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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Charles, Norma M., author

Runner : Harry Jerome, world’s fastest

man / Norma Charles.

ISBN 978-0-88995-553-0 (softcover)

ISBN 978-0-88995-593-6 (ePUB)

ISBN 978-0-88995-594-3 (MOBI)

1. Jerome, Harry, 1940-1982--Juvenile fiction.

I. Title.

Publisher Cataloging-in-Publication Data (U.S.)

Names: Charles, Norma M., author.

Title: Runner : Harry Jerome, World’s Fastest Man / Norma Charles.

Description: Markham, Ontario : Red Deer Press, 2017. | Summary: “Based on the real life, true story of Harry Jerome, ‘fastest man on earth’, African-American, forgotten Canadian icon, athletic hero and role model, this inspirational novel of hope and diversity details his rise to running glory against all odds, including challenges of racism and prejudice in the 1950s and 1960s” – Provided by publisher.

Identifiers: ISBN 978-0-88995-553-0 (paperback) | ISBN 978-0-88995-593-6 (ePUB) | ISBN 978-0-88995-594-3 (MOBI)

Subjects: LCSH: Jerome, Harry. | African American athletes – Biography -- Juvenile fiction. | Racism – Juvenile fiction. | Runners (Sports) – Juvenile fiction. | BISAC: YOUNG ADULT FICTION / Historical / Canada.

Classification: LCCPZ7.C437Ru | DDC [F] – dc23

Edited for the Press by Peter Carver

Interior and cover design by Tanya Montini

Ebook Conversion by Ken Geniza

Cover image of Harry Jerome statue, Vancouver, courtesy of Nick Kenrick Photography, Victoria, Canada. Nick’s work can be found at

www.redbubble and on flickr.com

Printed in Canada

For my grandsons, Elijah and Kai, two brilliant runners

PREFACE

This is a story I’ve wanted to write for over fifty years, ever since the early 1960s when I first saw Harry Jerome run. At the time I was engaged to Trinidadian Carlos Charles who was a sprinter at ubc so, of course, I went to all the track meets. And that’s where I met Harry. At that first track meet, although my memory may be faulty, I remember Carlos beating Harry in the 100 yards and the 200.

But it soon became clear that this “kid” from North Van was no ordinary runner. Harry was a serious runner. He was in it to win. And soon, win he did, race after race. Not only was he winning, but he did it with what seemed to be a completely effortless stride. We were amazed that he wasn’t even winded at the end of his races. That young fellow had determination. He had drive. Sometimes, he struck us as being quiet, shy, reserved. Not “one of the guys” like his good friend, Paul Winn, who was also part of the track community. Paul always had a joke to tell and a big hearty laugh.

At the time, I wondered about Harry. He hadn’t come from the West Indies as had many young people in track. Where was he from? What was his background? Where did he get that drive, that determination? What had brought him to the point of becoming one of the fastest runners in Canada? In the world?

I met his sister, Valerie, around that time. She was a young teen also enthusiastic about track. Both she and Harry were with the Vancouver Striders track team coached by John Minichiello.

Carlos and I were married in 1961 and he left the track scene behind. But we both continued to follow Harry’s story with great interest as he went from triumph to defeat, then back to triumph again. Carlos and I raised four children, all of whom were keen about track and field and joined the local track club, the Jericho Jaguars. I have always felt that their devotion to track helped pull them through the teenage years. During those years at track events, we occasionally bumped into both Harry and Valerie, and of course, John Minichiello.

A couple of years ago, it hit me that although there was a magnificent bronze statue of Harry in Stanley Park to commemorate his achievements, as well as a large Harry Jerome Sports Complex in North Vancouver, some people, especially young people, didn’t even know who Harry Jerome was. There were no books for children about this great Canadian hero. None. In fact, there are very few books for children about any Afro-Canadians.

My children, my grandchildren, needed a book about this Canadian hero.

I met with Valerie who generously shared with me stories about their childhood. I also met with Paul Winn who said that he still misses Harry every day, even though it’s been thirty-five years since Harry died. John Minichiello gave me a detailed account of coaching this gifted athlete.

I’m interested in the connection between what people go through as children and who they become as adults. I thought about the sheer persistence it took Harry, so terribly injured, and then maligned as a runner by the press, and still having the strength to train so hard that he won a gold medal in the British Empire Games in Jamaica. That achievement would never have been possible if he hadn’t already conquered huge obstacles and setbacks in childhood. Most people would have simply given up. But not our Harry. He was drawing upon a reservoir of enormous inner strength and fortitude many of us could never imagine.

I believe passionately that all children need to see role models in their lives so they can picture themselves as successful adults someday in whatever way of life they choose. I’ve written this book especially for my own children and grandchildren so they can catch a glimpse of themselves as Canadians in the history of this multicultural country.

CHAPTER 1

The night of May 5, 1950, would be burnt into Harry Jerome’s memory forever. It was probably his very first race. It happened when he was just nine years old.

That race was against the raging Red River near his home in St. Boniface, Manitoba, known as Winnipeg’s French district. Harry was among many who tried to stop the river from overflowing its banks and flooding the city.

The evening started in the most ordinary way. Harry was sitting at the kitchen table after supper, reading his new Superman comic, when his mother called from her bedroom. “I’m getting up now and those dishes better be done.” Her voice was scratchy, as if she were getting a cold.

The table was still cluttered with dirty dishes from their supper of wieners and beans. Harry sighed and wished he could have the exciting life of a superhero like Superman. He’d fly out there into the night and save mankind from destruction.

“It’s your turn to wash, Carolyn,” he told one of his sisters. Harry had two sisters, both younger than him. Carolyn was eight and Valerie six.

Carolyn was across the table from him, biting her lip as she concentrated on cutting out ladies from the thick Eaton’s catalog with Mom’s big kitchen scissors. Harry wondered how his sisters could play with boring cut-outs so much.

“No, it’s not,” Carolyn said. “I washed them last night. And you better get them done before Mom gets up. She’ll be really mad when she sees this mess.”

There was a loud knock at the back door. Harry could see through the window that it was his friend, Tommy, who lived down the street on Enfield Crescent.

“Hi, Tommy,” he said, opening the door. “What’s up?”

The cold wind blew in a wet draft of air.

Tommy LeBlanc’s coat was wet and rain dripped from the brim of his cap. His round cheeks were red and he was breathing hard.

“Harry. You got to come. Right now. It’s an emergency. Down at the river. All the cubs from our pack. Meeting there. To load sand into sandbags. For the dikes.”

“All right! Tell Mom when she gets up,” Harry called to his sisters as he grabbed his coat and wooly hat off the hooks by the door and pulled on his rubber boots. “I have to go help the cub pack down at the river.”

It was like his wish had come true. Maybe this was his chance to be a hero.

“But what about the dishes?” Carolyn called after him.

He didn’t even answer. He pulled his coat closer against the wind. It had been raining like crazy all day. He followed Tommy, jogging down Enfield Crescent to Taché Avenue, which ran along the river bank. Harry squinted against the icy rain nipping his cheeks. Sure was a cold night. Like that rain wasn’t just rain, but had icy needles mixed in. With the thick cloud cover, it was getting so dark he could barely see the river. But he sure could hear it. It was roaring past the riverbank like a freight train.

“Over here!” Mr. Comeau, his cub pack master waved. He was a friendly man with a bushy beard. They called him “Akela,” the name given to adult leaders of a cub pack.

“Glad you could make it, fellows,” he said.

Harry and Tommy joined a bunch of other nine- and ten-year-old cub scouts gathered around him.

“This is what we have to do,” Akela said. “Here’s a stack of gunnysacks. You guys fill them with sand from that pile over there as fast as you can. Then you carry the sacks across the road and hand them to one of the soldiers there who’ll pile them up on the dike. Got it?”

The dike was a wall of sandbags the soldiers were constructing along the river’s edge to try to stop the rising waters from overflowing the banks and flooding the city.

Tommy and Harry worked as a team. Tommy filled a sack with sand with a shovel while Harry held its gritty top open. Then Harry dragged the sack across the road as fast as he could to one of the soldiers. The soldier hoisted it up and piled it on top of the dike while Harry raced back to grab another sack. Other cubs were doing the same all along that section of the dike.

This was what a superhero would do. It was exciting and fun. A lot more fun than washing supper dishes, anyway. At least it was at first. But after a while, Harry got tired of hauling the bags across the road.

“Hey, kid,” a tall soldier called out to him. “You sure that sack’s not too heavy for you?”

“Nah,” Harry said. “I can lift it.” He tried to heave the sack up onto his shoulder to show how strong he was, even though he was on the small side for a nine-year-old. But his tired muscles protested and he stumbled.

“Okay. I got it.” The soldier grinned at him and tossed the sack up onto the dike as if it was filled with fluffy feathers and not wet sand.

When Harry got back to the sand pile, he said, “Hey, Tommy. Want to switch jobs for a while?”

So Harry shoveled sand into the bags while Tommy tried to hurry across the road to the line of soldiers with them. He lasted only three runs.

“You got to do the running, Harry,” he panted. “I can’t keep up.”

So they switched back. It was raining even harder now. And the rain was definitely mixed with snow. Harry wished he’d remembered his mitts. He pulled his coat sleeves over his throbbing fingers and grabbed another full bag of sand. He forced his tired muscles to drag it across the road, knowing Superman would think nothing of being a bit tired.

“Come on, fellows. The river’s getting even higher,” Akela yelled. “We need more bags. Hurry!”

The sound of the river roaring past the wall of sandbags grew louder. Harry pulled in a deep breath and raced across the street to drag another bag filled with sodden sand.

“Thanks, kid.” The soldier grabbed the bag. He tossed it to the top of the dike and patted it into place. The dike was higher than Harry’s shoulder now. In the dim light, he could see some river water was getting through, seeping through the lower layers of sandbags.

He ran back to fetch another bag. And another. And another. The boys and the soldiers, as well as fathers and mothers from the neighborhood, worked on relentlessly, far into the night. After a while, Harry felt like a machine. His hands, his arms, his whole body, were numb from cold and wet and exhaustion. But he just kept at his job: grab the filled sandbag, drag it across the road, heave it up to one of the soldiers, run back for the next bag. Cub scouts always did their best. That was their motto: “Do Your Best.” They didn’t quit, ever. And he was no quitter.

This had been a long hard winter on the prairies with more snow than usual. Then at the end of April, a sudden warm spell caused the ice on the river to break up. Meanwhile, all the winter’s snow from the surrounding fields melted, and water streamed into the muddy Assiniboine and Red Rivers. As the water level rose and the rivers surged through the city of Winnipeg, the river banks couldn’t contain all the extra run-off. So flood waters flowed over low-lying areas. People scrambled to build dikes to stop the rising waters from destroying nearby homes and businesses.

Harry wished his parents could be there that night to help. But his dad was away at work on the train where he was a porter. His job meant that he was often away for a whole week at a time. And his mother wasn’t feeling well these days. Although no one had actually told him, Harry knew there was a baby on the way. For some reason, that was making his mom feel so sick she had to spend most of the time in bed.

“When I’m not here, you have to be the man around the house,” his dad had told him before leaving for his shift. “Look after your mom and your sisters.”

“Come on, guys,” Akela shouted. “Hurry. We got to hurry.” The cub master was frantically shoveling sand into the bag Tommy was holding open.

As soon as it was full, Harry grabbed it and dragged it off across the road. This was what—maybe his fiftieth trip? He’d lost count a long time ago. When he heaved the bag up to the soldier beside the dike, he saw even more water was seeping through between the sandbags now. As well, the river was splashing over the wall they’d been trying to build.

“Oh, no you don’t,” the soldier grunted. He snatched up a board from the side of the road and started throwing dirt and rocks from the ground up onto the dike, trying to patch up the leaks.

Harry grabbed some rocks with his bare hands and tried to shove them into the wall of the dike as well. But the river splashed over the sandbags even more.

“Kid! Stand back!” the soldier yelled at him. “The dike. It’s not going to hold. It’s giving wa-aay.” His voice cracked as he jumped back.

It was no use. They couldn’t stop the water. The river was too fierce. Too violent. Too strong.

In a sudden gush, it forced its way over the dike. The wall of sandbags they’d just built collapsed. Water poured over the damaged dike and streamed onto the road. It rushed toward Harry like a runaway bull.

He sprinted away from it, across the road, and tried to scramble up the pile of sand they’d been digging. Tommy grabbed his hand and hauled him to the top.

“Thanks, Tom,” he panted as other kids, their fathers, and mothers milled around him, yelling, trying to escape the rushing torrent.

Over the pandemonium, a siren screamed. The overflowing river surged closer and closer to their sand pile.

The worst thing they could imagine had happened. The Red River had breached its banks. Their dikes had failed.

The fierce river was flooding the city. They’d lost the race.