BRITISH COMICS
THE TOUGH
OF THE TRACK
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THE BLIZZARD AT BRIDGELY Snow had been drifting down lightly at the start of the Three Counties
cross-country race at Bridgely, but soon after the runners had completed a
couple of laps, the wind rose, the snow thickened, and Alf Tupper, the Tough
of the Track, lost sight of Harden-Hughes, who was leading the field. Alf
plodded on. The wind howled and a line of spruce trees bent over in the gusts. It
was impossible to see for more than a few yards. “Lummy,” muttered Alf
grimly, “this is a nice afternoon out!” He reached a ditch and only after a
search found the plank that spanned the icy water. Through the driving snow
he located a Dutch barn that showed him he was still on his course. Alf
shivered and ran past the barn. Running was his sport. In the summer months
he had had a successful season on the track. He couldn’t bear the idea of
laying off during the winter, so he had taken up cross-country running. He
lived in Greystone, a large manufacturing town, and was plumber’s mate to
Charlie Chipping. The Tough made out a windmill that gave him his bearings.
He battled his way over the summit and found the going a bit easier down the
slope. But it required a search to find a way into the sunken lane that led
back towards the Bridgely village, the finishing point. Already the snow was
forming drifts and Alf ran into a patch in which he sunk up to his knees. He
forged through and trudged on. He was plastered with snow. It lay thick in
his shaggy hair. Through another drift he emerged from the lane. Now he was
facing north-east and full into the wind. He had to keep his head right down
to breathe. An oak tree gave him his bearings and then, out of the blizzard,
came the shape of |
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This first
episode (Third Series) of: The Tough of the Track Is taken from The Rover #1331 |
Alf
raised a grin. “Don’t make me cry.” He said. “I’d sooner have a cuppa tea than
a box of medals.” “We can give you a cup of tea,” replied Farr. Alf thawed out
a bit by the stove and got out of his sodden running togs. He dressed in shirt,
trousers, sports jacket, and boots. He never wore under-vest, pull-over, or
socks. Round his neck he tied a muffler and then he put his prized rain-coat,
that he only wore on rare occasions. He wrapped up his running things and shoes
in a piece of brown paper and was ready to go. It took the bus two hours to
cover a distance that ordinarily would have required half an hour. Alf’s feet
were cold but he did not keep sniffing and sneezing like many of the other
athletes in the vehicle. Harden-Hughes, muffled up in a thick overcoat, sat
next to Alf. “What are you shaking for, Noel?” the Tough asked. “I’m frozen to
the marrow,” replied Harden-Hughes, his teeth chattering. “I’ll get in a hot
bath as soon as I get home and then go to bed.” When the bus put down its
passengers at Greystone, Alf made for the small café kept by Sam Kessick near
the railway viaduct. The café was suffocatingly hot but Alf sniffed
appreciatively at the aroma of boiling fat and fried fish and chips. “Six
penn’orth of chips and a piece, Sam,” he said. Kessick stared at him from his
one bright eye. “You ain’t been running this afternoon?” he exclaimed. “I’m
about the only one who did,” grunted Alf. “I can’t make some chaps out. Just
because it started snowing a bit they packed up.” Alf enjoyed his fish and
chips and swilled them down with a couple of cups of tea. “That’s better,” he
said to Kessick. “I’ll be off home now.” Snow plastered him again by the time
he reached the disused canal basin in which lay a derelict canal boat. He
sprang aboard and hauled open the creaking door of the cabin, roofed now with a
sheet of corrugated iron. He lit a candle and pulled open the damper of the
stove. He never lacked for fuel. There was plenty of coal to be excavated from
the mud, as coal barges had at one time been unloaded at the wharf. Alf sat on
the edge of the bunk to take off his boots. “It ain’t been a bad day out,” he
muttered. “Just the same, there ain’t the thrill in cross-country running that
you get on the track—not for me, anyway.”
PIPES TO MEND
Snow lay thickly around but the sky was clear and frosty when Alf pushed
open the door of Charlie Chipping’s shop on Monday morning. The room was
crammed with such objects as cisterns and galvanized iron tanks. With his
bowler hat on the back of his head, Chipping was taking a message on the phone.
He had the kind of moustache usually seen on the face of a walrus and, because
of the cold, a ripe, red nose.
He
hung up the phone and greeted Alf with a nod. “That’s the tenth,” he said. “The
tenth what?” asked Alf. “The tenth burst pipe to be reported this morning,”
stated the plumber. Alf started to collect the tools and Chipping filled the containers
of their blow-lamps. “So your race was abandoned on Saturday,” he remarked.
“Ay,” grunted Alf. “It was a blooming frost!” Chipping who had done some
running in his younger days, put down the petrol can. “Is this cross-country
racing doing you any good, Alf?” he demanded. “You’re a track man. You had a
champion season during the summer, ain’t you backing the wrong hoss in tackling
these cross-country races?” “I’d be bored stiff without a bit of racing,
Charlie,” replied Alf. “That ain’t the point,” retorted the plumber. “That’s a
short-sighted way of looking at things. When I was a young ‘un, our trainer was
Tom Woods. You wouldn’t know him now, but he was right on top of his job—did it
as a hobby, of course. Well, Tom always used to tell us that runs, but not
races, across country were to be recommended for keeping fit. He was dead
against a track man racing in the winter.” Alf listened intently. “He was up against racing, was he?” he
muttered. “Right up against it,” said Chipping. “Have a run in the country,
yes, he used to tell us. Race across country, no he’d say.” The phone rang and
Chipping answered the call. He hung up the receiver. “The lady at
ALF AFLOAT
With thaw and frost alternating, Alf and Chipping spent some busy days.
In mid-week the thaw won. The snow melted so fast that the streets were awash
and then came a deluge of rain. On Wednesday evening, as he stood in his
doorway and looked at the rain, Chipping remarked, “You won’t!” “What?” asked
Alf. “Run at Kempley on Saturday,” said the plumber.
“The
fields are low-lying. They’ll be flooded. “It’ll be a wasted week-end if I
don’t have a race,” replied Alf dolefully. “Then you’re not minding what I told
you?” exclaimed the plumber. “Oh, I guess maybe I’ll cut the cross-country
races out later,” Alf said, but he had an uncomfortable feeling that Chipping
was right and that these ten miles cross-country races and the training for
them, were not suitable for a track man. Alf was sopping wet when he got to his
canal boat home. He let his clothes dry on him in front of the stove and fried
himself some sausages for his supper. As he had no wireless to listen to, or
anything to read, he turned early into the bunk, sleeping in his shirt under a
couple of blankets. Daylight was filtering in when he woke up, stretched and
yawned. Then he jerked up on his elbow. He could hear the lapping of water, he
could hear creaks. He felt the old craft was moving. Alf thrust his legs out of
the bunk and uttered a yell of surprise when he found he was nearly knee-deep
in water. He waded to the door and hauled it open. “Lummy,” he gasped. “I’m off
for a cruise.” It was no doubt the rapid thaw and the deluge that had filled
the basin had lifted the boat off the mud in which it had rested for so long.
While Alf had been asleep it had drifted to the middle of the basin, twenty or
thirty yards away from the wharf. Alf scrambled out. He looked towards the bow
and saw it was under water. “I’m sinking,” he muttered. “The old hooker’s
sinking—and I’ll go with it unless somebody comes along pretty sharp.” But
warehouses backed on the wharf and the only moving thing was a dog. Alf plunged
back into the cabin. His idea was to salvage his belongings. He rammed his
clothes, after putting on his trousers and overalls, into his fibre suitcase
and lifted it onto the roof of the cabin. He fetched out the biscuit barrel,
won as a prize for running, in which he kept his bit of margarine and lard, and
the mug he used for his tea. The only other trophy of the track he could get at
was a cruet. Alf climbed up on to the roof and crouched there while the canal
boat sank lower and lower. There was a small boat tied up to the wharf but
nobody in sight to man it and row to his rescue. He hollered but there was no
reply. The Tough could swim, but not well. But it looked as if he were not
going to get any option. In case the necessity came, he knotted his bootlaces
together, tying the biscuit barrel and the cruet to them, and hung his boots round
his neck. Alf could hear the distant roar of traffic, but for all the help he
got, he might have been sinking in the middle of the Pacific. The boat sank
till water started to creep across the roof of the cabin. Alf took a deep
breath and slid into the freezing water. Pushing the suitcase ahead of him he
struck out clumsily for the wharf. It was his toughness that enabled him to
resist the cold and to keep going, but by the time he reached the steps and
climbed out, he could not have stood much more. His limbs were blue with cold
and his teeth were chattering. The wind howled round him as, with water
dripping from his soaked clothes, he hurried to the plumber’s. The first thing
he saw was a note for him on the mantelpiece. Chipping had written— “Follow me
along to Granton Hall with the hand-cart. I’ve had to go off without you as the
warden wants to see me.” “You’ll have to wait a bit, Charlie,” muttered Alf as,
with shaking hands, he struck a match and lit the gas fire. “I’m going to dry
out a bit, and have a cuppa tea and a bite, before I start work.” When, in due
course, Alf pushed the hand-cart up the drive of Granton Hall, Chipping came to
meet him. “What’s been keeping you, Alf?” he asked. “My home sweet home got
sunk this morning,” said Alf, and described what had happened. “That was a bit
of bad luck,” exclaimed the plumber. “You’ll have to go into lodgings.” “Not if
I can blooming well help it,” declared the Tough. “I don’t get on with
landladies. But what’s the job here, Charlie?” “There are lots of jobs to do,”
Chipping answered. “They all come about through the big building at the back of
the house, that used to be a gymnasium, being turned into an indoor sports
arena with track and everything.” Alf blinked. “An indoor arena with track!” he
gasped. “We’re going round there now,” stated the plumber. “Our job is down the
cellars, but there’s nobody to stop you having a look-see.” Alf took the
hand-cart along at a gallop. At the rear of the house loomed the large
structure that had been built originally as a private theatre and subsequently
turned into a gymnasium. Now, apparently it was undergoing another conversion.
The doors were open and Alf walked in. He slithered to a stop and his eyes open
wide at the sight of the running-track, banked on the curves, that had been
constructed round the interior of the building. It had a composition surface
such as used on the best outdoor tracks but, inside it, was a smaller wooden
track. At one end of the building was a balcony backed by a number of glass-fronted
cubicles. A hugh clock had an unusual face—with three hands, one for minutes,
one for seconds, and the third for recording tenths of a second. Metal
standards that were topped by what looked like box-aerials stood at regular
intervals round the track. Within the oval there was a jumping pit with other
equipment of which Alf could not get the hang at all. “Lummy, Charlie, it looks
as if the lucky blighters are going to get in some winter track practice here,”
exclaimed Alf, his eyes gleaming. “Maybe this explains it,” said the plumber.
“Explains what?” asked Alf. “Why Cal Marrow, Frank Ferris, and the other
top-notchers are in the town,” said Chipping. “They’re here to keep themselves
in trim during the winter.” “Ay, that would be it,” replied Alf. “Gee, but
don’t that track look like a dream! D’you say we’re coming up here quite a
lot?” “Yes, and that reminds me, we ought to be down in the cellar connecting
up the heating apparatus,” Chipping said. “Okay, I’ll come along,” said Alf.
“But I’m having a run round that track before I’m much older.” “I don’t see
that there’ll be anyone to stop you so long as you pick your time,” replied
Chipping.
THE GRANTON HALL TRACK
Alf and Chipping had not guessed right when they thought the indoor
arena was merely for winter training. That afternoon quite a number of
newspaper reporters visited Granton Hall by invitation, and assembled in the
main hall of the house.
The
Warden of the centre, Commander Harold Churcher, who was a former Olympics
relay runner, came in. He was accompanied by a middle-aged man with a shock of
unruly grey hair and a thin, precise-looking individual who wore rimless
glasses. Then several athletes wearing the ties and badges of some of the most
famous clubs in the world, entered and formed a group at the side. There were
whispers among the reporters. They had recognised the man as Professor Hugo
Dane and Professor Lee-Latham, two eminent scientists. Commander Churcher was
the spokesman. “We have brought you here to give an outline of important, not to
say vital, experiments that are to be carried out at Granton Hall during the
coming months,” he stated. “These experiments will form the first real
scientific inquiry into athletics, and we hope at the end to be able to answer
many questions that are baffling us at the moment. We shall be concerned with
tests of human endurance, of human speed, with problems of stamina, of diet,
and breathing, to mention but a few.” He paused for a moment while the
reporters made notes. “We hope to learn a great deal,” but then he went on.
“More than that, our experiments may well lead to greater athletic performances
in the future. We have constructed an indoor sports arena in which we shall be
able to make our tests under perfect conditions and with the help of the most-up-to-date
apparatus. It will, for instance, be possible to measure and record the speed
of a runner at any point in a race. It will be equally possible to record the
exhaustion he is feeling. It will be possible to establish the rate of movement
that best suits a man. We also anticipate some extraordinary results from
artificial pacing.” “You’re making a real science of running, then?” exclaimed
a sporting journalist. “Yes, this will be a laboratory for athletes,” chuckled
Commander Churcher. “Professor Hugo Dane and Professor Lee-Latham will be
resident here for most of the time, and we shall have the help of some of the
outstanding athletes of
ALF TRIES THE TRACK
On the following
morning Cal Marrow strode round the track. He was running the mile and the
scientists watched his progress on the instruments. As he completed the eight
laps and flashed over the timing strip, the clock recorded four minutes ten
seconds. Lee-Latham pointed to the graph.
“It is a splendid piece of
running!” he exclaimed. “You will note that the first quarter-mile was a shade
the fastest, that he then had two even quarters and, thanks to his finishing
spurt, clipped a tenth of a second off the final lap. It was a rhythmic, even
effort—” “The only way to run a race is evenly,” said Hugo Dane in his gruff
voice. “The runner who goes in fits and starts will never set up a good time.”
The indoor arena emptied as the scientists and runners went away to their
lunch. Hardly had the outer door closed than up popped Alf from the cellar
followed by Chipping. He took off his plumber’s clothing and threw it over a
barrier. He was wearing his running kit underneath. “What are you going to have
a go at?” asked Chipping. “The mile, pal,” said Alf. “Here! Let me start the
clock. I watched how he done it,” exclaimed Chipping. “Okay,” replied Alf.
Chipping pulled down the master switch. A few moments later the Tough sped away
over the starting strip. After the rough, wet, sticky going of cross-country
running, it felt grand to have a fast, springy track under his feet again.
Chipping watched Alf and he kept an eye on the clock. “Buck your ideas up,
Alf,” he shouted after the Tough had run a quarter of a mile. Alf was warm now.
He had been working in the cold cellar all morning and had started rather
chilly and cramped. He went hard for the next 440 yards. On going into the next
lap he felt a twinge in the calf of his right leg. It slowed him right down. It
was just a touch of cramp and it went as suddenly as it came. With a quarter of
a mile to go, the Tough glanced up at the clock. “Lummy, have I been standing
still?” he thought and whipped himself into a tremendous burst of speed.
Chipping shook his head. “He won’t keep this up,” he growled, but Alf did and
the clock was on four minutes seven and a half seconds as he finished with a
spurt that took all his wind and left him tucked up and panting. Chipping shut
the master switch and the clock hands returned to zero. In the middle of the
afternoon Commander Churcher and the two scientists returned to the indoor
arena to prepare for some more running. They climbed the steps to the balcony
and entered the cubicle. “I was very impressed by the even nature of Marrow’s
running,” remarked Dane. “He showed a fine sense of the pace judgment essential
for running a fast mile and—” An astonished cry broke from Lee-Latham. “Look at
this!” he exclaimed, and peered at the speedograph. “What’s happened? It has
recorded a mile in under four minutes eight seconds. “It looks more like a
record of an earthquake,” gasped Dane, as he studied the erratic line. The
quarter-mile timings at which they stared indicated a sluggish first quarter, a
lightning second, a slow third, and a jet-propelled final. “It’s all wrong,”
declared Le-Latham. “Nobody could run such a mile.” “No, no, it’s impossible,”
agreed Dane. “The apparatus must have been left on and something shook the
instrument and caused it to revolve.” “Yes, that’s what happened,” said
Lee-Latham. “All our athletes were at lunch. Nobody has been having a private
trial. We had better check up on the instruments before we start the
afternoon’s programme—” Dane turned his head in a listening attitude. “D’you
hear hammering, Churcher?” he asked. “Can you hear a clanking sound?” Churcher
nodded lightly. “The plumbers are working in the cellar,” he said. “That’s all
it is.” “That may explain it,” said Lee-Latham. “Their knockings may have
started off the speedograph.” “Quite likely,” agreed Dane. He gave a gruff
laugh. “We’ll blame it on the plumber.”
The
Tough of the Track (1st series)
32 episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1244 - 1275
The
Tough of the Track (2nd series)
30 episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1295 - 1324
The
Tough of the Track (3rd series) 10
episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1331 - 1340
The
Tough of the Track (4th series) 12
episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1350 - 1361
The
Tough of the Track (5th series) 20
episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1404 - 1423
The
Tough of the Track (6th series) 22
episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1434 - 1455
The
Tough of the Track (7th series) 13
episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1460 - 1472
The
Tough of the Track (8th series)
22 episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1503 - 1524
He’s in
the Army Now (9th series) 31 episodes
appeared in The Rover issues 1543 - 1573
The
Tough of the Track (10th series)
22 episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1646 – 1667
© D. C. Thomson & Co Ltd
Vic Whittle 2005
