Concert Choir Tour – The 400 Meters

The Concert Choir bounced around Germany and Austria for two weeks in the summer of 1970 giving concerts and touring the traditional tourist sites. At one point our buses took us to Berlin and the stadium where Jesse Owens won 4 gold medals in the 1936 Olympics, pretty much destroying Adolf Hitler’s claim of the “Aryan master race”.

The choir of roughly 110 members was milling around outside the stadium when I noticed one of the service entrance gates was open for deliveries. Even though I was a miler by trade, I was still a track fanatic and knew all about the sprinter Jesse Owens, the 1936 Olympics, and this famous stadium.

I wanted desperately to see the track where Jesse Owens won four gold medals. My track buddies would be envious that I was there and saw the inside of the stadium first-hand. Nobody challenged me at the gate so I continued to wander right into the stadium like I belonged there, and a small group followed me.

The entrance led to the top rows of seating and the whole stadium lay below me. If you’ve ever entered a stadium you know the first view of the interior is stirring. The size of the space, the architecture, the contrast of the lush green grass of the field with the track and seating space around it; it all compounds in a visual spectacle that causes me to hold my breath.

As I was standing there telling my friends about Jesse Owens and the 1936 Olympics someone suggested, “Hey Millen, why don’t you run around the track?” Uh-Oh, it was a dare, a challenge, almost a taunt like “What’s-the-matter? You chicken?” It’s something we are all susceptible to, and me especially so.

The problem was we were at the top of the stadium and there were roughly 50 steps down the aisle to the floor of the stadium. At the bottom of the stairs was a concrete wall and what looked like a 6-foot drop into a dry moat. I’d heard about crazed soccer fans in Europe and it appeared that the moat was there to keep the crazy fans off the field. In fact, there were soccer goals set up on the field and it appeared as if they were prepared for a game that night.

“Prepared” was the operative word. They were ready for the game. When I glanced around the stadium I didn’t see a single person working. And when I looked down at my feet I realized I was wearing running flats, a manner of dress I’d only recently begun to practice instead of wearing moccasins. (No lie) Finally, I realized my choral colleagues had never gone to one of my races, and if I was ever going to impress them with my running ability, even though it was only a lousy 400 meters, once around the track, this was going to be my one and only chance. Off I went down the stairs.

I was immediately pumped with adrenaline as I accepted the dare. As an eighteen-year-old I had energy to spare. In no time I had bounded down the stairs, vaulted down what was actually a 7 or 8-foot deep moat, and onto the track. After clearing the moat I had a more realistic idea of how high that wall was, and wondered if I would be able to jump and pull myself up the concrete wall upon my return. (Each decade that moat wall grows a foot taller) No matter, it was too late, I was committed, and I ran my butt off around the track that Jesse Owens had made famous 34 years ago.

Even though I didn’t have a warm-up, I wanted to run the lap as quickly as I could to impress my friends. I wasn’t a 400-meter runner, and had never been accused of having any speed, but I wanted to do the best I could. Not that any of my colleagues would recognize good running form if it bit them, but I did my best to do that right as well. One lap was all I had to show them what I had accomplished in three years of running year-round.

As I made my way around the track I heard my classmates yelling for me as if it were a real track meet, and it helped me to hold the hard pace I’d set from the beginning. But when I got to the far side of the track I realized that their yelling was not the encouragement that I thought it was. I heard concern and alarm in their voices, though I could not make out what they were yelling from 200+ meters away. As I was running I looked up into the stands and found four security guards making their way down the stairs from all four points of the compass. “Oh crap!” I thought, or words to that effect involving partially digested food exiting the digestive system. “I am going to get arrested in Berlin, Germany. I will never go to college. I am going to miss the rest of the tour. My dad is going to kill me. I am going to be embarrassed in front of all of my friends!” If possible, I ran faster. At the very least I know I tried harder.

When I got back to where I’d started my lap I ran as fast as I could for the wall of the moat. Knowing I only had one shot at it, and fueled by adrenaline, I made a monster leap for the top of the moat wall. During those last few yards I’d told myself that this leap would determine jail or freedom. I just barely got my palms on the top of the wall and pressed my way up to where I could get a foot on top and make my way over. I only just made it over, and would not have been close except for the motivation that comes from the threat of arrest. By the time I finished my sprint up the stadium steps my arms and legs were burning with lactic acid and I was soaked in sweat.

Fortunately, the security guards were not coming down any of isles close to where I exited the stadium floor. If they’d thought it through they would have made their way over to where my colleagues were standing. Instead they went all the way down to the bottom of the stadium and then had to pursue me up the steps. I reached my friends before the out-of-shape security guards reached me, and I was enveloped into the safety of the pack of teenagers. My group milled about and we wandered nonchalantly outside to join the rest of the choir.

The story of my lap and the pursuit by the security guards was quickly passed around the choir and by the time the security guards arrived outside the stadium I was buried in the middle of 110 American teenagers. The guards tried to peer into the group and pick me out, but even if they had, I don’t know that they really wanted to push through that many people to accost me. I hadn’t hurt anybody, and I hadn’t hurt anything, so really, what was the point? Maybe the point was to scare the hell out of me, and if so, they were wildly successful.


I was sticky and smelly for the rest of the day, but it was worth it.