White eyeballs rolled, puffy lips twitched, dining-car waiters nudged one another. Amid the jingling of knives, forks, glasses, the clatter of tableware that trembled, if ever so slightly, as a famed express sped towards Chicago, they whispered about a certain passenger. There he sat, slim, blond, eating—for breakfast, two apples, a triple helping of oatmeal, a big cup of coffee, three slices of buttered toast; for lunch, vegetable soup, roast beef, sweet potatoes, rolls, two cups of coffee, vanilla ice cream. He was Paavo Nurmi, on his way from Manhattan to compete in...
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