Grind

The glaring lights of Madison Square Garden, Manhattan, never went out all last week. The seats of the great amphitheatre filled and emptied, filled and emptied as the days wore on. Still the lights burned steadily. Beneath them, around and around and around a broad wooden track, banked steep and high at the corners, a band of hunched-over bicycle riders ground their pedals up and down incessantly, circling lap after lap, mile after mile without leaving the ellipse. It was an international six-day race, for Distance against Time, for Money against Monotony. Tex Rickard, promoter, chewed cigars, watched the customers come and go, talked with his henchmen, went home and slept, came back again to chew, watch, talk.

Every so often a tired rider would wheel out of the pack or "jam," dis- mount, reach for food, seek his bed and sleep. His partner would be waiting, mounted, at the trackside, when he came; would pump off, catch the pack, then circle, circle, circle until hunger and fatigue brought his turn to lie down.

There was some excitement. Friends of the riders would come, bringing bands, flags, popcorn, whiskey, noise. Now and again an ambitious rider, chafing at the long grind, would flash forth and seek to lap the field with a burst of speed. The pack would leap out in pursuit, catch him, or he it, from the rear, then settle down again. Every few hours came compulsory sprints, for points. And bored spectators would sometimes get the announcer's ear, offer $20, $100, to the winner of a special sprint. Megaphoned to, the riders would tense, dart away, tear over the line, then drop into the slower, mile-devour- ing pace while the winner's partner collected the prize money.

Moons sank, suns rose. After six days, the winners: Reggie McNamara, Australian "iron man," and Pete Van Kempen, of Holland; 2,368 mi., 5 laps, 1,057 points for sprinting. Second place: Bobby Walthour Jr., of Georgia, and Franco Georgetti, of Italy. Third: Marcel Buysse and Alphonse Goosens, of Belgium.