Route of Desperation

by

Lauren Roberts

 

I love it!

The book to which I am referring—Bunion Derby: The 1928 Footrace Across America (University of New Mexico Press; $24.95) by Charles B. Kastner—is a brilliant, compelling, enthralling read about a piece of American history that has for the most part faded into the dust its participants no doubt kicked up. It is in one sense the story of the ultimate ultramarathon. But what takes Bunion Derby far above a mere adventure book is that it is about a remarkable and incredible slice of American history that has been—forgive me—nearly lost to history. And the reason for it can be summed up in one word: desperation. Though the man who organized it did so for promotional purposes and the media and Chambers of Commerce he solicited for attention and money were a big part of it, the men who actually ran it did so not for health, not for fun, not for publicity, not to challenge themselves and their bodies, but for the opportunity to win a new life for themselves and their families. It was an chance against impossible odds, but one that many of them had no other way of doing.

This forgotten piece of American history has been brought brilliantly brought to life in this story of the First Annual International Trans-continental Foot Race. It began in Los Angeles with 199 men. It ended in New York with 55 men. And in between those cities, on the 3,400 difficult miles that lay between them are stories of agony, of wishes and dreams that died at 8,000 feet in snow and hailstorms, that faltered and fell in the dry, dusty 95-degree heat of the Mojave Desert, that nearly met their end by lynching in small Texas towns, that collapsed from lack of promised support, that crumbled under the physical strain of the equivalent of two marathons a day for 84 days. These men, for they were all men, saw a chance to win something important. They took it. This is their story.

Today, marathons and even ultramarathons are common athletic events. Competiting in these events takes grit, determination, intensive training and a wholly focused mindset, but many people can and do compete in them. They are difficult, but not impossible. The marathoners have an enormous range of knowledge and equipment to call upon to aid them in achieving their goals including nutritional requirements, footwear research, training studies. But 80 years ago, it was much different.

The race resulted from an interesting confluence of events. American in 1928 was in the midst of prohibition and speakeasies, the Jazz Age was swinging, the stock market was rising. World War I was in the past and internal problems—racism, rural poverty, income inequality—were there but buried beneath other interests: sports mania, radios, cars. In that year, 26 million cars were on the roads, and more and better roads were needed.

The most famous of all roads, Route 66, was the brainstorm of Cyrus Sterns Avery, a prominent Oklahoma businessman. He was part of a group of state and federal highway officials appointed by the secretary of agriculture to look into the possibility of a comprehensive roadway system. In 1925, seventy-six thousand miles were approved. Avery then set about creating a road that benefited his hometown of Tulsa, 2,400 miles of what was named Route 66. It started in Chicago, meandered through the Midwest, including Tulsa, and ended near the Pacific Ocean in Santa Monica, California. It spanned two-thirds of the U.S., three time zones and eight states (Illinois, Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and California).

Though Route 66 achieve fame during its lifetime (and an enduring legacy after), it wasn’t much to see in the beginning. At its opening in 1926, only 800 of its miles were paved; the remaining were covered in dirt, gravel or bricks. It was barely 15 feet wide and often had no shoulder. The idea of making this puny (if lengthy) road the focus of a coast-to-coast run might have been ludicrous in any hands but that of the man behind the nicknamed Bunion Derby, Charles C. Pyle.

Pyle was a sports promoter, a man with flair enough to match his ego. He enticed football phenomenon, Harold “Red” Grange, to join him in a business venture that resulted in the formation of the American Football League that was bought out by the NFL. With their fortune secure, they looked for a new challenge—and it came via that “puny” road, Route 66.

Though the origin of the idea of the footrace is uncertain, it is known that at a Route 66 Highway Association dinner in 1927 told the gathered businessmen that the race “would promote the sale of everything . . . [and] turn the patchwork of gravel, dirt and paved roads into gold.” Pledges of support were promised by various Chambers of Commerce if Pyle brought the race through their towns.

With that backing, Pyle began to organize. He appointed himself and Grange as directors, and by the summer of 1927 began placing ads in newspapers and on billboards with notices of the astonishing prizes to be had by the winners: $25,000 for first place, $10,000 for second, $5,000 for third, $2,500 for fourth, and $1,000 each for fifth through tenth. The entry fee was set at $125 (with one hundred of that being refundable).

The race was set so that each day was a “stage race,” that is, it was a distinct distance run from one designated town to another. Though the racers would start together, they would travel at their own pace. The time for that day was added to a cumulative total. Every person had to finish by midnight, though anyone could stop at any point if he returned to his stop point the next day and finished that along with the current day’s distance.

Support was promised to the runners in the form of a travel locker, cot and space in a communal sleeping tent with beds, mattresses and portable hot showers. Breakfast and dinner would be provided and supervised by dietitians. Lunch would served on the road from a traveling truck. There would be a medical tent staffed with a physician, podiatrists, nurses and massage therapists. An expert shoe repair repairman was also part of the team. Moving this traveling team would take 25 trucks and 50 men. For himself, Grange and the race officials as well as the team of sports reporters he was leading, he had two specially built luxurious buses. Naturally, the cost was enormous (the two luxury buses alone cost $25,000 apiece), the equivalent of $3-$4 million in today’s dollars. Then, as today, commercial sponsors were brought in. But Pyle was still depending heavily on the various Chambers who had pledged up to $5,000 to have the race and an accompanying road show that included food concessions, vaudeville acts and sideshows come into their town.

But it was the racers who would be the stars even though most of them were unknown. Ads had run in newspapers and magazines around the world, and when the 199 competitors gathered in Los Angeles in early 1928, there were representatives of numerous countries, diverse economic groups, differing athletic abilities, a wide range of ages and various reasons. Among the men—for they were all men—were three running stars: white South African Arthur C. Newton, “Wee Willie” Kolehmainen, a member of a famous Finnish running dynasty, and American (but actually Jamaican-born) Phillip Granville, the world champion race walker.  

Among the unknowns was a man who was fairly well known in his hometown as the Shiek of Seattle. Edward Gardner was an African American whose parents had moved to the northwest from their home state of Alabama. He returned to Alabama to enroll as a student in Tuskegee Institute. During his free time, he began running, and discovered he had a talent for it. Once home in Seattle, he started competing in races. With his outfit of choice—white sleeveless shirt, white shorts and white towel around his head that flowed behind him as he ran—he gained his nickname and was soon a familiar sight on the roads. His talent earned him the support of the editors of the black newspaper, the California Eagle, and they in turn brought other members of the black community forward to help support his run.

Out of the 199 men who started the race, there were five African Americans. Gardner was one. Fifteen-year-old Toby Joseph Cotton Jr. (“T Joseph”) was another. A ninth grader at McKinley High School in Los Angeles, Cotton wanted to help his struggling family. The $25,000 prize would do just that. When he father couldn’t dissuade him from the attempt, he and Toby’s two younger brothers formed a plan to follow him across the country in their old Ford, providing food and water.

One other runner is of notable interest—Andrew Hartley Payne, a native of Oklahoma who was one-eighth Cherokee Indian. Like most of the other entrants, he decided to enter the race for the prize money. He had been a top member of the track team in school, and when he learned about the derby he persuaded the local Chamber of Commerce to pay his entry fee. He arrived in Los Angeles several months before the start of the event, and attracted the ey of a high school track coach who determined to support him through the entire race.

From all over the world they came—young, old, professional, amateur, well-trained, unqualified, rich, poor, some with support teams and others entirely on their own. One wanted to launch an acting career, some represented towns or organizations, some saw it as an adventure. But they all came based on promises by Pyle—promises that were not necessarily fulfilled.

On Sunday, March 4, the 199 men (out of 275) who had survived Pyle’s required three-week conditioning program lined up. It must have been an unusual site. Every man wore a bib with his number on it, but that was their only common attire. Clothes ranged from tracksuits to street clothes and flannel shirts; some wore running shoes while others wore logger boots, moccasins and a few even went barefoot.

At 3:00 p.m. the firecracker that heralded the start of the race sounded. Though they left in groups, no one jostled for the front or made a false start. It was an endurance run and as such required pacing through the next 83 days.

Still, there were times especially in the first half of the race when determination won out over common sense. That first day the Finnish runner, Wee Willie, had run the initial leg of 17 miles at an astonishing six minutes a mile. It was not a pace that could be sustained.

Day two brought an unwelcome cold rain. Many were still sore from their first day, and the mileage this day would be twice as long. The Finn again led the field at an under-seven-minutes-a-mile pace forcing Gardner who tried to keep up to expend energy he couldn’t afford. Others recognized that a middle-of-the-pack pace was key, and with few exceptions in the early days they kept to it.

Still, the difficulties of the distance took their tool. Day three brought only 183 men to the line. And on this day they were going to head into their first real challenge—Cajon Pass in the San Bernardino mountains. Twenty miles, 4,200 feet of height and a descent of 1,500 feet wiped out 16 more men.

Day four took the men from the 2,700-foot level where they had been subject to freezing air and would now enter the outskirts of the Mojave Desert where hot, dry winds would punish their bodies. It was on this stretch that the leaders paid the price for their pride. Wee Willie was the first to drop out, but he was not the only one. And Gardner and a few more of the moderately paced runners now moved into the lead. 

As the race moved into the 161 miles of the Mojave Desert, where Route 66 was no more than dust, severe sunburns and blisters plagued them. The dropout rate soared. But the runners were not the only ones leaving the event. The money that Pyle needed to sustain the event was not in this area of the race, and the penny pinching and unhappiness began. A concessionaire dropped out. Pyle gave up the idea and soon began supplying meager allowances to the runners so they could find their own meals. It may have worked out for those with money and support behind them, but so many of the men had little or no support that the race was becoming a matter of personal survival.

In looking at the map of the race (though it only shows the Route 66 part from Santa Monica to Chicago), it shows the extremes of temperatures and country that the men had to face. It was an extreme on both ends—the heat of the Mojave and the icy, howling winds of the Black Mountains in Arizona. By day thirteen, only 102 men remained to take on a 45-mile day that would have them climb 1,700 feet to the town of Williams at 6,762 feet. (It was not the higest point of the race course, though; that was to come the next day at Fortynine Hill, 7,420 feet above sea level.)

Two weeks into the 84-day race, and it was, alas, was turning out to be as unlike Pyle’s original plans as possible. Money became an issue. The promises of support didn’t fall through so much as they fell down. Unwashed blankets on the beds and unwashed clothes, a sleeping tent that offered no protection against harsh weather, the majority of runners who had only themselves to depend on for their needs, ugly racism that became a nasty reality for the African American runners with real threats of lynching, and every day more miles to run.

It must have seemed endless, even crazy to the runners. Yet as the days grew into weeks and then into months the diminishing survivors grew into their routine. And there were many kindnesses along the way from people of the towns they passed through. But it was hard; they endured misery and pain that few could match. They gave up families and lives for those months for the chance to earn them an opportunity that they might not find elsewhere. Ever single runner gave it his all regardless of how long he lasted. Some lost what they had spent on the entry fee and for supplies. Only a couple gained anything financially substantial. Yet every runner in that race took home a “thousand memories.”

What made Bunion Derby an outstanding read for me is twofold: it is about a piece of American history that is today almost unknown. One web site has a fascinating history of it, and there have been a few articles here and there, but for the most part it has disappeared from written history. Why? There is so much that it represents—the character and strength that was an American virtue; the opportunistic hucksterism that defined this country; individuals conquering extraordinary physical and emotional difficulties, petty jealousies, cheating, political and financial agendas, and creating for themselves a personal challenge that each—whether he dropped out or completed the race—in his own way won. This is one of those books that should be discovered by every reader who appreciates solid research, writing worth reading and a fantastic story. How many ways can I say that it is one every reader of BiblioBuffet should pick up as soon as possible. Bunion Derby has my highest recommendation.


Almost since her childhood days of Mother Goose, Lauren has been giving her opinion on books to anyone who will listen. That “talent” eventually took her out of magazine writing and into book reviewing in 2000 for an online review site where she cut her teeth (as well as a few authors). Stints as book editor for her local newspaper and contributing editor to Booklist and Bookmarks magazines has reinforced her belief that she has interesting things to say about books. Lauren shares her home with several significant others including three cats, nearly 1,000 bookmarks and approximately 1,200 books that, whether previously read or not, constitute her to-be-read stack. She is a member of the National Books Critics Circle (NBCC) and Book Publicists of Southern California as well as a longtime book design judge for Publishers Marketing Association’s Benjamin Franklin Awards. You can reach her at l This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it