By Davy Crockett

This weekend (mid May each year) the North Rim of the Grand Canyon opened for the season. Thousands of hikers and ultrarunners make their pilgrimage to the canyon to hike or run across this amazing wonder of the world.

I have been producing short videos for the new Grand Canyon History YouTube channel. I thought it would be interesting to also publish these as a podcast episode for you to listen to. The video versions of these shorts of course have many historic pictures to see. Please subscribe to that channel.

Some of these shorts come from my best-selling book, Grand Canyon Rim to Rim History. You can get my book on Amazon.

By Davy Crockett

For this episode of the Ultrarunning History Podcast, I included an edited down interview I did with the excellent Trail Runner Nation Podcast. We discussed my new book, Old Sport Campana: Ultrarunning’s Most Popular and Amusing 19th Century Runner. Thanks to Scott and Don for having me on. To listen to the full interview, visit their podcast at trailrunnernation.com episode 726 entitled, "Ultrarunning's Past was Wilder than you Think."

You can get my book on Amazon.

By Davy Crockett 

This episode is a replay of the popular early episode 29, about the Tarahumara runners of Mexico.

In recent years, the story of the amazing Tarahumara (Rarámuri) runners from Mexico exploded into international attention with the publication of Christopher McDougall’s best-selling 2009 book, Born to Run. Runners everywhere in 2009 naively tossed their shoes aside for a while and wanted to run like these ancient native Americans from hidden high Sierra canyons in Chihuahua, Mexico. Many other runners left the marathon distance behind, sought to run ultramarathons, and dreamed about running the Leadville 100, which exploded with new entrants.

Readers of Born to Run think that the Tarahumara Indians made their debut running in America in 1992. Born to Run features their 1994 race at Leadville, Colorado. It has been falsely claimed that this was the first time that this indigenous people showed up to run outside their native environs. This is not true. Yes, the Tarahumara competed in the U.S. in 1992, but it was not the first time that they displayed their running abilities in the United States. The Tarahumara competed in America more than six decades earlier when they made an even deeper impact on ultrarunning history.

Read the entire article about the Tarahumara

By Davy Crockett

In 1889, "Old Sport" Peter Napoleon Campana (1836-1905) returned home to Bridgeport, Connecticut, after his four-month trip to California. His celebrity status had increased because of news stories across the country about how he beat up the unscrupulous race manager, Frank W. Hall (1860-1923). During his ten-year ultrarunning career thus far, he had competed in at least 42 races, including 24 six-day races. As he did each summer, Campana took time away from racing, but frequently made appearances at local sporting events, including foot races.

New book! Old Sport Campana: Ultrarunning’s Most Popular and Amusing 19th Century Runner. As I researched for these podcast episodes, I realized that I had enough content for an entire amusing and interesting book. This episode previews chapter eight of the book. To read the entire story of Old Sport, get my new book on Amazon.

In July 1889, a policeman, George A. Parker (1853-1926), took a bet to walk from Hartford, Connecticut to New Haven, Connecticut and back, 72 miles in 26 hours. He walked with a young man, Fred Robertson. They finished at Dwight Mitchell’s Saloon in 24.5 hours. “There was quite a crowd in the saloon awaiting the coming of the pedestrians. Conspicuous among them, both on account of his appearance and his senile garrulity, was Old Sport Campana. This old, broken-down warhorse wanted to bet he could cover the distance in sixteen hours. Then he took several turns up and down the long room to show his skill as a pedestrian.” He found no takers of his bet. Parker and Robertson received quite an ovation.

Campana published a boxing challenge to the world. “I, Napoleon Campana, alias Old Sport, hereby challenge any man in the world 61 years of age, to fight to a finish, London prize ring rules, for the sum of $500 a side. If this challenge is not accepted, I claim for myself the title of champion of the world.” No one took up the wager, so he must have become the champion boxer of the world. He next issued a challenge to race any man over 60 years in a 100-mile race. Campana was actually 52 years old. It would not have been a fair race.

It September 1889, Campana announced that he was in training for his “farewell race in America,” a six-day twelve-hours-per-day race to be held at the Polo Rink in New Haven, Connecticut. Would it really be the last race of his career? He was asked how he made a living. He replied, “I don’t work for a living young feller.” He demanded $250 from the race manager, James L. Meenan, to start in the race but was refused. He left the rink in disgust.

Alfred Elson

Campana returned later as a spectator and sent a gift to his Connecticut rival, Alfred Elson (1836-1900), who was in the race and was the same age as Campana. It was a cabbage with $5 rolled inside it. “Elson declined to carry the cabbage around the rink, so Sport stuck it on the end of a board and dogged him around the track, holding the cabbage over Elson’s head.”

The Street Peddler

In October 1889, Campana was hired to sell peanuts at the Danbury, Connecticut Far by Orin L. Bronson (1827-1909). Sales went very well. Bronson claimed that Campana skipped out of town with all the money and intended to have him arrested if he could find him. Campana went to Winstead, Connecticut, where he competed in a five-hour race and came in third with 19 miles. In December 1889, he was seen watching a ten-mile walking race in New Haven.

Campana was a sly businessman where the saying “buyer beware,” really meant something. In early January 1890, he dropped into a Bridgeport saloon and exhibited his fruit. He made a sale for 50 lemons. “While he counted the fruit and placed it in a basket belonging to the purchaser, the old man kept up a rambling talk about his races in the past. He kept his tongue moving at a lively rate until he had counted out 50 lemons. He then received his money with a smile and a ‘God bless you, mister,

By Davy Crockett

After ten years of competing in ultra-distance races, Old Sport, Peter Napoleon Campana (1836-1906), age 52, had never gone west of the Mississippi River. That was all about to change in 1889. Frank W. Hall (1860-1923), of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, had managed some very successful six-day races. He decided to take the sport out to California. It had been about four years since the west coast had hosted a race. Hall hired Campana to be in the race and paid for this train ticket to California. He left on February 6, 1889, riding the Cincinnati Express. He arrived a week later with fellow runners Frank Hart (1856-1908) and George Cartwright (1848-1928). They created a stir among west coast sportsmen who wanted to get a glimpse of the famous runners.

 

New book! Old Sport Campana: Ultrarunning’s Most Popular and Amusing 19th Century Runner. As I researched for these podcast episodes, I realized that I had enough content for an entire amusing and interesting book. This episode previews chapter eight of the book. To read the entire story of Old Sport, get my new book on Amazon.

Mechanic's Pavillion

The workmen made finishing touches to the stands and booths at San Francisco’s Mechanics Pavilion the day before the race. Sixty scorers would be needed to keep the tallies of the men, thirty on the sheets and thirty on the dials. The runners took some practice runs on the track.

How would California react to Campana’s unusual behavior? Years earlier, they had nearly run Steve Brodie (1861-1901), the young newsboy pedestrian from New York City, out of town because of his poor behavior during a race that shocked women. The San Francisco Chronicle introduced Campana to its readers. “Old Sport Campana is as original a character as one could wish to meet with.”  He was quoted, “I don’t want sleep, but I must have music, and I can cover more distance when the band is playing ‘The Old Armchair’ than at any time. That’s my favorite tune, and Lord, it just makes me hustle around the track when I hear it. One time in New York, my shoestring got inside and was hurting me. I took the shoe off to fix it when the band started the tune, and up I went and traveled ten miles with one shoe on and the other off.”

The Old Armchair British folksong is about a man who inherited only an old chair from his grandmother and was mocked by his siblings, who got some cash. And how they titter'd! how they chaff'd! How my brother and sister laugh'd. But later, after the chair broke, he discovered it included more than £2,000. When my brother heard of this, the fellow I confess, went nearly mad with rage, and tore his hair. But I only laugh'd at him, then said unto him, Jem, don't you wish you had the old armchair?

The San Francisco Examiner added, “He is 61 years old (actually 52). Because of his many peculiarities, he has become the best-known man in his business. He never trains for a race, never eats meat and never sleeps while in a race, but remains on the track through the entire six days and nights. His sharp features and closely cropped beard give him a peculiar appearance.”

The Start

On Thursday, February 21, 1889, five hours before the start, hundreds of people waited outside the Pavilion, wanting to get in. “So great was the jam of a great crowd gathered at the entrance that the managers decided to throw open the doors two hours ahead of the advertised time. Then there was a frantic rush for the seats of vantage.”

At 9:50 p.m., Hall appeared on the track, leading a long string of runners coming from their tents. “Nearly all wore colored shirts and caps and had their numbers either on their chests or backs.” The Hall Belt race began at 9:58 p.m. About 13,000 people were on hand for the start of the 31 runners.

There was another running clown in the race, a man who went by “Oofty Goofty.” His real name was Leonard “Leon” Borchardt (1862-). In 1884,

By Davy Crockett

By 1888, Old Sport Campana had competed in 35 ultra-distance races, and eight in 1888. He also competed in the most historic six-day race of the 19th century, held in November 1888 in Madison Square Garden. William M. O’Brien (1858-1891), was the race organizer. He partnered with Richard K. Fox (1846-1922), editor and publisher of the sporting publication, The Police Gazette, to offer the Fox Diamond Belt, valued at $2,500 to the winner. If someone beat James Albert’s (1856-1912) world record of 621 miles, they would get a bonus of $1,000. The contestants needed to reach 525 miles in order to claim a share of the gate receipts. With an entrance fee of $50, about 125 runners applied for entry, but the race was limited to 40 starters, including Campana.

The New York City press was favorable. “Old Sport Campana, whose increasing years seem to add new vigor to his constitution, will start. He will celebrate his 99th birthday on the track.” He was confident that he would reach 550 miles before he retired from the sport. Everyone wondered what new antics he would perform during this race.

A bold prediction was made that George Littlewood (1859-1912), of England, would break the world record. “Probably no man alive today can beat Littlewood. He is a phenomenal pedestrian, and having a poor field to beat should win with ease.”

New book! Old Sport Campana: Ultrarunning’s Most Popular and Amusing 19th Century Runner. As I researched for these podcast episodes, I realized that I had enough content for an entire amusing and interesting book. This episode previews chapter seven of the book. To read the entire story of Old Sport, get my new book on Amazon.

The Start

Madison Square Garden

An hour before the start, Madison Square Garden was full, with 9,000 spectators, despite a howling blizzard that ripped through the city during the day. Thirty-six runners came to the starting line, led, as usual, by Campana, age 52.

At 12:05 a.m. on November 26, 1888, Campana led the runners across the line. “Campana who has been likened to a fragment of time, broken off the far end of eternity, got a big start and made his bony shanks play like drumsticks for a lap. He passed under the wire first.”

That first-place lap won him a bet with Police Captain Tom Reilly, who paid him a five-dollar silver certificate over the fence. “Campana is badly in need of a shave and looks rather more cadaverous than usual. He is in high spirits. He wears an American flag around his waist, an old pair of white gaiters, and a boutonniere of greasy silver certificates.”

George Littlewood, of England, took the lead right away, completed the first mile in 5:02, and reached the future marathon mark in about 3:20.

Through the first night, it became obvious why there were plans to have Madison Square Garden demolished and replaced. “The ring in the center of the garden looked as if it had been swept by a hurricane. Booths were overturned and the floor was flooded with melted snow, which had dropped through the crevices in the roof.” Littlewood, dressed in white drawers and an undershirt, with a red cloth around his neck and a toothpick in his mouth, reached 77.5 miles in twelve hours in front of about 700 people in the cold building.

After twelve hours, Campana had covered 60 miles. Campana complained that the scorers were rigging the race against him. “He went on again, with a blue nose, red cheeks, and open mouth.”

Littlewood was the first to reach 100 miles in 15:59:00. “He was roundly cheered and presented with a floral horseshoe. Campana became so worked up by the demonstration that he skipped around the track as he did in days of yore.” Sixteen of the runners reached 100 miles on the first day, earning them a refund of their entrance fee. Even Campana reached that mark. “His homely figure and good-natured smile have been seen on every sawdust track for years past.

By Davy Crockett

By 1884, “Old Sport” Peter Napoleon Campana (1836-1906), had gained national fame. He was being called "the clown of the walking matches." While he was never competitive enough to win a six-day race, event managers knew that he was a huge draw to bring spectators into a race. They paid him a salary to be in their races. At age 52, some called him "The living skeleton." Campana acted the part of a decrepit old man and said, “I am 62 years old and I haven’t got a tooth in my head and only a few hairs on it, but I’m here for sport, and don’t you forget it.”

New book! Old Sport Campana: Ultrarunning’s Most Popular and Amusing 19th Century Runner. As I researched for these podcast episodes, I realized that I had enough content for an entire amusing and interesting book. This episode previews chapter six of the book. To read the entire story of Old Sport, get my new book on Amazon.

Another Retirement

After May 1884, the number of six-day races declined. Those held until 1886 were more of a minor nature, and no races were held in Campana’s favorite venue, Madison Square Garden. It was written, “Walking matches no longer fire the public heart to the violence of a volcano”. The lull was mostly caused by a long financial recession until mid-1885, which contributed to tightening money. Campana did not compete in another six-day race for nearly three years.

He tried to enter the first major six-day roller skating race held in March 1885, in Madison Square Garden. “One of the familiar sights was the appearance of Old Sport Campana, the ancient rival of O’Leary, still wearing the peaked cap, red shirt and bandanna neckerchief, that made him the object of curiosity in days gone by.” He believed he could win the race, but the managers refused to let him enter, knowing about his clowning reputation.

Campana’s Fame

Campana was now recognized nearly everywhere he went. One day, he showed up in Boston. “A number of people followed the ‘old hero’ about town with no particular object in view, other than to see him. Finally, he went into one of the drug stores and purchased sixteen ounces of the tincture of Jamaica ginger, which he drank at once, on a bet. Everyone expected to see him drop dead, but ‘Sport’ is not one of the dying kind. It took considerable water and a good deal of profanity to cool his mouth off.”

Later in the month, Campana was in New York City, examining a bunch of bananas in the warehouse of a Greenwich dealer. Going by, was a well-dressed man, with three friends who went into Smith & McNell’s hotel. Campana yelled out, “There goes John L. Sullivan and Patsy Sheppard (boxers).” That started a mob of nearly 500 men going to the windows of the hotel trying to get a glimpse of the famous athletes.

Campana Seriously Injured

At his hometown of Bridgeport, Connecticut, one day in June 1885, Campana was at a baseball game, cheering for Princeton instead of Bridgeport. He went too far, became abusive, and refused to leave. “The old man doesn’t like the Bridgeport team worth a cent, and he kept on with his voice regardless of consequences.

His brother, Policeman Alex Campana, was asked to quiet Sport and he did so, after a short parley with him, by whacking him three times on the head with his club. The pedestrian then walked off like a little lamb, bleeding. Some of the bystanders expressed indignation that the special officer clubbed his brother, but the majority thought that he got what he deserved.”

He ended up in the hospital for weeks, sick, in critical condition, and without money or friends. In August 1885, after six weeks, he was discharged, became a ward of the city, and was expected to die at any moment. A month later, he had recovered and seemed to be like his old self.

Campana the Peddler

Campana succeeded in peddling a new product. He said, “There’s no place like the New Milford fair. I went up there without a cent.

By Davy Crockett

By 1880, “Old Sport” Peter Napoleon Campana (1836-1906), a fruit and nut peddler from Bridgeport, Connecticut, had established himself as an odd anomaly in the very popular spectator sport of six-day indoor races held in arenas in northeastern America. He had not yet won a race but would almost always stick it out to the end of the six days when usually 75% of the other runners would quit before the end. People would pay to come watch the races he was in, specifically to watch him run. Race directors would promise him a salary just to be in their races. No one ever could predict what unusual and amusing antics he would perform during a race.

He seemed to never be formally training, but perhaps with all the miles he put in pushing his cart, he was able to regularly run more than 300 miles in a six-day race.

Campana was unusually “unbalanced.” When some spectators mocked him, he would punch them in the face and then continue running. The crowds would roar with approval and the race management would do nothing. The New York Times wrote, “Napoleon Campana, better known to the world as ‘Old Sport,’ is called the clown of the walking matches, and a race without ‘Old Sport’ in it would be a novelty.”

His eccentric nature was also seen in his personal life as a peddler in Bridgeport. His hot-headed nature would frequently end him up in jail. By 1880, his wife Jennie (Dalton) Campana had apparently left him again. He still loved her deeply and had her name tattooed on his leg. Even with the money he received at races, and with his national popularity, he appeared to be nearly destitute because he spent his earnings so quickly, likely on a lot of alcohol.

O’Leary International Belt

After being away from the sport for seven months, Campana, age 44, came back in January 1881 to compete in the O’Leary International Belt held in the American Institute Building, in New York City. The track was eight laps to the mile and 8.5 feet wide. It was constructed on top of the concrete floor. The track base was composed of three inches of clay and tan bark, laid over with sawdust, and surrounded by a sturdy picket fence to keep spectators off the track. Wooden huts of 10x5 feet were put up for each runner, furnished with a bed, washstand, small mirror, chair, and a gas stove. A large blackboard would be used to display the standings.

Every seat within the building was filled by 10 p.m., two hours before the start, with about 5,000 people. A “sacred concert” was put on, with soothing music appropriate for Sunday. “Between the pieces of music, the sound of the busy hammers finishing the improvements in the building, the voices of sellers of programs about of the walkers, lager beer, peanuts, cakes, candies, cigars, and shooting galleries, try your weight, electric batteries, and a confused babel of thousands of voices filled the structure.” The building was lit with gas lights and warmed by steam and large stoves.

The Start

American Institute Hall

When Campana came out to the start line on January 24, 1881, he received huge cheers as spectators recognized him. At 12:05 a.m., thirty-one starters, arranged in ten rows, were sent on their way with the word “Go” by Referee William Buckingham Curtis (1837-1900), of Wilkes’ Spirit of Times. “With a bound, the men darted around the track, the new men mostly at the top of their speed, the more experienced and knowing ones at a steady jog.” Early on, Campana kept up with the frontrunners.  After twelve hours, he reached 56 miles, eight miles behind the leader.

On the next day, a cheer went up from all over the building and then changed quickly to laughter. “Campana was seen wildly flourishing his arms over and around his head, He dashed forward at the top of his speed, passed John “Lepper” Hughes (1850-1921), the leader, and then subsided into a slow and limping crawl. Bald-head Campana, with his punch-like face turned more to one side than ever,

By Davy Crockett

In part one, “Old Sport” Peter Napoleon Campana (1836-1906), of Bridgeport, Connecticut, a poor street vendor, and talented runner, wanted to become a professional pedestrian/ultrarunner. At age 42, he was viewed as very elderly, a strange anomaly on the track. It was said that it looked like he had been run through a threshing machine. “He looks like a physical wreck and every stranger expects to see him collapse momentarily. His shriveled, shrunken, crooked figure is one of the marvels of pedestrianism.”

In early 1879, he had a poor reputation, and his integrity was questioned. But during the coming 15 months, as he ran more miles in races than anyone in the world, he would win over the hearts of the public. He would be called “perhaps one of the best-known athletes in the country.” He became a crowd favorite to watch in 1879 when the six-day race was the most popular spectator sporting event to watch in America.

Learn about the rich and long history of ultrarunning. There are now twelve books available in the Ultrarunning History series on Amazon, compiling podcast content and much more. Learn More.

Despite the six-day race loss to Daniel O’Leary, in December 1878, Campana, now wealthy and newly married, sought to further profit from his newfound notoriety. He was now mentioned in newspapers every week across the country. Some of the press was negative, as word spread that his Bridgeport six-day world record run of 521 miles in November 1878 was a fraud. He stated that the accusations came from disgruntled men who wanted more money from him. The New York Sun looked deeply into the matter and concluded that “the fraud was inspired by a wish to make a big record, arouse public interest, and thereby bring in gate money.” The scheme had succeeded.

What was the reaction to the bombshell news in Campana’s hometown? “Bridgeport had freely given Campana their confidence and their backing. Now there is surprise that the community could have been sold so cheaply and completely. As a pedestrian, Campana is looked upon as a dead duck.”  Still, there were those who believed his effort was legitimate. A reporter from another newspaper, who witnessed the last day of that event and interviewed witnesses stated, “I gained a firm impression that the walk had been honestly conducted, and that Campana had really passed over the number of miles with which he was credited. No one whom I met in Bridgeport appeared to have any doubt about the matter.” He believed there was a conspiracy against Campana. (Author’s note: Given that Campana never exceeded 521 miles in all his future 40+ six-day races that he competed in, I believe that the effort involved fraud and should be discounted. It is likely that Campana was naïve and wasn’t involved in the fraud that was conducted by his backers.)

Campana had a trial in late January for physically abusing his new young wife, Jennie A. (Dalton) Campana (1853-). She returned to her father’s home and took her new wardrobe and $100. “In court he showed a big roll of bills and said that he was in the hands of men who had hired him for a year, and he couldn’t walk anywhere without their permission.” He had argued with his wife when two other women came into their new house in Waterbury, Connecticut, who he didn’t want there. He suspected that she had him arrested so she could strip the house of costly things while he was in jail. Despite this terrible incident, the two were reconciled and Jennie moved back to their home.

On the Road

Campana was not a “pedestrian dead duck.” His career was just beginning, with the help of his dominating backers. At that time, professional pedestrians were not kicked out of the sport for perceived fraud or misbehavior. First, he tried to issue challenges against other runners for large amounts of money. Those went without responses. Next, he went on the road to give running exhibitions.

Boston Music Hall

By Davy Crockett

Peter Napoleon Campana (1836-1906), of Bridgeport, Connecticut, known as "Old Sport," was recognized as the most popular and entertaining “clown” of ultrarunning. It was said of him, "Campana kicks up his heels and creates a laugh every few minutes." He was one of the most prolific six-day runners during the pedestrian era of the sport. All of his amazing ultrarunning accomplishments were made after he was 42 years old, and into his 60s. He competed in at least 40 six-day races and many other ultra-distance races, compiling more than 15,000 miles during races on small indoor, smokey tracks. He never won a six-day race, but because he was so popular, race directors would pay him just to last six days in their races. Admiring spectators would throw dollar bills down to him on the tracks during races.

He didn’t age well, lost his hair, had wrinkled skin from being outdoor so much, and people thought he was 10-15 years older than he really was. He never corrected them in their false assumption and wanted people to believe he was very old. While he was well-loved by the public, he wasn’t a nice person. During races, when he would become annoyed, he would frequently punch competitors or spectators in the face. In his private life, he was arrested for assault and battery multiple times, including abusing his wife, and spent time in jails for being drunk.

Read about the fascinating history of the more than 500 six-day races held from 1875 to 1909 in Davy Crockett's new definitive history in 1,200 pages. Get them on Amazon.

Campana’s Youth

Campana was born in Petersburg, Virginia in 1836. His family came from France. When four years of age, he moved to New York City with his mother, his father having died in North Carolina of yellow fever. Shortly after his arrival in New York, his mother died, and he was cared for by the Metropolitan Fire Brigade. He first worked as a messenger boy, the first delivery boy for the New York Clipper in 1853, then became a hose-cart attaché, and finally a full-blown fireman, one of the “Fulton Market Boys.” On his left arm he had tattooed “Clinton Engine Co. 41, Old Stag.” He said he learned to run in the fire department and saved a great number of lives. “Like a young partridge, he tried to run as soon as he was hatched and has been running ever since.” He became very involved in athletics and received the nickname of “Young Sport.” His first race was with a man named Lee, in New York City for $10, for a half mile. He next raced the champion of New England, Amos Saunders, of Brooklyn, in a five-mile race. "The day of the race arrived and found him in prime condition for the test of endurance and speed. He won the race in a canter."

As a young man of about twenty years old, in 1856, Campana moved to Bridgeport, Connecticut. He became a peddler of nuts and fruit, and at other times operated a corner peanut stand. “He soon became known in Bridgeport as an expert and fearless volunteer fireman and did good service at several large fires. He was always a fast runner and was noted for his courage and promptness of action in time of danger.” He made a challenge to all New England runners in a five-mile race to win a belt. He won the race that took place in Providence, Rhode Island.

Life Before an Ultrarunner

In 1860, he lived in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, again working as a fireman. He once challenged the entire fire department of the city to a half-mile race. The challenge was accepted, and he won in 2:30. He competed in several races up to ten miles and won many. He beat a noted runner, “Indian Smith” at ten miles, in 57:26. That year, he married Mary (1840-) and had a son Napoleon Campana (1861-1862) who died as a young child. They later had another child that died young.

In 1862, Campana enlisted in the Civil War, with the 114th Pennsylvania Infantry. He said, "At Gettysburg, I met my first defeat as a runner.