them with a vengeance. As we turned into the back stretch they were confident that I could hang on to them regardless of their speed and with this thought in their minds they tore down the back stretch and around the turn at a rate of speed that must have given the crowd a rare thrill.
After the most furious efforts ever seen in pace-racing, we succeeded in closing the big gap gained by Michaels at the getaway. We were on even terms crossing the tape at the end of the first torrid lap, when fresh teams picked us up with desperate though marvelous accuracy, because in changing pace from one machine to another the slightest possible miscue means certain defeat. Michaels and I were both struggling for dear life to hold on to our big machines as the pace was waxing hotter and hotter with every turn of the pedals. Being obliged to fight around on the outside of the track for the entire distance, the heart-breaking speed was now beginning to have its affect on me.
Immediately after I had changed over to my fastest pacing team steered by Austin Crooks with Allie Newhouse coaching on the rear seat, this team having been held in reserve to cover that last feverish lap, I felt my strength ebbing very fast. It was just as I was turning into the last lap and despite my utmost effort the rear wheel of my big quintet was getting away from me, inch by inch. My pace-makers were straining every muscle and fiber in their well-trained legs and were pedalling with perfect rhythm, apparently satisfied that I could take all the speed that they could give me. At this tense moment when we were in the back stretch of the last lap, Michaels was slightly ahead, although our elbows were almost touching, and we were racing neck and neck.
Our coachers on the rear ‘seats of the big pacing machines were shrieking frantically, “C’mon, C’mon.” It now seemed only a question of which of us would be shaken off first, and it really seemed that it would be me, for at this point in the race I was more than a yard off the rear wheel of my quintet after having failed in my last super-effort to regain it. In another fraction of a second I would have been defeated and badly crushed, but at this point the unexpected happened.
Michaels, who was now leading by more than two yards, could withstand the great strain no longer. He yelled frantically to his coach, “Steady, Steady” which was synonymous for “Slow, Slow.” When I heard Michaels’ cry “Steady, Steady” to his pacemakers I could scarcely believe my ears. That proved to be the psychological turning point of that race, the one I now consider my greatest achievement.
Michaels’ urgent plea of “Steady, Steady” sounded his death knell
