Goldengirl

‘Certain athletic activities hold no interest for our present inquiry. Jumping and throwing, for example, now require sophisticated techniques that have raised the standard of performance, but destroyed the purity of the events as simple physiological measures. It takes at least three years of intensive coaching and training to bring a high jumper to the limit of his potential, and anyone who has observed a — what is the expression? — Fosbury Flop cannot conceivably classify it as a useful physiological test.

‘Fortunately, there are still events in which the activity is relatively unencumbered by coaching techniques, of which running over short distances is the obvious example. Yes, you may rightly point out that the start of a sprint race is a technical trick with some influence on the total performance, and I concede that. I am also aware that coaching manuals are filled with complicated information on details of stride length, knee lift, posture and so on, but I put it to you that running at the fastest speed of which one is capable is really a basic and natural exercise. In the last fifty years, the world record for 100 metres for men has been improved by less than half a second, and that may be due as much to advances in shoe design and track surfaces as to coaching techniques.’

Here the film returned to an outdoor setting. Dr. Serafin was standing beside a stretch of running track, drawing the hair back from his forehead against a slight breeze.

‘So it is instructive,’ he resumed, ‘to see what our eugenically precocious young woman can achieve as a runner. I should tell you here that at no time in her life has she taken part in competitive athletics. You will not find her name in any of those voluminous statistical manuals. First, let us see her running freely, without regard to any athletic event, simply enjoying the experience of moving at speed.’

Goldengirl was wearing a tracksuit in this shot, a white singlet and the predictable gold silk shorts, but she was barefoot. She was running easily and evenly along the track, her hair springing on her shoulders. Her movement gave the exciting impression of power in reserve, long legs stretching over the track, arms swinging effortlessly in the same rhythm. Whatever Serafin was trying to prove, this girl in motion was superb, an expression of physical well-being that lifted the spirit like the opening bars of a great concerto.

Then Dryden felt his right foot press against the carpet in a reflex movement, as if stepping on the accelerator of his SSK. The girl was powering herself to a faster rate, smooth and controlled as automatic transmission, her hair rippling behind her in a shock of gold, arms pumping in piston-rod precision, legs consuming the track. The background was a blur as the camera panned with her burst of speed for perhaps five seconds, when she slipped into a slower gear and trotted up to Dr. Serafin’s side.

The interesting thing was that in spite of the assurance that this was a run for pure enjoyment, the girl’s face gave no hint of elation, even of satisfaction. She looked, as she had through the film, detached and devoid of emotion of any sort.

The doctor was speaking again: ‘Now that she has warmed up, let us invite her to run 100 metres. Put on your spikes for this, my dear. I shall start her from this end of the track and she will be electronically timed as she passes the line at the end of the straight.’ He paused for Goldengirl to lace up her spikes. ‘Are you ready now? Then go to the center lane and wait for my instructions.’ He picked up a starting pistol from which a lead trailed. ‘On your mark.’

She approached the starting line and got into the crouch position. Without starting blocks she was handicapped already.

‘Set.’

She raised her hips and leaned forward over her fingers, her arms not straight as was usual, but bent slightly at the elbows, bearing the weight of her trunk, ready to use their strength to produce a more powerful impetus.

The gun cracked, and she was in motion, her body angled unusually low to the track for the first thirty metres or more. The transition from photographic stillness to rapid sprinting was dramatic, but less thrilling to Dryden than the surge of acceleration in her first free run. Yet the crispness of her running, even without opposition to measure her by, was demonstrated beyond question. Here was a marvelous athletic talent.

She crossed the line, eased down, stopped, put her hands on her knees and drew breath, repaying the oxygen debt she had incurred.