The untold story of ‘Chariots of Fire’ runner Eric Liddell – and why his greatest act came next

Paris, 1924. Eric Liddell is poised at the starting line of the 400m track, a union jack sitting proudly on the breast of his white running kit. It took him 47.6 seconds to make history that day – Liddell set a new Olympic and world record during the sprint. It was a race that would later be immortalised in the 1981 Oscar-winning film Chariots of Fire. 

If you have seen the film, you’ll be forgiven for thinking you know the other dramatic storylines in his short life, too – notably that he was more famous for the race that he didn’t win during the Paris Olympics that year.

The Scot had been a favourite to take the gold medal for the 100m sprint, but when the event timetable was released, he declined his place. “I’m not running on a Sunday,” he said. His commitment to his religious beliefs came first.

The headlines weren’t kind. Liddell was branded a traitor. He received abuse. Still, he stuck to his conviction. Few believed he would redeem himself in the 400m, a race that required a different athletic discipline from the 100m bolt he had been expected to take part in – and for which a gold medal was considered “the jewel of the Games”.

In just under 48 seconds, though, he was flying over the finish line, delivering an emotional and triumphant end to what The Times would describe the following day as “probably the most dramatic race seen on a running track”. 

But, as I was to discover, winning a gold medal is actually one of the least interesting things Liddell did with his life.

My fascination with Liddell began as a young boy; my father was also Scottish, so I had grown up hearing bits of his story that were passed around as local folklore and legend. I was in my twenties when I first went to see Chariots of Fire in the week of its cinema release – I liked it so much that I ended up going two or three times more. I saw Liddell as this extraordinary character, someone so sure and yet so full of adventure and uncertainty.

His story, which is depicted in that film alongside fellow runner Harold Abrahams’ noble fight against antisemitism during the same Olympic Games, didn’t leave me. I started to track down anything that would teach me more about Liddell’s life, not expecting that, 30 years later, I’d be sitting down to write my own book about it – an endeavour that would take me all over the world. 

I believe Liddell was as close to a living saint as any man in modern history has been. His story began in China, where he was born in 1902. He lived there until he was five, before returning to England to attend a boarding school for the sons of missionaries, Eltham College in south London.

He’d always stood out in sports, playing rugby and cricket at school, but it wasn’t until he enrolled at Edinburgh University that he became known as the fastest runner in Scotland.

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We all know what happened next – but it was Liddell’s little-known life after the 1924 games that really fascinated me. He carried on sprinting for the next year or so, but while his sporting career was at its peak, he moved back to China – a plan he’d always had, but that no one expected him to follow through with after his unprecedented success in the Olympics.

It wasn’t as though he didn’t have options. While there weren’t the same commercial opportunities for winners of the Olympics as there are now, Liddell’s win could have been life-changing. He could have gone and taught anywhere. He could have gone to Cambridge; he even had offers to sit in boardrooms and lend his name to companies. He could have made some money. But that wasn’t the destiny he believed had been chosen for him. 

Instead, he went to China to fulfil his calling to work as a missionary, to try to make a difference. He left behind what would have been quite a cushy life to live in relative poverty in an extremely remote part of the country. Why?

Basically, he really believed that he would be letting himself down, as well as his family – both of his parents worked as missionaries – if he were to choose another path. It was this kind of belief and unselfish act that would come to define Liddell far beyond the realms of the Games, as I would soon find out. 

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I went to Weihsien, in China’s Shandong Province, while retracing his steps, and I was told numerous stories that show how Liddell led a life of belief and faith – and why.

Back then, in the 1930s, there were warlords in China, as well as Japanese troops, so anywhere he went on foot was extremely dangerous. One day, he found a man on the road who had been attacked and severely injured. Most would have left him to die, but Liddell set about persuading a local farmer to lend him a cart. The farmer was not keen to help – if they had been caught, they’d certainly have been beaten, and likely executed. Still, Liddell refused to give up on the injured man. 

He walked for 12 miles, pulling the man along in the cart, eventually bringing him to safety. By chance, they didn’t encounter any soldiers along the way, which Liddell felt was divine intervention. Similarly, on a short trip home just before the beginning of the war, the ship carrying Liddell and his wife, Florence – whom he had married in 1934 – was torpedoed. He could see the blast ripping through the water, and resigned himself to death. But miraculously, the ship didn’t sink.

The couple went on to have two daughters, and Liddell spent much of his time in China teaching maths and science, using his athletic skills to train pupils in various sports. He also frequently visited poorer villages, helping in any way he could.

But as the war in Europe escalated, things grew more dangerous. Liddell put his pregnant wife and daughters on a boat that would carry them to the safety of Canada, where their remaining family resided, but he vowed to stay, choosing not to abandon those less fortunate than himself. He would never see his family again.  

In 1943, he was captured by the Japanese army and was held, as all enemy nationals were, at the Weihsien internment camp – a gruelling and punishing prisoner-of-war camp about 300 miles from Beijing. Basics like food and medicine were desperately scarce, and the camp was extremely crowded (between 1,600 and 1,800 internees were held there, although it was only the size of two football pitches), but Liddell did his best to keep his fellow prisoners’ spirits up. 

He made himself useful by helping others and teaching children in the camp. His presence became infamous – later there was a rumour that, when Winston Churchill heard he was being held at Weihsien, he had personally tried to get him released. It turned out to be little more than propaganda from the Chinese government, but it was telling of Liddell’s impact and the kind of high regard in which he was held. 

On the camp’s annual sports day, Liddell, of course, used his running prowess to try to cheer everyone up. In 1945, he took to the starting line to run his race, which he had won every time without fail. This time, however, he lost. It was the first clue that Liddell’s body couldn’t keep up with his determined mind. He had a brain tumour, and died in the camp later that year, aged 43.

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His body was buried in a wooden casket so fragile that his pallbearers – other prisoners at the camp – feared that the nails and glue holding it together might fail. He is buried at the site of the camp – and now there is a plaque for him, put up by the Chinese, who consider him their Olympic champion since he was born and died in China. 

During the years when I was writing the book on his life, I was immersed in Liddell’s world. I visited China, America and Canada, where I met his daughters, Heather, Maureen and Patricia. They talked about the house where the Liddell family used to live (which is now a restaurant), and welcomed me in. Unlike their famous father, they’ve all lived very low-key lives. But they are dedicated to perpetuating his memory, and keeping alive his enduring faith. 

Later, I met the wife of a bodybuilder who had been imprisoned with Liddell in the camp. Returning to England, he and his wife went to see Chariots of Fire together. When the film was over, he told her quietly that he had been the person who beat Liddell in his final race, a fact he’d never revealed until then.

As a biographer, I’ve grown smart about who I choose to spend my time writing about – because you really do have to live their life. When it comes to Liddell, it was impossible to do that and not question my own. How could I be better? How could I be kinder? Could I be more considerate? More helpful? 

He was such an unselfish man. He was a hugely talented runner, yes – but he was so much more than that. Liddell’s untold story is not just one of glory, but one of sacrifice. And even now he continues to inspire, generation after generation. As the Olympics returns to Paris 100 years after his famous race, we should remember him – and the hero he was off the track, too.

As told to Zoe Beaty

‘For the Glory: The life of Eric Liddell’ by Duncan Hamilton is out now