Free The Race of My Life by Sonia Sanwalka Milkha Singh Page A

Howard reiterated the tips he had drilled into me. He revealed that Spence had more stamina than speed, and that I should stick to my own style of running the 400-metre race, that is, to start in top gear. He emphasized that I must not start slowly, that I must maintain my speed for the first 300 metres, and then give it my all in the last 100 metres. He said that if I ran the first 300 metres at full speed, Spence would do the same, although that was not his running strategy.
    The morale-boosting attitude and clever strategies Howard gave me, equipped me with the confidence I badly needed. I started believing that I could be the best. Another constant motivation was a burning desire to do well for the country—I was well aware that my good performance would lead to the glory of India.
    In spite of all my positive thoughts, I spent another sleepless night before the race, tormented by nightmares of what could go wrong. My confidence again had plummeted and I wondered what I should do—participate or quit. The lack of sleep and my morbid thoughts had drained me. The race was scheduled for 4 p.m. in the afternoon. I got up at the usual time, soaked in a tub of hot water to relax, had breakfast and then fell back into bed and covered myself with a blanket. After a refreshing nap, I awoke at noon, had a meagre meal of a cup of soup and a couple of slices of bread. I did not want to overeat, in case it would impact upon my performance.
    At 1 p.m., I combed and knotted my long hair on the top of my head and covered it with a white kerchief. In my Air India bag, I packed my spiked shoes, a small towel, a comb and a packet of glucose. Then I put on my tracksuit, and closed my eyes in meditation, conjuring up images of Guru Nanak, Guru Gobind Singh and Lord Shiva. I silently and fervently prayed to them to give me strength and to guide me through what lay ahead.
    My other team members were waiting for me on the bus. When I took my seat, they jokingly remarked: ‘Today, Milkha Singh is off colour.’ ‘Well my friend, what is the matter?’ ‘Why are you not happy?’ I did not respond to their wisecracks and humour, but it did lighten my mood. All my thoughts and emotions were focused on the forthcoming event.
    Sensing my nervousness, Howard came and sat next to me. Encouragingly he said, ‘Milkha Singh, today’s race will make or mar you, it will either put you up or pull you down. Such a chance will not come your way for another four years and four years is a long time. It is now or never. If you follow my tips, you will beat Malcolm Spence. This feat is not beyond your capacity.’ His words raised my spirits, somewhat.
    When we reached the stadium I went to the dressing room and lay down, agitated and disturbed. I felt feverish and queasy, sick both in mind and body. At 3 p.m., Howard came to me, rubbed my back and massaged my legs. He said, ‘My boy, get ready. Your race begins in an hour.’
    I reached the track, put down my bag and, like the other competitors, began my warm-up exercises. Throughout the waiting period, Howard stood beside me, murmuring words of encouragement.
    The first call for the 400-metre race came at 3.50 p.m. The six of us reported at the starting line and were made to stand in a row. As we stood there, I heard voices calling, ‘Come on, Singh; come on, Singh’. I wiped the sweat from my legs with my towel and was tying the laces of my spiked boots when the second call came. I removed my tracksuit and stood there in my shorts and vest emblazoned with the word INDIA under the Ashok chakra. I took a few deep breaths. The six of us went through the usual courtesy of wishing each other good luck. Salisbury was in the first lane, Spence in the second, Kerr in the third, Gosper in the fourth, Tobacco in the fifth, and finally I in the last one. My heart was pounding wildly. When the starter said ‘On your mark’, I got into the starting position, with my left foot just behind the starting line, my