A race for the championship of the world

On a late September afternoon in 1844, a large and noisy crowd gathered on the turnpike road in Hammersmith, then just outside London, close to the Seven Stars Inn. They were a motley crew that spanned the social spectrum and many had travelled great distances to be there, arriving from as far afield as Newcastle and Durham in the hope of witnessing one of the most eagerly awaited races in the history of sprinting.

As more and more people joined the throng, the out-of-towners jostled with day-tripping Londoners and hundreds of locals to maintain a decent vantage point close to a roped-off stretch of the turnpike 100 yards long, and by 2pm thousands of spectators were lined up on either side. Latecomers were still arriving, pressing at the backs of a mass of people already several ranks deep, when suddenly, a wave of excitement swept the crowd. At last, the two famous men they were there to see were making their way onto the road.

In spite of the feverish mood of the spectators, the figures that so gripped their attention were not royal personages, victorious war heroes, nor even local dignitaries out on parade; they were ordinary, untitled working-class men who, until recently, had lived lives of almost prefect obscurity. Now though, they were box office, pulling huge crowds for one simple reason: they were widely believed to be the fastest men on Earth. And that afternoon in Hammersmith, they would face-off at last in a sprint showdown to decide which of them would claim the title of Champion of England and de facto Champion of the World.[1]

The contenders

Added to the huge sporting interest in seeing these two great runners compete head-to-head for the first time was the extra and unusual spice of international rivalry, the competitors being the cream of English and American sprinters. England was represented by the reigning champion, William Robinson, who gloried in the nickname ‘The Wonder of the World’. He was a tall, ‘beautifully muscular’ and flamboyant man with a long list of victories to his name at distances up to a quarter mile, and was widely considered the fastest sprinter in a sports-mad country.

Robinson was brash and confident, and was hot favourite to defend his title that day. His American rival was George Seward, rather less gloriously known as the ‘Cockfield Putter’. Having dispatched all opponents in America, he had arrived in Britain just over a year earlier, and had since put together a string of impressive victories to earn himself the status of Robinson’s number one challenger. Modest and thoughtful in temperament, Seward was also the smaller man at 5 foot 7 inches, but cut an impressive figure all the same. He was powerfully built and good-looking, and, reported one journalist, a ‘particularly fine made young man.’        

At the allotted time, the two rivals presented themselves to the crowd. Robinson made his entrance with the showmanship of a modern champion boxer, jumping down from a carriage pulled by four horses in his trademark blue racing costume. As he strutted onto the makeshift course in front of the cheering, patriotic crowd a bugler played his theme music: ‘see the conquering hero comes!’.

Next came Seward. Quietly and without fanfare but oozing calm confidence, he walked across the road to join Robinson, accompanied by just a single supporter. Despite his low-key entrance, something about Seward’s composure and powerful physique seemed to spook the betting men in the crowd, and the odds swung wildly in his favour. In fact, those who wanted to place a last minute wager on Seward now struggled to find someone willing to bet against them.

A race for the ages

Amidst the noise and excitement, the runners met at the ‘scratch’ or start line, and made their final preparations. This could be a delicate moment. The competitors were standing close to the jumpy, partisan crowd and there was always a risk of the runners suffering verbal or even physical abuse. At other races of the era, clearers were paid to keep people off the course, and often got into fights with rowdy spectators. Fortunately, this time things remained civil, and at the bidding of the referee, the runners moved forward to take up their starting positions.

The crowd waited anxiously for the off – but not for the sound of a gun or even a shout of ‘go!’. At this time, sprint races were begun by a method called ‘mutual consent’, whereby the runners tried to coordinate a fair start between themselves, leaving the line perfectly together. If one felt their rival had stolen a march unfairly they could call ‘false start!’ and try again.

This seems a strange way of starting a race now that we are accustomed to the idea of someone playing the role of neutral starter, but it meant a contest would only begin when both runners were satisfied, reducing the risk of disputes later on in a time before action replays and pressure sensitive blocks could be relied on to produce an objective judgement. The downside was, of course, that there were often many false starts before both runners were satisfied, and in this case it took nearly a dozen attempts before the race began in earnest.   

When they were finally away, Robinson and Seward shot down the tunnel of noise created by the roaring crowd neck-and-neck and at startling speed. They were clearly very closely matched, and for 60 yards nothing could separate them. But suddenly, Seward seemed to find another gear, and in the space of a few powerful strides he edged clear. Robinson looked to respond, but could only succeed in preventing the deficit from growing further. Seward hung on to claim the win by about two yards, and with it the championship of England as well as the £50 stake of his vanquished opponent (equivalent to around £3,000 today).

Record breaker

The race had looked fast. Very fast. And amidst the cheering of the crowd, the attention of the sporting connoisseurs who were present quickly turned to the timekeepers. After a few moments, the referee made the unprecedented announcement: The 100 yards had, for the first time ever, been run in under 10 seconds. It was the fastest race in the history of sprinting.

Even more remarkable, a famous professional runner in attendance with his own expensive sportsman’s chronograph that was accurate to a quarter of second, announced that he had clocked Seward at a staggering nine and a quarter seconds.[2] It was so fast the journalist who covered the race for Bell’s Life in London couldn’t help but put it in italics and give it an exclamation mark in his report. Indeed, the time would not be bettered for more than a century.

Seward collected his winnings and left London for Durham a few days later, where an artist was waiting to paint the new champion’s portrait. He soon replaced his uninspiring nickname – the Cockfield Putter – with something altogether grander and more in keeping with his newfound athletic prestige: Henceforth, he would be known as ‘The American Wonder’, and would tour Britain and United States under his new alias, racking up many more victories. His performance in Hammersmith though, would live longest in the memory, both for those who witnessed it and for the wider sporting public. It was still being remembered and discussed in the British and American press more than fifty years later.[3]

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Running as spectacle

George Seward’s famous win over William Robinson almost 200 years ago is just one episode in running’s exuberant and not-quite-respectable history as a spectator sport in Britain during the centuries before the arrival of Victorian amateur athletics. In those half-forgotten days, running was not the polite, highly regulated sport of well-mannered crowds and disciplined, admirable athletes it became in the 20^th century; instead, it was an often anarchic sport of the people – both men and women – woven into the fabric of the everyday world and deeply immersed in cultures of gambling and revelry.

The runners themselves could become heroes and celebrities, but at different times and places they could also take on theatrical, comedic and sometimes even erotic aspects, and almost invariably they competed for prizes or to fulfil wagers. Some races were taken quite seriously, with specialist runners – like Seward and Robinson – competing in well-promoted, professionally organised events for the chance of winning fame and fortune.

But other contests were much more frivolous and quite unethical by today’s standards, with trivial prizes acting as inducements to impoverished elderly or disabled people to race for the amusement of the crowd. In even the silliest of races, the opportunity to bet on the outcome was part of the appeal, and at big-time races like Seward’s victory on the turnpike road in Hammersmith, it was endemic.

When respectable upper-class Victorians took hold of running and reinvented it as the highly codified sport of amateur athletics, they ironed out the idiosyncrasies, banned prizes and betting, discouraged working-class involvement, and brought the curtain down on the revelry and festive chaos that had been synonymous with the sport for centuries. Running was reincarnated as the ennobling activity of virtuous, stoical and serious athletes, not a mere popular entertainment that fed lowest common denominator desires for personal gain and a bit of excitement.

Indeed, the idea that amusement and showmanship could be primary ingredients in running was set aside for a century or more. Today though, the pendulum is swinging back. New forms of the sport that cater to broader tastes, involve more theatre and jollity, and invite participation by everyday people looking to experience fun as well as competition are becoming increasingly popular. Runners and spectators alike are once again hungry to incorporate a little exuberance into their sport, and in so doing, they are – often unknowingly – reviving a great tradition in British running that has its roots in the distant past. 

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[1] From Bell’s Life in London and Sporting Chronicle – Sunday 06 October 1844. Available at British Newspaper Archive.

[2] Probably equivalent to around 10.3 seconds for the longer modern sprint of 100m.

[3] See Sears. Running Through the Ages, page 78. (Running Through the Ages)