How to Set a World Record
William Allen

Absolutely anyone can set a world record. The key to doing something better, longer, faster, or in larger quantity than anyone else is desire. Desire fostered by proper attitude.

Before I set my world record, I was a great fan of The Guinness Book of World Records and read each new edition from cover to cover. I liked knowing and being able to tell others that the world's chug-a-lug champ consumed 2.58 pints of beer in 10 seconds, that the world's lightest adult person weighed only 13 pounds, that the largest vocabulary for a talking bird was 531 words, spoken by a brown-beaked budgerigar named Sparky. There is, of course, only a fine line between admiration and envy, and for awhile I had been secretly desiring to be in that book myself to astonish others just as I had been astonished. But it seemed hopeless. How could a nervous college sophomore, an anonymous bookworm, perform any of those wonderful feats? The open-throat technique necessary for chug-a- lugging was incomprehensible to my trachea and I thought my head alone must weigh close 33 pounds.

One day I realized what was wrong. Why should I want to break a record at all? Why not blaze a trail of my own? Now, as you can see, I definitely had desire, but more than that I discovered I had talent. This is where we may differ. You may have no talent at all. If not, you can still go on to set a world record that will be well worth setting. It requires no talent to wear a sock longer than anyone else has ever worn a sock. It requires no talent to wear a nickel taped on your forehead longer than anyone else it requires desire fostered by proper attitude.

First, though, search long and hard for that hidden talent you may possess. Let me offer one important guideline. Don't follow the beaten path. Look for your own personal gift, the little something that you've always had a knack for, a certain way with. It could conceivably be anything at all sewing on buttons efficiently, waxing a car fast yet well, or speed-rolling your hair.

My own gift broom-balancing was developed in my back yard when I was a child. When I remembered the unusual ability, I immediately wrote the editors of the Guinness book in London.

Dear Sirs:

I have read with enjoyment The Guinness Book of World Records and I want you to know that I intend to contribute to your next edition.

Thinking back today, I recalled that as a child I had an uncanny talent for balancing a common house broom on the end of my forefinger. Rushing to the kitchen, I found that I have retained this gift over the years. Since almost everyone must have at some time attempted this feat, I think it would be an appropriate addition to your book.

I would like to know exactly what must be done to establish a record how many witnesses, what sort of timing device, etc. If you will provide me with this information, I will provide you with a broom-balancing record that should astonish your readers and last for years to come.

Sincerely,

William Allen

The reply came next week.

Dear Mr. Allen:

In order to establish a world record of broom-balancing, we would like to have the confirmation of a newspaper report and an affidavit from one or more witnesses. With regard to the timing device, I think that a good wrist watch with a second hand would prove sufficient for this purpose.

Please let us know the duration of your best effort.

Sincerely,

Andrew Thomas
Assistant Editor

It sounds simple, but a lot of preparation must go into setting a world record. You can't just set it. You must advertise, generate public interest. The purpose of this is to lure in the news media. It's absolutely necessary to have a write-up if your record is going to stick. And, of course, you will want the article for your scrapbook later on. Imagine what would happen if you just went into the bathroom and brushed your teeth for eight hours and then called the newspapers. They would think you were crazy. But if you generated interest beforehand involved a local drugstore chain, got a name-brand toothpaste to sponsor you then you wouldn't be crazy at all. You might even come to be something of an authority and make a career out of promoting things to do with teeth.

I took a slightly different tack. I ran an ad in the college newspaper which read, in part: "FREE BEER! FREE BEER! Come one, come all, to Bill Allen's Broom-Balancing Beer Bust! Yes, friends, Bill will attempt to balance a common house broom on his forefinger for at least one hour to establish a world record. The editors of The Guinness Book of World Records in London are anxiously awaiting the outcome. The evening will be covered by the press. Ties will not be necessary. Come one, come all, to this historic event!"

May I suggest you find yourself a good manager before you try to set your record. My roommate, Charlie, was mine and he proved to be invaluable. On the big night, he drew with chalk a small circle on the living room floor so I would have a place to stand. He cunningly scattered copies of the Guinness book on the coffee table. He had the good sense to make me wear a coat and tie: "You don't want to go down in history looking like a bum, do you? Of course not. You want to make a good impression."

The ad in the paper paid off, naturally. Over 50 people showed up, filling our apartment and spilling out onto the lawn. Some left after their two-beer limit, but most remained to see the outcome. There was some problem, though, in holding the group's interest. For the first 10 minutes or so, they were fine, placing bets, commenting on my technique. After that, their minds tended to stray. They began to talk of other matters. One couple had the nerve to ask if they could put music on and dance in the kitchen.

Charlie handled the situation like a professional. He began to narrate the event, serving as a combination sportscaster and master of ceremonies. "Ladies and gentlemen, give me your attention please. We are at mark 15 minutes. At this time, I would like you to look at Bill's feet. You will notice that they are not moving. This is an indication of his skill. If you've ever tried broom-balancing yourself, you know that the tendency is to run around the room in an effort to maintain stability."

Someone said, "He's right. I tried it today and that's exactly what you do."

At the 20-minute mark, Charlie said, "Ladies and gentlemen, I have an announcement. Bill's previous top practice time was 20 minutes. He has just beaten his own record! Anything can happen from here on in, folks. Pay attention."

You might be wondering about my emotions at this point. I hadn't slept well the night before, and all day I had been a nervous wreck. I hadn't been able to eat. I had a horrible sinking feeling every time I thought about what was coming up. But once I started, I found I wasn't nervous at all. Not a trace of stage fright. In fact, I blossomed under the attention. I realized this was where I had belonged all along in the center. Someone began to strum a guitar and I foolishly began to bob my broom in time to the music. "Don't get cocky," my manager warned. "You've got a long way to go yet."

At mark 30 minutes, Charlie held up his hands for silence. "Listen to this, folks! The halfway point has been passed! We're halfway to history! And I want you people to know that Bill is feeling good! He's not even sweating! I swear I don't understand how he does it. How many people can even stand in one place that long?"

I had no clear idea who was in the room, or what they were doing. In order to balance a broom, you have to stare right at the straw. I'm not sure why this is, but it's certainly the case. You can't look away for even a second. By using peripheral vision, I was able to see a vague sea of heads but it wasn't worth the effort and I gave up. While in this awkward position, I heard the low, sinister voice of a stranger address me: "You know everyone here thinks you're crazy, don't you? I think I'll just step on your feet and see how you like that. You couldn't do anything about it. You wouldn't even know who did it because you can't look down."

"Charlie!" I called. "Come here!"

My manager had the situation under control in seconds. After he had hustled the character out the door, he said, "Don't worry, folks. Just a heckler. One in every crowd, I guess."

I must say that Charlie's earlier remark that I was in good shape was a lie and I was feeling worse by the second. At mark 45 minutes, my neck seemed to have become locked in its upward arch. My legs were trembling and the smaller toes on each foot were without feeling. My forefinger felt like it was supporting a length of lead pipe. But more startling, I think, was the strain on my mind. I felt giddy. Strange that I have this gift, I reflected. I can't even walk around the block without occasionally wobbling off to one side. It suddenly seemed as though all the balance normally spread throughout the human body had somehow converged in my forefinger. Wouldn't it be ironic, I thought dizzily, if I just toppled over? I sniggered, seeing myself flat on my back with the broom still perfectly poised on my finger. Then I began to observe the broomstraw in incredible detail. Each stick seemed huge, like trees...logs...telephone poles...

"Are you okay?" Charlie asked. I snapped out of it and reported my condition. He turned to the crowd. "Folks! With only ten minutes to go, I would like us to reflect on the enormous physical and mental strain Bill is suffering right before our eyes. It's the price all champions pay, of course, when they go the distance, when they stretch the fibers of their being to the breaking point." His voice became lower, gruffer. "You may as well know. Bill has been hallucinating for some time now. But think of it, folks. While all over this country of ours, people are destroying their minds with dangerous drugs, Bill here is achieving the ends they seek his voice rose: he cried, " with no chance of dangerous after-effects!"

Even in my condition, I knew he was going too far. I called him over to loosen my shoelaces and whispered, "Cut the speeches, okay? Just let them watch for awhile."

The hour mark came amazingly fast after that. There was a loud 10-second countdown, then the press's flashbulbs and strobes began going off like starbursts. Everybody began clapping and cheering. Using my peripheral vision, I saw that the crowd was on its feet, jumping around. I saw the happy, grinning faces.

I kept balancing. Charlie conferred with me, then yelled, "Folks! Bill is not going to stop! He says he will balance till he drops! Isn't he something? Take your seats, ladies and gentlemen. You're witnessing history tonight. Relax and enjoy it." The group was for seeing me drop, all right, but they didn't want to wait around all night for it. They became louder and harder to handle. They wanted more beer. At mark one hour, 15 minutes, I was on the verge of collapse anyway, so I gave in and tossed the broom in the air. With a feeble flourish, I caught it with the other hand and the record was set.

But no world record is truly set until someone has tried and failed to break it. After the congratulations, the interviews, the signing up of witnesses, it was time for everybody else to try it. They didn't have a chance, of course. Most lasted only a pitiful few seconds, and the two best times were seven and 10 minutes. These two had talent but lacked the rest of the magic combination.

My record never appeared in The Guinness Book of World Records. I'm not sure why. Maybe they thought I should have gone longer. Maybe the plane carrying the news went down in the Atlantic. At any rate, they never wrote back and I never bothered to check on it. I knew by then that it didn't matter. The record had still been set. I had the write-up and this alone brought me all the acclaim I could handle.

You too, can enjoy the same success. And don't worry if you don't have a talent such as mine. There is a man in Iowa who collects dirty oil rags. He has over a thousand so far more than anyone else in the world. He's not in the Guinness book, either, but people still stop by almost daily to see his collection and ask his opinion about this or that. His picture often appears in the local papers.

All it takes is desire fostered by proper attitude.

(Taken from: Thomas Cooley, The Norton Sampler, Third edition.)

© 1998 Ervin Nemeth. All rights reserved.