The Race of the Mighty[A]

THE START THE appointed time at length the dials show. “Attention, both!... Now, are you ready?... Go!!” The chauffeur grips his lever with a hand Of steel.—A leap!—A flash of wheels! A grand And supple beast-like spring!—A growl of gear! As, sweeping through the multitudinous sea Of men upraising full-voiced cheer on cheer, He whirls away to promised victory!... ON THE ROAD The high road stretches straight and white Away To dreamy distance, on and on— The day Dawns sharp and foggy; nips the driver’s Nose, Despite his costly furs. Zounds! How It blows! The motor purrs!—Our mobile seems To fly, Nor touch the ground... (Pneumatic Mystery!) The motor purrs!—Farewell wood, field And stream! Once on the road, we’ve scanty time To dream! The motor purrs!—Look out! A sheer Decline. Temptation whispers: Faster here! It’s fine! Faster? It’s madness! Yes, I know!— But on! Full speed down hill! Another record Gone!... The driver plunges out of view... See, there He climbs the distant slope again. I swear He’d scale Olympus! Yet that course Is clear From many mishaps that beset Us here! We crush a curséd mongrel in The dust! Slow down to miss an English spinster, Just Graze by her on her clumsy, ancient Wheel!— Rout ducks and chickens, set the pigs A-squeal! It’s not our fault! We can’t be kept All day To clear the road!... Speed on!—Away! Away!... THE STRUGGLE But hark!... Behind, a trumpet-blast winds clear! Great God! Our dread competitor draws near; We’d half a minute start, and now, like Fate, He’s rushing onward to annihilate Distance and time, whirled in a hurricane! Inexorably we see him gain and gain.... “Now!—speed her up!” the boy cries out. “More speed!” “The curséd motor’s gone to sleep!—Indeed, “We’re hardly doing fifty miles an hour. “But he won’t pass us yet awhile! More power!”... The driver heeds; he moves—the furious pace Grows frenzied! Oh, the glory of a race Like this of modern days, with steady hand To steer a whirlwind through a startled land! THE WATCHERS “The first is near!—Let no one cross!—Take care! “See! There they are!—Look out! The horn! Beware! “Stand back!—They’re two!... It’s Girardot! No, no; “It’s Charron! No, it’s Levegh!—How they blow “That horn!”... But who can hope to recognize Or name the shrilling bullet in its flight? And what are names when glory blinds the eyes? The towns love sport, and cheer; but, half in fright The laboring peasants stop their ploughs to see This avalanche—this hurtling mystery! THE FINISH Untiring, on their mounts of fire and steel, The shielded chauffeurs, watchful, hand on wheel, Have flashed through many a league;—have breathed the dust Of devious ways; have skirted wood and sea; Have traversed towns, crossed rivers, hills and dales;— Nor halted once! To learn geography By such vast lessons, though it tire the flesh, Exalts the soul and makes the spirit free. But now must end this vast, Titanic race! (It cannot last forever!)—See! The place Lies there!... A broad, white banner bars the way, Between two lofty poles with streamers gay. The “FINISH” there we read. The end at last! All rest and glory, once that goal is passed! A final burst!—The driver grips the bar! The “FINISH!” In the road he sees afar A judge with solemn air attentive stand, Waving a crimson kerchief in his hand... “Stop!” Harshly grinds the brake—“What number’s this?” “Your name?” Recorded! Apotheosis!!