Old Sport Campana (1836-1906) Part One

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 26:32 — 27.3MB)

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 Jane (Dalton) Campana (1840-) and had a son Napoleon Campana (1861-1862) who died as a young child.

In 1862, Campana enlisted in the Civil War, with the 114^th Pennsylvania Infantry. He claimed that he fought at Gettysburg and lost a chase going after a confederate soldier who had been separated from his company. After the war, he moved back to Bridgeport, continued as a street vendor, and assistant foreman of No. 3 Hose firemen. He again ran in races, reaching ten miles in Pittsburgh, in 58:30. Over the next years, he established an excellent reputation, winning several races across New England.

In 1875, he stopped a runaway horse team in the city, saving several lives. He was injured in the act and rewarded with a gold medal and a new peddler’s wagon. The city wanted to hear his story and put on a ball for him, displaying his new peddler’s wagon in the ballroom. At the largest ball known in the city, he was able to line his pockets with plenty of congratulatory money. But it was said, “He is free with his money when he has any.” He became popular with the young boys of the city.

By early 1878, he didn’t have a great reputation around town and was referred to as a “loafer.” “He has been knocking around the street in a vagrant fashion for a year or more, doing nothing, and as he expresses it, ‘sleeping on a clothesline, and only getting a square meal once a month.” He became inspired by two men who walked 100 miles in Bridgeport. He started to train himself and was able to walk to Danbury, Connecticut, and back, about 48 miles, in 12 hours. “On another occasion he went out to Waterbury, 40 miles, and walked in, beating the milk train that distance, which showed either that he was a very fast walker, or that the milk train was short-winded.”

Seeking the Six-Day World Record

In November 1878, Campana, at the age of 42, wanted to break Daniel O’Leary’s six-day world record of 520.2 miles, set in London, England, in March 1878. (He was unaware that on November 2, 1878, William “Corkey” Gentleman (1833-1914) increased the world record to 521.1 miles in London, England.) At Bridgeport, everyone laughed when he announced his attempt. “An ordinary observer would be deceived by his appearance, as the long, thin, wrinkled face is anything but an indication of the strong bone and muscle covered by his tattered apparel. His face is laid in deep wrinkles from the eyes across the cheeks, and these wrinkles only lose themselves under his ears. A prominent nose and merry twinkling black eyes give him a most comical expression; and his continued good humor and incessant jibing prove the first impression correct.”

The Start

On November 10, 1878, Campana began a solo six-day walk and run at Hubbell’s Hall in his hometown of Bridgeport, Connecticut, in a 175×20 foot room, on a cramped slippery track, fourteen laps to a mile. The track, four feet wide, was on the fifth floor of the mercantile building and followed the walls of the room. It was made of sawdust which slid around over the wax dance surface. The ceiling of the room was only about seven feet tall, which gave it a claustrophobic feeling. The room could seat or stand up to 800 people, who paid twenty-five cents to watch, half which went to Campana. He also sold photographs of himself at the door for 50 cents. They were very popular. Nearly everyone smoked.

Campana was about 5’8” and had a “very slouching gait, without any style or grace. He carried his head usually either thrown away back on his shoulders or drooping lazily down on his breast. He makes an unpleasant jerky motion of both shoulders with each step. His most natural gait is a little dogtrot from five to six miles an hour.” They thought that his youthful costume made him look younger than he actually was. “He wore a blue baseball cap, divided into sections, in baseball style, with white braid, a large red silk handkerchief about his neck, a red flannel shirt covered with an outer suit of white stuff, the trousers reaching only to the knees.”

Campana started impressively, reaching 50 miles in 6:55:00 and 100 miles in 17:35:53, claiming an American record, breaking Charles A. Harriman’s recent record of 18:48:40. “He weighs about 145 pounds, is of rather slight build, and as wiry and gritty as an Indian. He has a slight swelling at one knee and at the ankles, but it does not perceptibly affect his gait. He underwent no preliminary training. No one supposed that he would last the day out. To say that Bridgeport is astonished over what he has done, would be putting it mildly. He sometimes wore street shoes and sometimes slippers. He walked and ran in a pair of shoes that did not fit him. He lived on potatoes, beef tea, toast soaked in beef tea, bread, a little beef, milk, and tea.” For much of his walk, he did not have proper food. He kept three dogs in the hall and one of them frequently walked with him. “A short time ago, before the walk began, one of the best-known citizens of Bridgeport kicked one of his dogs and Campana blacked the man’s eye.”

Solid Progress

On day five, at 443 miles, he was doing well, despite his overuse injuries. A physician attended to him. “His wonderful powers of endurance still astonish those who see him. He has taken no nourishment today of any account, except a few white grapes and figs and drank a little lemonade. He keeps O’Leary’s record by him and seems bound to keep ahead of it. He said that he would beat O’Leary’s best time or die on the track. He was presented with a flannel walking suit by his friends and also received a number of fine presents, including several sums of money.” At one point, he refused to walk another step unless a mirror was hung up so he could see himself. His aid station was a side room with a bed of a straw mattress, covered with a sheet and blankets, bottles, lemons, old shoes with patches, and little white dogs scattered around.

Bridgeport Miles

The attempt got the attention of some of O’Leary’s friends, who came to watch and became skeptical. On the sixth day, the track was remeasured by the city surveyor, H. G. Schofield, and found to be 15.625 laps to the mile instead of 14 laps to the mile. He thought he was at 543 miles, but actually at about 484 miles. On hearing the news, Campana became discouraged and almost quit, but encouraged on by his handler, Samuel Merritt, who would become a very accomplished six-day runner. For the last day, Campana walked with one of his attendants. They wouldn’t let him know correctly how many miles he had left. They kept telling him that he had 42 miles left. “Early in the evening he was nearly discouraged and had thoughts of leaving the track,” but when they told him the correct number, he went off at a brisk run.

The Finish

“The news spread throughout Bridgeport and the surrounding country that ‘Sport” was likely to beat O’Leary’s distance, which caused Bridgeport to be in a state of excitement.” A “terrible” brass band came to play in front of the building. A crowd of 1,000 people surrounded the building, with another thousand packed into the hall. “With the howling, excited multitude, the scene resembled a perfect pandemonium.” Another 5,000 people crowded Main Street, waiting to hear the result. “As the end approached, the crush became absolutely dangerous, and the policemen had all they could do to preserve a narrow passageway for ‘Sport’ without resorting to violence.”

Campana finished with what he thought was 521.25 miles, breaking O’Leary’s 520 miles record. “The crowd cheered him until the walls shook and a number of bouquets what had been sent to him by some ladies of Bridgeport were handed to him. ‘Sport’ was hoisted on the scorers’ table and called upon for a speech, in which he thanked the people for their kindly interest.” His friends then picked him up and carried him from his track to his room.

The New York Daily Herald mocked the event and proclaimed, “The track was measured off on the basis from his track thereafter to be known as the ‘Bridgeport mile.’ Campana went swinging along at a great rate, rolling up his ‘Bridgeport miles.’ Unfortunately, his friends forgot to state what kind of miles they were. There are suspicious people who would throw doubts even on those miles.”

The performance was deemed “not sufficiently authenticated to entitle him to a record. Next time he must walk his next race neither in Bridgeport miles nor by Bridgeport count.” People started calling him “Old Sport” instead of “Young Sport” because he looked old with his weathered face and receding hairline.

The New York Times was fooled and proclaimed that he broke O’Leary’s record. “He walked a greater distance within six days than is recorded of any other man, and under the most unfavorable circumstances.”

Campana was confident that he had broken the record and was willing to prove his abilities against the best. He became an instant celebrity in Bridgeport, quickly divorced his wife, and married a new much-younger woman, Jennie A. (Dalton) Campana (1840-).

Six-Day Race against Daniel O’Leary

Campana’s six-day accomplishment, whether true or not, received a lot of publicity and was noticed by Daniel O’Leary, the Astley Belt champion. He wasn’t happy that people thought his six-day American record had been surpassed by an unknown amateur. Shortly after Campana’s alleged achievement, O’Leary challenged Campana to a head-to-head match to show his superiority. The New York press still believed in Campana and wrote, “Peter Napolean Campana can no doubt easily beat O’Leary.” Campana accepted the challenge, even though he would only have a month’s rest since his last six-day run. The two met for the first time in mid-December 1878 to sign the articles of agreement and O’Leary said of Campana, “I like the looks of the man, and he may surprise all of us.”

The head-to-head race was scheduled to be held in the greatest arena of the era, Gilmore’s Garden in New York City (later renamed to Madison Square Garden). Campana arrived in New York City the day before the race with his new wife, Jennie, and Fred Englehart, who would be his handler. Making his way through a storm, he went to Gilmore’s Garden, where he met with O’Leary and his backer, Al Smith. Two separate rolled sawdust tracks were ready to be used, one for each competitor, nine laps to a mile and eight laps to a mile. While a temperance meeting was being held in the building, they flipped a coin, and O’Leary chose to walk on the inside track. The outside track was viewed as the best. O’Leary was being nice to Campana, who was a bundle of nerves, facing a world-class competitor for the first time. “It is impossible for him to keep still for five seconds, except when asleep.” Neither man seemed over-confident. The wager settled on, was for $1,000 as side.

The Start

The race would begin at 1 a.m. on December 23, 1878, under the direction of William B. Curtis (1837-1900) who founded athletic clubs in New York City and Chicago. It was held with the same “go-as-you-please” rules recently established that allowed both walking and running. About 2,000 people braved the bad weather and witnessed the start. The Garden was warmed by thirteen furnaces and four great heaters in the arena.

The two contestants were escorted by policemen to the start. “O’Leary looked as fresh as a daisy, ‘Sport’ looked worried and haggard. With his thin lantern jaws, long nose, and loosely-jointed frame, he presented a striking contrast to his compactly-built opponent. ‘Sport’ was clad in a scarlet flannel shirt that fell to his knees, a black silk cap, beneath which could be seen a crimson handkerchief, black tights, white stockings, and black shoes. Across his breast of his shirt was ‘Sport’ in black letters, and between his shoulders appeared the legend, ‘Old Stag,’ referring to the fire engine with which he used to run.” He took off his outer shirt showing a white shirt with scarlet trimmings and the words, “Old Sport” and the number 41, giving honor to his original fire station. Away they went. Campana finished his first mile in 9:31. “After walking a few rounds, with evident pain, he stopped at the little wooden house, where he took rest and refreshment, and an attendant wet his knees with some lotion. This had the immediate effect of reviving him, and of he started in apparently better spirits.” He quickened his pace after the first hour. It was surprising to see so many from Bridgeport there cheering him on. Just two months before, the city considered him “a loafer.” They had chartered a special train with a brass band to come to New York City.

“A stillness reigned in the vast building, which was only broken at intervals by the voice of the timekeeper as he recorded in a loud voice the number of laps, the miles, and the time of each competitor.”

Both men occasionally broke out into a run. After ten hours, Campana had established an eight-mile advantage because O’Leary’s took an early two-hour break and suffered from a blister on his heel. “The blister increased in size, and continued to trouble him very much all day, besides causing him frequently to leave the track for a few minutes to change his shoes. He did not limp or show that he was suffering, but walked with a firm step, erect head, and perfect carriage of his body.” William Edgar Harding (1848-), editor of the National Police Gazette, was O’Leary’s handler, and he downplayed the effect of the blister to reporters. Campana battled an upset stomach and took frequent doses of Jamaican ginger and “laudanum” (tincture of opium).

The First Day

Campana walked and ran in a marked contrast to O’Leary. “As a walker, Campana makes no pretension to form, and is only seen to advantage when he runs. Then he carries himself well together and gets over the ground with an easy stride which approaches grace. When he descends from his trot to a walk, he seems to lose control of his limbs and goes shambling and halting along.” Reporters quickly understood that he was an unusual character. “He walked and trotted with body bent forward, arms hanging loosely, head turned in all directions, and looked as often backward as forward, at any person or object that attracts his attention. He is apparently the most loosely-jointed, careless, happy-go-lucky fellow that ever appeared on a track in a public contest. He frequently answered back the remarks made upon his personal appearance by spectators. His bride of a week sat in a box close to the track and encouraged him with smiles whenever he passed.”

Campana paid careful attention to the scorers and complained if his score was not promptly updated. “Occasionally, he stopped to have a little argument with somebody who uttered an offensive word, to offer to thrash the fellow. Yet, though his angry passions rose, nobody supposed that there was the least probability that he would get into a fight.” They did not know the true Campana yet. O’Leary looked jolly and showed no signs of fatigue or distress. “For nourishment, Campana relies chiefly on soft-boiled eggs, chicken broth and beef tea, of which he eats heartily.” O’Leary ate mutton broth and beef stew. After the first day, Campana held a surprising lead, 90 miles to 83 for O’Leary, who walked nearly the entire time with this tireless stride. They both agreed to take a two-hour rest.

The Race Progress

During the second day, Campana left the track frequently, but only for a few minutes at a time, “but was to be seen at all times shambling around apparently ready to fall to pieces at each step.” He was nearly always accompanied by one of his attendants, who kept a step ahead of him trying to spur him on. His dogtrot degraded into a shuffle in which he hardly lifted his feet from the ground and plowed through the sawdust.”

In the evening on the second day, Campana’s appearance was rather disgusting. “His breeches slipped down so as to leave visible an expanse of dirty underclothing at the waist.” His legs were wrapped with bandages. He left the track reaching 150 miles, and looked as though he could not walk another step. O’Leary went into the lead at that point. “Careful treatment has caused the blister on his heel to disappear. His step is springy and elastic. He walks in perfect form, with head erect and arms swinging easily, and maintains without a break, hour after hour, a steady five-mile gait.” He finished the day with a six-mile lead and 156 miles. Knowledgeable sporting men understood that this was a poor distance for two days during a six-day race. O’Leary held the 48-hour world record of 207.5 miles, set in 1877. At midnight cries of “Merry Christmas” were shouted to O’Leary.

On Christmas Day, it became very clear that O’Leary would win. Halfway through the week, about 40,000 people had watched the race so far. A New York Times reporter couldn’t understand the fascination given by many toward the race. “Thousands who, despite the manifold discomforts to which they were subjected, found a mysterious fascination in the place that compelled them to linger hour after hour, gazing at the contestants and yelling themselves hoarse over the mediocre exhibition to which they were treated. The clouds of dust and tobacco smoke that were so dense that from one end of the building to the other was invisible, made an atmosphere that was terrible to breathe, and proved very distressing to the pedestrians.” The Christmas crowd was very lively and drank lots of beer and strong liquor. “Fights were of frequent occurrence, and many a tattered and bloody individuals were marched off by the police, of whom a large force was in attendance.”

Campana suffered with a badly swollen knee. “The cords of the leg were strained and so stiff that he could hardly bend the knee. His trainers said that his hard life and years of exposure and poverty had rendered him very liable to this difficulty, but that the stiffness could disappear at any moment.” The Bridgeport crowd became disappointed with his progress and “carried home most of the money that they brought down to wager on ‘Sport.’” Campana told a friend that when the race ended on Saturday, that they would find him on the track, alive or dead.

Campana Crumbles

New York City had hoped to witness an impressive high-milage walking match, but they were disappointed, and it was referred to as a farce. By day four, Campana wasn’t doing well with his terribly swollen knee. “The poor fellow presented a pitiable sight as he shuffled around the track, staggering as he walked, having a man on either side, apparently ready to catch him if he should fall.” At times, the crowd taunted him, provoking him to strike a spectator. In the evening, he walked with his bald head uncovered, to the added amusement of his tormentors. Some in the crowd shouted that the event should be stopped. After four days, the score was O’Leary 290 miles, Campana 260. After five days, O’Leary extended the lead to 24 miles.

A reporter asked O’Leary if Campana was too old to on the track. O’Leary laughed and said he wasn’t too old, that others had done better. He then pulled a newspaper article out of his pocket from London Field, which he had been carrying around for a long time. It mentioned that Mr. Eustace, age 77, had walked 200 miles in four days, in 1792. Also, John Batby, age 55, had walked 700 miles in fourteen days, in 1788. O’Leary then said, “’Sport’ is lauded as being the best old man the world ever produced, and he is young compared to men who accomplished long distances nearly 100 years ago. As an extraordinary walker, I think he is a failure, but as a man of pluck, worthy of praise.”

Both men started to keep themselves going by using stimulants. “Sport was walking in a continual state of semi-intoxication. He was in such excellent spirits and shuffled around the track in such a lively manner as to surprise the spectators and draw forth hearty applause from all sides. He is full of pluck and, when resting in his hut, jokes with his attendants and plays with his dogs. Although the man has given a very poor exhibition of walking, he is certainly game, and has great powers of endurance.”

Campana was a mess on the last day. “Livid rings were under the eyes and great seams that seemed conduits of woe and weariness ran downward past the corners of his mouth. His left foot was turned outward at precise right-angles with the right one, and every time he swung it forward, he used his hand for its assistance. Shouts of ‘Old Stag’ and ‘Old Sport’ instead of ‘Young Sport’ were yelled at him so often that they seemed like guns at a funeral.” One man yelled, “crawl along old blue fish!” Campana saw the fellow, suddenly stopped, and was about to strike the offender, but there were too many bystanders.

O’Leary suffered from terrible blisters on his feet and didn’t dare take off his shoes for fear he wouldn’t be able to put them back on. He was greeted by cheer after cheer. In the end, O’Leary reached only 400.5 miles to Campana’s 357 miles.

O’Leary declared a day later, “It was the poorest six days’ walk that I have ever made. I do not think that I shall walk much more.” When asked about Campana, he commented that he was a wonderful plucky man who was attended to poorly for the first two days of the walk. A doctor had wrapped his leg too tightly. O’Leary said, “I have a great respect for him. He must have suffered intensely.” When asked if Campana was too old to be a professional walker, O’Leary said, “I do not attribute his failure to old age. Mark my words, he’ll surprise people yet.”

Campana appeared on the streets that day after the race. “Those who recognized him were astounded at his exhibition of vigor and resolution after the dreadful ordeal through which he had gone.” After dinner, he went into a saloon and showed people his swollen, raw leg. Later, back at his hotel room at Putnam House, he was interviewed by reporters, with two dogs near him. The air was thick with the heavy odor of liniments. He gave some blame for his poor performance on shoes provided by O’Leary’s shoemaker that didn’t work at all. He implied it was a “put-up job” purposely designed to make him fail. He was also suspicious that the doctor may have wrapped his leg too tightly on purpose.

Campana’s Downfall

A week later, William Caufield revealed that Campana’s “world record,” set back in November, at Bridgeport, Connecticut, had been cheated. Caufield was a timer in the event and admitted that he had credited Campana an extra 20 miles every morning and ran ten miles for him each night while Campana was sleeping. A second witness signed an affidavit that ten extra miles were given to Campana on the last day to help him reach 521.25 miles before time ran out. Campana never denied the charge, and started to call himself, “champion long-distance runner and walker of the world.” O’Leary would have never run against him if he had known that he was a fraud and pretender.

The press was not kind to Campana. “Campana proved an utter failure as a long-distance walker, and was of course, like all of his kind, ready with excuses for not having done what he promised. The truth is, that he is an old, played-out man, whose days for tremendous exertions have long since passed.”

Another article summed up the disappointing six-day race held at Gilmore’s Garden, “When someone has made a great hit in a particular line of public entertainment, crowds of frauds and pretenders are sure to foist themselves on the public, in the hope of raking in heaps of shekels. Pedestrianism is no exception to this rule. Frauds forced themselves before a long-suffering public.”

Campana received about $2,000 ($63,000 in today’s value) from the race against O’Leary. The original agreement was that he needed to reach 450 miles to receive any of the gate money. However, halfway through the race, when it became clear that he would not reach that amount, his backers threatened to pull him off the track, leaving O’Leary alone on the track, resulting in no interest in the event. O’Leary’s team agreed to guarantee Campana $2,000 if he stayed the entire six days.

Within a couple of weeks, he bought a new house in Waterbury, Connecticut, and furnished it luxuriously. After moving in, his new young wife Jennie pressed charges against Campana for beating and choking her, but they were reconciled. On his right leg, he had her name tattooed, “Jennie Dalton Campana” within a wreath. He was a man of many tattoos. On his chest he had tattoos of his sporting friends, including boxers John L. Sullivan and Yankee Sullivan. On his left hand he had tattooed, “Young Sport.”

Old Sport Campana would win back the spectators of the sport. He was just beginning… To be continued…

Sources:

Hartford Courant (Connecticut), Nov 19, 1878
The Boston Globe (Massachusetts), Dec 9, 29, 1878
The Cincinnati Enquirer (Ohio), Dec 24, 1878
The New York Times (New York), Nov 14, Dec 27, 1878
Harrisburg Daily Independent (Pennsylvania), Nov 14, 1878
Buffalo Post (New York), Nov 16, 1878
New York Daily Herald, (New York), Nov 16, 17, Dec 30, 1878
The New York Times (New York), Nov 17, 19, Dec 15, 23-26, 1878
Louis Post-Dispatch (Missouri), Nov 19, 1878
The Boston Globe (Massachusetts), Dec 7, 9, 1878
The Cincinnati Enquirer (Ohio), Dec 23, 1878
New-York Tribune (New York), Dec 24, 1878
The Philadelphia Times (Pennsylvania), Dec 26, 1878

168: Old Sport Campana (1836-1906) – Part One