the United States had 14 athletes, according to others, 13. In any case, the team from the United States was not considered the cream of the U.S. crop. The powerful New York Athletic Club, which boasted a large percentage of the country's best athletes in track and field, voted to ignore the Games. The American team that left New York on March 20 aboard the oceanliner Fulda was composed of four Princeton men (Robert Garrett, shot-putter; Francis Lane, sprinter; Albert Tyler, pole-vaulter; and Herbert Jamison, miler), five members of the Boston Athletic Association (Tom Burke, sprinter; Thomas Curtis, hurdler; Ellery Clark, jumper; Welles Hoyt, pole-vaulter; and Arthur Blake, distance runner); and, going along as individuals were James Connolly (the outlaw Harvard undergrad), swimmer Gardner Williams, and two brothers, John and Sumner Paine, experts with revolvers.

The trip took the team past the Azores to Naples, where they boarded a train to cross Italy. They boarded another boat to travel from Brindisi (on the heel of Italy) to Patras in Greece and then boarded yet another train to cross Greece. They arrived in Athens the day before the competition was to begin.

The Greeks were whipped into a righteous frenzy of goodwill. Thomas Curtis wrote about the experience some years later:

We were met with a procession, with bands blaring before and behind, and were marched on foot for what seemed like miles to the Hotel de Ville. Here speech after speech was made in Greek, presumably very flattering to us, but of course entirely unintelligible. We were given large bumpers of the white-resin wine of Greece and told by our advisors that it would be a gross breach of etiquette if we did not drain these off in response to the various toasts. As soon as this ceremony was over, we were again placed at the head of a procession and marched to our hotel. I could not help feeling that so much marching, combined with several noggins of resinous wine, would tell on us in the contests the following day.

Curtis's fears of doing badly were doubled when he entered his hotel and the proprietor inquired as to his specialty. When Curtis told him he was a hurdler, the proprietor went into gales of laughter. After he recovered, the proprietor told Curtis he felt it was the height of folly for a man to travel 5,000 miles to take part in a senseless contest. Why only that afternoon in a practice session the Greek hurdler had run a time that was absolutely unbeatable. This wasn't quite what the weary Curtis needed to hear, but he asked the proprietor what the time had been. The proprietor whispered to Curtis that the Greek champion had run 19.8 seconds. Accepting the proprietor's condolences and his best wishes for Curtis to take second place, the American retired to his room. Curtis was used to running the 100-meter high hurdles in 18 seconds flat.

The next day, April 6, was the 75th anniversary of Greek independence from Turkey, so the occasion was doubly important. At 3:00 P.M., King George and Queen Olga arrived with Crown Prince Constantine, Prince George, Prince Nicholas, and Baron de Coubertin; and after settling themselves, King George rose and announced: "I hereby proclaim the opening of the First International Olympic Games in Athens."

Although throughout Olympic history various sports have been contested (some of them only once), the showcase has always been track and field. So it was at Athens. The first events were three heats of the 100 meters. Although the only current American national champion entered was Tom Burke (in the quarter-mile), Americans took first in all three heats: Lane, then Curtis, then Burke.

In his 1975 book History of the Olympics, Dick Schaap relates a curious incident between Curtis and a Frenchman during the second heat that perhaps better than any other puts the upcoming marathon event in its proper perspective. Before his heat, Curtis noticed that one of his rivals, a short, stocky Frenchman, was wearing white kid gloves. "Why the gloves?" Curtis asked. "Aha," said the Frenchman, "zat is because I run before ze Keeng!"

After the Frenchman failed to place before the King, Curtis asked him what events he had entered. "Ze cent meter and ze Marathon," said the Frenchman. The combination struck Curtis as a curious one. "How do you train for such different events?" the American asked. The Frenchman smiled. "One day I run a leetle way, vairy quick," he explained. "Ze next day, I run a long way, vairy slow."

The first final of the Games was the hop, step, and jump (today's triple jump), and the first Olympic champion in modern times was Harvard dropout James Connolly, who handily won the event before 50,000 spectators inside the stadium and an equal number sitting on the hillsides looking down on the activities.

Next came the discus which, like the marathon, was being contested in international competition for the first time in history. The Greeks had seen the event portrayed on the sides of ancient vases commemorating the ancient Olympics, kept the event alive among their own athletes, and felt it should be part of the competition. The outcome was supposedly a foregone conclusion, with the Greek champion Paraskevopoulos predicted to win easily. After all, he had centuries of tradition on his side, and the discus was an event regularly contested in Greece. After watching the other athletes warm up and prepare for their events, the Greeks were ready to concede the track events to the British and the Americans, but they still knew they were guaranteed a victory in at least the discus when Paraskevopoulos walked toward the circle to limber up.

Princeton's Bob Garrett had been practicing at home with a discus a friend had made for him according to what he thought were the proper dimensions. When Garrett arrived at the stadium, to his surprise he found that the real discus was much lighter and easier to handle than the crude object he had been using. Garrett spun and let go a throw that once and for all sent Paraskevopoulos to the showers.

In the days that followed, Tom Burke won the finals of the 100-meter dash and the 400-meter run. Tom Curtis won the hurdles, W.T. Hoyt took the pole-vault, and Ellery Clark won the jumps, both broad (now called the long jump) and high. Garrett repeated his discus success in the shot put. The only athlete who had been able to best the Americans in track and field was E.H. Flack of Australia, who was living in England and competing for Great Britain. He handily won the 800-meter run and the 1500-meter run.

The Greeks were taking this thrashing in good spirits. Whenever anyone from the Boston Athletic Association contingent did well in an event, his teammates would let loose with a rousing cheer of "B! A! A! Rah! Rah! Rah!" The Americans' enthusiasm matched that of the Greeks' for the entire affair, and every time the Bostonians cheered, the Greeks cheered the Bostonians. In fact, the king repeatedly asked the Bostonians to repeat their cheer.

Yet beneath the goodwill of the Greeks was a rising disappointment in their athletes' performances. Greece had more athletes in the competition than all the other countries combined, but the only events the Greeks had won were individual titles in rifle shooting, fencing, and gymnastics. The ancient Olympics had been a Greek tradition, and that tradition was built on track and field, but even the expected Greek shoo-ins had been ousted. The Greeks were eager for some token to salvage their pride.

Everything hinged on the marathon, which was invented by the Frenchman Breal, inspired by the Greek legend of Pheidippides (which was created by the English romantic poet Robert Browning), but taken to heart by the Greeks with a passion both devout and desperate.

Greece's Marathon Trials

The first Olympic marathon is traditionally thought of as the first marathon ever run. In actuality, it was the third, but Greece was also the home of the first two marathons. As soon as the Greeks heard that a long-distance race would be included in the Olympic Games to commemorate their victory against the Persians on the Plains of Marathon, they became excited beyond belief. Naturally they felt it was a matter of national pride that a Greek should win the event. Thus the Greek Olympic Committee immediately set about searching villages and cities alike for anyone capable of making a good showing.

The first marathon trial was held as part of the Pan-Hellenic Sports Celebration (the Greek national championships) and was open only to members of sporting clubs signed up to compete. The race was on March 10, 1896, over the Olympic course, which ran from the bridge at Marathon to the new stadium in Athens. A dozen club members competed. Harilaos Vasilakos took first in 3:18, Spiridon Belokas, second, in 3:31, and Dimitrios Deliyannis, third, in 3:33. Two weeks later, on March 24, an open race was conducted over the same course. This time there were 38 entrants. They were apparently a hardier group than the club runners, for their times were significantly better. The open competition was a tribute to the Greeks' unabashed search for running talent wherever it could be found.

The winner of the open trials, a man listed as Lavrentis, ran the course in 3:11:27. Second place was taken by Ioannis Vrettos in 3:12:30, third by Eleftherios Papasimeon in 3:13:37, fourth by Elias Kafetzis in 3:15:50, and fifth by Spiridon (listed in some accounts as Spyros) Loues (Louis or Louys), a shepherd and water hauler, in 3:18:27.

All kinds of rewards were promised to the victor, should he be a Greek. Some hotelkeepers had pledged to give him free board and lodging, some for a fixed term of years, some for his whole lifetime. Tailors, barbers, hatters offered their services for nothing. Professionalism was already creeping into the Olympics, in the guise of national pride.

Spiridon Loues, the fifth-place finisher in the open marathon trials, had been urged to enter the event by his former commanding officer in the Greek First Infantry Regiment, Colonel Papadiamantopolous, who was a member of the Olympic Organizing Committee-and, incidentally, the man who fired the starting gun on that historic April afternoon. Papadiamantopolous recalled the frail-looking little soldier as having shown great spunk on forced marches. Loues was a 25-year-old, dark-haired Greek with a fashionable and impressive mustache. He spent the two nights before the race on his knees praying. On the day before the race he fasted.

Meet the Marathon Competitors Before Colone

l Papadiamantopolous fires his starting gun, and while the 70,000-seat stadium fills, and the surrounding hills and roadsides crowd with spectators, let's pause to examine the starting field-especially the four hardy foreigners who are attempting to deprive Greece of its finest moment in its own unique event in its own Olympic Games.

Three of the four invaders had placed first, second, and third three days earlier in the 1,500, but none of them had any previous experience at distances approaching the marathon. One of these three was Edwin Flack of Australia. After his 800-meter win the day before the marathon, Flack did not stay around for the victory ceremony, instead departing for Marathon where the long-distance competitors were to spend the night. At the time of the competition, he held the Australian record for the mile with a respectable time of 4:44, set in 1893. The other two were Arthur Blake of the United States, who was runner-up in the 1,500 meters, and probably as close to being a distance runner as any of the trio; and Albin Lermusiaux of France, who finished third in the 1,500 meters. He had little if any experience in long-distance running.

Of the foreigners, Gyula Kellner of Hungary was perhaps the best qualified to shake the confidence of the Greeks. He had run a 40-kilometer time trial in three hours in Budapest to qualify to come to the Olympic Games, specifically to run the marathon. Forty kilometers is about 24.4 miles, and his time for that distance made him theoretically the fastest man in the field at the marathon distance.

(An aside: Italy did not take part in the first Olympic Games. Had they done so, it is likely that the outcome of the marathon would have been different, for the Italians were then immersed in a distance-running craze. Most of the events were contested at 50 kilometers-well beyond the Athens marathon distance.)

"And They're Off"

Now back to the bridge at Marathon. The watches of the officials-and those of several hundred spectators and the medical personnel manning the "meatwagons" that will trail the field-are consulted. The 16 runners alternately paw the ground with their shoes, shake the tightness out of their arms, and glance nervously across the bridge, imagining what lies ahead of them on the road to Athens. Spiridon Loues does very little beyond look quietly down the road. He is ready. Colonel Papadiamantopolous raises his revolver solemnly, glances at the runners, and very professionally squeezes off the shot that is still being heard 'round the world hundreds of times each year.

The field is off in a rush, all running according to their adrenaline levels instead of their common sense. Within a few hundred yards, however, common sense takes over and the pace settles in.

Perhaps out of naivete, never having run the distance before, the Frenchman Lermusiaux takes a commanding lead, completely dominating the first half of the race. His pace has an effect on the field, and some of the starters drop out and are picked up and treated by the medical personnel on the meatwagons. The starter Papadiamantopolous has gone to horse and is leapfrogging ahead so he can give a report to the king when the leader arrives within striking distance of the stadium.

Along the roadside, Greeks from villages miles away line the course, pressing wine and pieces of food into the hands of any runner who feels the need for nourishment. At the halfway point, the order is Lermusiaux, Flack the Australian, and Blake of the United States. It looks like another bleak day for the host country, but that realization does not dampen the enthusiasm of the crowds.

When Lermusiaux runs through Karvati, the city in which an arch of triumph has been erected specifically for this event, he is so far ahead of the field and looks so confident that the townspeople push through the police line and place a victory wreath upon his head. Such confidence by the spectators does nothing to dampen Lermusiaux's pace, but this contagious enthusiasm will be his undoing.

Outside Karvati, the course climbs. The order remains Lermusiaux, Flack, Blake, followed by Hungary's Kellner, Lavrentis of Greece, and the diminutive Spiridon Loues. As they run through the village of Pikermi, Loues sips some wine and keeps on at his dogged pace, commenting to spectators that he will make his way to the front in his own good time. At 23 kilometers, the hills and the distance get to the American Blake, and he drops out of the race. Flack is now closing on Lermusiaux, and Harilaos Vasilakos, the winner of the Greek club trial marathon exactly one month before, moves into third. They hit another series of hills, and now Lermusiaux suddenly tires and veers off the side of the road, where his handler lowers him gently to the ground and begins administering an alcohol rubdown in hopes of reviving him.

This scene may be visualized as a painting by Goya. The exhausted Lermusiaux, no doubt suffering from cramps and dehydration, lies prostrate on the side of the road, his handler working on him as though ministering to the wounded, while Flack moves on past, intent on his own discomforts and troubles. Eventually the game Lermusiaux regains his feet. He seems actually to have been revived, because he runs well for another eight kilometers.

Spiridon Makes His Move

Meanwhile, Spiridon has passed Vasilakos. Not much later, at 32 kilometers, he catches the seemingly revived Lermusiaux and passes him. The move may have been the last straw, for Lermusiaux collapses and allows himself to be transported to the stadium by cart. A mere kilometer later, Loues moves around the faltering Flack into first place. The two race each other for some four kilometers, with Flack sticking to within 20 meters of Loues before the shepherd picks up the pace outside Ambelokipi. Finally, the pace and the strain of attempting to stay with Loues undoes Flack and he, too, collapses. That puts Kellner into second place and Vasilakos into third, with Belokas, a teenager, in fourth.

Papadiamantopolous, who has been forcing his horse to stay ahead of the field (for horses, having much more sense than humans, do not take easily or well to running 40 kilometers), waits at the Rizarios School outside of Athens. As Spiridon Loues runs past him, moving inexorably toward the stadium and glory, the colonel fires his pistol in excitement.

Covered with dust, Papadiamantopolous spurs his horse ahead, and they charge into the stadium, where the last track and field events had concluded well before the scheduled finish of the marathon. The crowd has been receiving periodic reports, but the last one they had received still had Lermusiaux enjoying a commanding lead.

Papadiamantopolous blurts out his news to the king, and the word spreads, causing wild excitement. As the tough little shepherd from Maroussi trots into the stadium covered with dust and sweat, weaving slightly, the murmurs turn to roars.

On receiving the news of Loues's lead, Prince George (all six feet, five inches of him) and Crown Prince Constantine had rushed to the entrance of the stadium. Now they run beside Loues to the finish line as the partisan crowd goes mad, thousands of hats filling the air. Loues crosses the finish line, then turns to his king and bows. The king waves his naval cap at Loues in salute.

Lasilakos enters the stadium more than seven minutes later, followed by Belokas within 30 seconds. Kellner, who finishes fourth, stops at the finish line to protest that Belokas had passed him by taking advantage of a carriage ride. Crown Prince Nicholas, hearing this, takes it upon himself to investigate the matter and finds that Belokas had indeed cheated. Belokas is summarily stripped of his honors, and third place is duly awarded to the Hungarian.

A National Hero is Crowned

Loues, who has finished the course in 2:58:50 (the first sub-3:00 marathon) is called before his king while the rest of the runners are finishing. The crowd continues to celebrate wildly. Following his formal congratulations from the king, the new Greek hero is embraced by several members of the Greek Olympic Committee and then humbly accepts the gifts offered to him.

The Games Come to a Close

On the seventh day of the games, King George throws a breakfast for all the competitors. Midway through the meal, he asks the Americans to repeat their B.A.A. cheer, which they do, to the amusement and delight of all. Later, out on the lawn, the king and crown prince play leapfrog with some of the athletes, and the Americans attempt to teach the royal family how to play baseball by using a stick and an orange. When Thomas Curtis strikes the orange, juice squirts all over the crown prince, who thinks it is quite a riot.

On the 10th day, the games are officially ended. The king presents each of the winners with a gold medal and an olive branch. Spiridon Loues also carries off with him the silver cup Michel Breal had offered as a special prize for the marathon, as well as another prize of an ancient Greek vase.

Following the games, King George asks Loues what he would like as a gift. Thinking but a moment, Loues asks for a horse and cart so that he can carry fresh water more conveniently from his village to Athens, a distance of some seven kilometers. It seems that his village has excellent, cool, clear water, which Athens is badly in need of. Every day, Loues was in the habit of making trips to Athens with his mule carrying barrels of fresh water. He would jog the seven kilometers to Athens and then ride the mule back to his village, once in the morning and once in the afternoon. The horse and cart will make the trip easier for him, for then he can ride both ways. By jogging from his village to Athens twice a day, Loues had stumbled upon the twice-a-day training method now used almost universally by world-class marathoners.

No fool in the way he trained, and no fool in his career moves, Loues retired from running following his Olympic victory and settled back into a quiet life in his village.

In 1936, Loues visited the Olympic Games in Berlin as a guest of Adolf Hitler. For all his wisdom in matters close to him, Loues was an innocent in world affairs. Until his death, he held the German fuehrer in awe and respect.

"Marathon 101" originally appeared in the inaugural issue of Marathon & Beyond , January 1997.
For information about reprinting or excerpting this article or any other M&B article, contact Jan Seeley via email or at 800-747-4457, ext. 2297.
Marathon & Beyond is the only bimonthly magazine for marathoners and ultrarunners.

About the Author: RICHARD BENYO was executive editor of Runner's World magazine from 1977 to 1984. He is a full-time writer with 16 books to his credit, all in the areas of fitness, health, and sports. He's run 37 marathons, and in 1989 he and running partner Tom Crawford became the first athletes in history to run from Badwater in Death Valley (the lowest point in the Western Hemisphere and the hottest and driest spot on earth) to the peak of Mt. Whitney (at 14,494 feet, the highest point in the contiguous United States) and back, a distance of 300 miles. Rich enjoyed the experience so much that he returned to the course in 1991 and 1992 but has since seen the error of his ways.

The drawings for this piece were created by artist DIANNA PORTER, who can be reached at 317/422-1244 or at 5651 West 350 North, Bargersville, IN 46106

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