Yesterday was the one hundredth anniversary of the official closing ceremony of the 1908 Olympic Games held in London, the abiding memory of which – certainly in modern eyes – was the extraordinary finish to the marathon held on the afternoon of Friday 24th July in blazing sunshine. A slight 22 year old confectioner baker from Carpi in Italy named Dorando Pietri, with a shock of black hair, a dapper moustache and a knotted handkerchief upon his head was first into the White City Stadium. Clearly close to exhaustion, he seemed stunned by the ecstatic reaction of the crowd (estimated at close to 100,000 in number) and, confused, paused and then tried to set off around the track to the left before being steered by officials in the correct – anticlockwise – direction. As the New York Times later put it: ‘He staggered along the cinder path like a man in a dream, his gait being neither a walk nor a run, but simply a flounder with arms shaking and legs tottering. By devious ways he went on. People had lost thought of his nationality and partisanship was forgotten …’

Pietri, seemingly delirious, tried to resume running in the fashion of a drunken sailor. Several times on the lap he collapsed. Each time (by the rules) he should have been ‘retired’ and taken away by doctors and medical staff but, caught up in the excitement, they and the officials surrounding him instead helped him to his feet. He fell again at the beginning of the final straight as behind him the runner in second place, Jimmy Hayes of the USA, entered the stadium. Somehow Pietri was dragged to his feet and ‘assisted’ across the line. Hayes followed 32 second later, passing the inert Italian (attended by numerous officials) who was subsequently bundled onto a stretcher and taken away. The Americans immediately put in an unanswerable protest – Pietri had not only received assistance but should have been retired anyway to protect his health under the rules. Nearly four hours passed before Pietri was officially disqualified and Jimmy Hayes declared the winner. The following day, during the prize-giving – on her own initiative - Queen Alexandra awarded Pietri a special cup in recognition of his achievement to much public acclaim.

Right now, as regards the small matter of finally putting my book to bed, I am feeling a close affinity with Dorando Pietri. My original goal this week had been to finish it several days ago but, having staggered into the Stadium - intent upon nothing more than dotting the ‘i’s and crossing the ‘t’s – I have found myself instead weaving all over the track, embarked upon a series of wild goose chases through my book shelves in response to a series of some half-remembered quotations here and some flash of supposed inspiration there, in a desperate and probably futile attempt either to add some final, telling point … or (perhaps it is?) not to leave out anything that might be relevant. There’s a marked absence of officials dragging me to my feet and wildly-excited crowds urging me on, but you cannot have everything.

The irony is that – as they say – this isn’t exactly rocket science. It’s just a minor book of 250 pages or less (hopefully!) on the life of a chap killed in the First World War who, at the end of the day, was and is best remembered as a fine rugby player … and not a new theory of relativity or sensational piece of original, era-defining, research.

My brother said something last week in a throwaway line that I’ve been thinking about – and smiling in acknowledgement of – ever since. Discussing some new avenue of obscure First World War research he was pursuing he said “My problem is that, if and as I find out the person concerned survived the war, I somehow lose interest …”

‘Out of the mouths of babes & sucklings …’ comes from Psalm 8, verse 2 I think. My brother’s comment calls into question why we find such fascination in the detailed movements & actions of young men who went willingly into harm’s way and near-certain death nearly a century ago. There was a recognised theme in which those who survived felt unworthy & guilty for having done so … and I guess to an extent we’re responding to it, but from our all-too-safe distance of one or more removes. It’s a fact that had my paternal grandfather not survived the First War then I wouldn’t be here now, but of course there’s a vital chain linking human beings – we could say similar about hundreds of incidents in both our ancestors’ and descendants’ lives. A contemporary friend of my subject - ‘Jack’ Smyth who won a VC aged 21 in May 1915 – was once lighting a cigarette when a bullet flew by and took it out of his mouth. A few centimetres the other way and he could have been just another statistic – this before he won his VC and some sixty-eight years before he finally passed away. Food for thought - Life’s a matter of fractions sometimes.