LOS ~NGCLCS<br >Hugh McPhail dropped his trousers， stuffed them into his knapsack<br >and started to run.<br > As his feet settled into a rhythm he saw ahead of him the train<br >clicking away into the distance， its smoke whorling black behind<br >it. The old Superchief had carried him halfway across America.<br >It had been the first time he had ever ridden boxcar， carrying a<br >ticket free of fear， and it had given him a sense of security. Just<br >before leaving the train he had tossed his ticket to the old man<br >who had sat unseeing in the corner for the whole thousand-mile<br >journey. "Save yourself a beating， old timer，" he had said. Then<br >he had jumped.<br > Above him the road sign read: Los ANGELES SIX MILES. That<br >meant forty minutes. McPhail ran easily， on his heels， with low<br >frugal strides， his feet hardly leaving the ground. He wore a knap-<br >sack with thick padded straps to protect his shoulders， and a flat<br >plaid cap. His upper body was not that of a runner， for he was<br >heavily muscled， particularly in the shoulders and back， but months<br >of distance training had scoured his body of every scrap of fat.<br >As he ran， trickles of sweat started to roll like tears down his<br >browri cheeks and joined width others to form streams on his back<br >/3<br ><br >
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