1922 was the year in which a 20-ton meteorite landed in Blackstone, Virginia, USA; the Union of Socialist Soviet Republics was formed (Russia, Ukraine, Belarus, Transcaucasia); and British archaeologists found the entrance to King Tutankhamen's tomb in the Valley of the Kings, Egypt.
And it was the same year that the soon-to-be legendary runner, Arthur Newton, stumbled on the scene. It was an “up” run from Durban to Pietermaritzburg and Newton’s first race. He would go on to win the race in a time of 8.40 and thereafter a further 5 times (with a PB of 6.40) and set the standard for ultra marathons using high volume and slow speed training.

Bu the classic story of the year must go to a Springbok rugby player who took part in the event. Bill Payn, hosting Newton the evening before the race, was persuaded to enter after a number of stiff drinks. He arrived at the start wearing his rugby boots. Bearing in mind that the roads weren’t tarred, this isn’t as psychotic as it would be nowadays with paved road a-plenty.

Here is what happened on the day in Bill Payn’s own words:

On a bleak May morning I toe'd the line at the start when some civic dignitary fired a pistol and then very sensibly buggared off back to his warm bed. When the shot rent the air, off we sped - like a crowd of Armenian refugees fleeing from the wrath of the Turkish army. Shall I ever forget that infernal run. It was not very long before I realised that I was prey to an all consuming thirst, so clamant indeed, that I could not refuse any man who offered me a drink.

At Hillcrest my feet were giving me so much pain that I took off my rugby boots and found a mass of blisters had formed on the soles of both feet, some kind follower provided me with brilliantine with which I anointed my feet and then repaired to the hotel for a huge plate of bacon and eggs. This done and much refreshed I ran up Botha's Hill where at the top I found a friend ("Zulu" Wade who would not complete the race) who was also taking part, but he was in a very bad state so we sat down next to the road and exchanged notes and took stock of ourselves and the situation we were in. I fear that we did not move with the freedom of young athletes but rather resembled two old ducks, suffering from some distressing gynaecological disorder.

Fortunately at that stage my friend's supporter arrived on the scene with a wicker basket which contained a delicious curried chicken set on a huge bed of rice. This we shared equally and then set off together in happy companionship for Drummond and here we bent our steps to a pleasant oasis - the pub - where I lined a dozen beers up on the counter determined not so much to celebrate a victory but rather to drown our sorrows. Whilst we were busy at this, one of the camp followers arrived on the scene and urged us both to continue as there were only five runners in front of us. My friend could not continue so I set off alone for Pietermaritzburg.

Somewhere along Harrison Flats I noticed a frail little woman with pink cheeks standing at the side of the road. She held up in one hand a bottle and in the other a glass. I stopped, and with old world courtesy bowed low saying `Madame your servant to command'. `Tis peach brandy', she volunteered, `and I made it myself'. I gulped down a full tumbler of this home-made brew and in a second realised that I had swallowed a near-lethal dose of the rawest liquid I had ever tasted. I am still convinced that to this charming little woman must go full credit for inventing the first liquid fuel for jet engines. Fortunately I was facing Maritzburg and I was propelled along the way. I was too far gone in my cups even to ponder on whether this assistance did not breach the prescribed laws of amateur marathon running.

On the outskirts of Pietermaritzburg I was hailed by wife's family who were taking tea on the veranda. I went off the road and joined them in their tea and cakes. While we were thus happily engaged, two of my `hated' rivals went past and so it was that I ended the course number eight. In the changing rooms I discovered that the soles of my feet were now two huge pads of blood blisters. My brother-in-law then arrived and he had the uncanny insight to my most immediate needs, for he gave me a bottle of champagne, for which I was most grateful.

Shortly thereafter a rugby friend arrived and chided me as to whether I had forgotten that I was due to play a first league rugby match the next day and that our team needed me. Cadging a lift on the back of his motorbike we went back down to Durban and on the following day I played full back in a pair of old `tackies' (tennis shoes).”

Arthur Newton, that year’s winner and Bill's drinking buddy, vouched for Bill’s account of the story. Pretty amazing stuff.

I’m taking Wimpy money with me just in case,

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