The Race May Be Short, but Life is Long
July 27, 2012
Dear Louis,
For the next fortnight or so London will be the seat of maximum effort, bodies of adonis, etc, utmost concentration, the highest of emotion, or the depths of despair. And we will sit in our living rooms watching the tube and enjoying and envying the effort and results. I thoroughly enjoy the Olympic effort and as I watch the events I think of some of the same effort but never the similar results from participation of track and field events behind the Hartford High School on the eighth-mile cinder track in the years of 1941 to 1944.
I think of running the mile at West Bend, of watching the spikes of Ray Hinsenkamp digging and spurting track fragments as he pulled away from Clutz Black and myself, pulled away and outran us by yards and meters; never mind the measurement; he was stellar, he ran when we walked, he sprinted when we bent forward and heaved our guts onto the track surface. He was an athlete, but we inferior folks have lived the good and bad life since 1944.
It was in the summer of 1943 when Hinsenkamp had been inducted into the army, into the tank corps that equality was more than not established. Ray was inducted, he entered the tank corps, and was assigned to tanks in the spring of 1944. He went to England in April or May of '44 and in early or mid-June of '44, he landed on Omaha Beach. According to the story I heard, his outfit moved inland and during a breakout his tank was hit, exploded, and burned.
My friend, the kid I ran behind for two springs in high school, died in the iron tank, The kid who had feet of flying effort, had a rump which showed coordinated muscular activity as he pulled away from me and Clutz on the quarter-mile track at West Bend, as we struggled to keep up knowing that we had no chance. But when the news came to Hartford and was transmitted to us during induction camp life in the Navy we paused, sniffled, and wiped the tears wishing that he might have been able to exchange his ribbons and our losses for life, and to have known loss on the track, as we did for his life as we have been able to live for these 75 years since the time he entered the tank of fire on the Cherbourg Peninsula of Europe.
I have so often thought of his life being snuffed out, and me living the good and bad life of the ensuing years and trying to balance the equation of chance and life, an equation which never has been - and never will be - balanced.
But he was my friend. I admired his ability, I envied his speed, composure, and gracious winning attitude. I mourned his death, attended his burial where ever it might have been, and at times of despair from problems, I took solace that I had been spared for the living sick in my practice, for the problems of the living, and the agony of the dying.
I had been spared. Ray H. had died; the memory of his flashing spikes so far ahead of me on the track of the Little Ten conference reminded me during the years that track ribbons and medals, even Olympic Medals are cold to the touch when compared with the memories of friendship. I do hope the athletes take home more than medals from the Olympiad, that they take home some of the admiration for the fleeting spikes of the winning athlete, as seen by the other runners.
Because the race may be short, but life is long and the turns of life are not always fair or smooth.
Keep the faith, my friend.
JLA
