The Tale of Atalanta

Atalanta, the runner of ancient Greek legend was, in the beguiling account from Latin verse by the Roman poet Ovid, as outstanding in her beauty as her athletic talent. When an oracle warned her against marriage, she stipulated that she would marry only a suitor who could beat her in a race, and that those who failed would suffer death.

Many "rash lovers" were outrun and cut down "for their love's excess." In time, a new hero, Hippomenes, or Melanion in different versions, hears of the challenge. At first, he is skeptical, but when Atalanta disrobes for her next race, "his heart took fire" and he sent in his entry blank.

The story in Ovid's poem is told by Venus the Goddess of Love, who says that when Hippomenes prayed for her help, she gave him three golden apples to drop during the race. Atalanta is not only "surpassingly beautiful" with "her long hair streaming out behind her pure ivory back", she is also, in Ovid's poem, convincingly human, taking a fancy to Hippomenes and reluctant to beat him and condemn him to death.

Here is the race between them, in a new translation from Ovid by author Roger Robinson, from his book, Running In Literature:

They crouched close together, tensed for the start. The trumpet blared, and away they flashed. To the spectators it looked as if their flying feet hardly touched the sandy ground. They just skimmed along-as if they were racing over water without getting their feet wet, or flitting like birds over a field of corn without bending the stalks.

The crowd got right behind Hippomenes, up on their feet, yelling: "Now! Now! Go! Give it all you've got! [Nuc, nuc, incumbere tempus!] Great job! Now, focus, good work, be tough, Hippomenes, you can do it!" All the support for her challenger privately pleased Atalanta as much as it encouraged him.

She was in no mood to beat him. Time and again she drew level, gazed across with longing affection into his face, and eased back the pace again. But the pressure was beginning to tell on Hippomenes. He was in oxygen debt. His breathing heaved and cracked, his throat burned, his mouth felt parched. And the finish was still way off. He pulled out the first golden apple and rolled it glittering across the course. Atalanta, astonished at its beauty, checked stride and stooped to pick it up. The crowed was going crazy as Hippomenes went back into he lead, but she powered right back into full stride, closed the gap, and moved ahead. The second apple came bounding by. Again she checked stride, pulled up, grabbed it, and went after him.

They were coming off the last bend with the finish in sight when he muttered a quick prayer to Venus and threw the last apple, putting it obliquely across her path and off to the side of the track. For a stride she hesitated, but an impulse of love sent her after it once more. Now she was clutching three apples. They weighed heavy, and the gap was too great. She slowed to a jog. The race was over.

Hippomenes passed the finish. Atalanta jogged up to him, slipped the apples into the crook of one arm, and took him by the hand. The victor led away his prize.