Devil at My Heels - Louis Zamperini [11]
The dampened hoboes were still grumbling when we entered a tunnel. The ceiling was only about two feet above our heads. We ducked low and were suddenly engulfed by a huge cloud of steam that washed back from the engine. Johnny and I pulled our jackets over our heads to protect ourselves from the scalding heat. Now I knew why the hoboes stayed in the lower “accommodation.” Afterward Johnny and I looked each other over and agreed that we’d been done medium rare. Before we could move out, the train entered another tunnel. After another steam bath we scrambled down to the second car.
At the Los Angeles freight yard we hiked to the Pacific Electric depot and hopped a Big Red Car to Torrance. By then Johnny, too, had come to the conclusion that running away from home and responsibility was pretty dumb. The world, we’d discovered, doesn’t love you like your family loves you.
My parents welcomed me home with open arms and big smiles—more than I deserved—and I didn’t complain. I let my dad know I was ready to do any kind of work he wanted me to do. I started by painting the house.
That night in bed I turned to Pete and told him, “You win. I’m going all out to be a runner.”
It was the first wise decision of my life.
2
THE TORRANCE TORNADO
That summer I cut out my bad habits and trained fanatically. Instead of hitchhiking to the beach, I ran the four miles from Torrance to Redondo. Then I ran two miles along the beach and four miles back to Torrance. I even ran to the store for my mother. On weekends I’d head for the mountains and run around lakes, chase deer, jump over rattlesnakes and fallen trees and streams. I’ve always been a loner, so the solitude never bothered me. I just ran like crazy. I felt really free and piled up mile upon mile.
When school started I knew I was in good shape, but I had no idea how good, or how fast I could run in competition. In September I entered a two-mile cross-country race at UCLA with over a hundred runners from all over the state. As a sophomore, I was in class C, the youngest runners. I hoped I wouldn’t come in last, but during the race I felt like my feet never touched the ground. I won by a quarter mile and broke the course records for all three classes: A, B, and C. My time was 9:57, equivalent to collegiate standards.
Afterward I asked the officials if maybe I’d unintentionally cut some corners, but they assured me that I’d completed the full course. Though few people today remember, that is still the most thrilling race I’ve ever run, and I realized my promise to Pete—and to myself—could actually come true.
I could be a runner. A real runner.
I APPLIED MYSELF with similar diligence at school. Serious studying was a new experience for me, and my progress was shaky. At times, faced with a difficult arithmetic problem or English composition, I longed to slam my books shut and head for the hills to run it off. But I held on, if only because I had to make good grades to stay on the track team. I didn’t want to cause any problem that might get in the way of the recognition that running and winning had brought.
Most days I felt as if I’d transferred to a new school. Classmates nodded when they passed in the halls, or stopped to talk. At times I even thought I caught a whiff of respect: Louis Zamperini, the wop hoodlum from nowhere, had made a success of himself.
While I clung furiously to my change of heart, my character remained pretty much the same. I still kept mostly to myself. I still had a temper. I still wanted to do almost everything my way. But I had begun to accept the physical pain of training; Pete kept pushing but no longer needed to encourage me with the switch. He was a strict coach and lectured