12 Seconds with the Boss
I was 21 years old when Bruce Springsteen’s Born in the U.S.A. was released. My brother Scott and I bought that album and added Born to Run and Darkness on the Edge of Town, because why not. As I listened to those albums my mind opened, particularly during Darkness on the Edge of Town. Badlands, the first track, perfectly described how I feel about life, that you can be defiant in the face of heartbreak. From that moment Bruce Springsteen’s music became part of the fabric of my life.
Thirty-two years later I am standing in the wind and rain outside a bookstore in downtown Toronto to finally meet the Boss. In a two hour window six hundred fans will shake Bruce’s hand, have a picture taken with him on our own cameras, and pick up an autographed copy of his autobiography, Born to Run. I did the math. We each have 12 seconds. Not much time.
The night before I had rehearsed my 12 seconds with my 12-year-old son Shane standing in as Bruce. Shane’s first concert was a Springsteen show, 4 years earlier. Shane partied gamely for 3 hours and 35 minutes, right through “Twist and Shout”, which everyone believed was the final encore. Then Bruce said “one more song” and launched into Glory Days. Shane, in turn, launched onto my shoulders and collapsed. Bruce rocked him to sleep. Earlier this year Bruce did the same thing with my 8-year-old Curtis.
At 10:00 we enter the doors of Indigo on Bay Street. The first barrier is cleared, and none too soon. The umbrella I bought had exploded in the wind. But another hurdle awaits. After I receive my wristband, a representative of Simon & Schuster, the book’s publisher, says “please leave any gifts or notes for Mr. Springsteen in this bin. We’ll make sure he gets them.” There goes the bottle of Jack Daniels I was going to hand Bruce. Fortunately I had anticipated this. I have paper, a pen and a rubber band. I write “I’ve always wanted to buy you a drink. Thanks for the all the great music” sign my name, wrap the rubber band around the note and bottle and drop it in the bin. Down the stairs I go to join the indoor lineup.
I have been separated from my line-mates, a group that goes to concerts together. Sadly, none of my Boss Fan Friends got a ticket. Now my brand-new friends are gone too. Only one thing to do. Make new friends. I talk to some of the people stranded in Teen Fiction with me. John, a middle-aged guy with a nice camera, is telling stories to Teri, a 67-year-old woman from Toronto, and Melissa, a 26-year-old who had driven up from Buffalo the night before. The line moves on to the Entertainment and Performing Arts section and more stories come out. Bruce brought Teri on stage for Dancing in the Dark in Rochester. She shows me the video.
I hear a 30ish redheaded woman telling John a story. Her name is Alison, and she was conceived after a Born in the U.S.A. show in 1984. She has a picture of her parents wedding and hopes Bruce will say “Happy Anniversary”. Randy chimes in. He’s seen Bruce a whopping 56 times and has met him twice already. He still needs another 12 seconds of Boss time. Another woman, whose name escapes me, flew in from P.E.I. this morning for this.
Everyone is so nice, but that should not be a surprise. It occurs to me that if you relate to the values in Bruce’s music you likely have those values yourself. Springsteen fandom may be self-selecting warm folks, Chris Christie notwithstanding. We are all making new friends as Bruce’s music plays over the loudspeakers. I try to take a picture of the crowd. My phone won’t do it! The memory is full. Furiously, I delete pictures of my children (they are mostly doubles). I have a spare camera too, in case the phone has more problems.
At noon the announcement comes “He may have been Born in the U.S.A. but today he belongs to Canada!” Bruce is here! People cheer! Wait! He is an hour early! Does that mean our 12 seconds has ballooned to 18 seconds? We’ll see.
The line starts to move. People are combing their hair ‘til it’s just right (sorry). Middle aged women in low cut tops fix their makeup. This is great. Two long haired dudes in their early 20s talk about how their dad got them into Springsteen and how they feel the mere 3 concerts they have attended doesn’t measure up. We tell them 3 concerts is great. Teri doesn’t even count. Who cares? It’s not a competition. We all love his music.
As the line winds through book cases, we catch glimpses of Bruce with his fans in the distance. No, we won’t get 18 seconds. As we get closer there is a coat/bag check so that you don’t have to haul a bunch of stuff with you during THE MOMENT. Nice touch Indigo/Simon & Schuster.
We get closer still. Have your cameras ready! I had hoped to take a picture of Alison. She is running video for her parents’ anniversary and won’t get a still otherwise. Not going to happen. The PEI woman in line behind me is trembling.
We are close! A young woman comes to take my camera. I tell her to take stills of Alison too. No problem. Alison goes first. She tells the story quickly, holds up the picture and says “Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad!” Bruce smiles and says “Happy, happy, happy.”
I am up. This is the same rush I felt when I hit the starting gate of my only marathon. I step forward. Bruce is ready to receive me.
Since I got the ticket two days I ago I have wondered what this brief experience will mean to me. I have a relationship with Bruce Springsteen’s music, not the man himself. I certainly won’t get a relationship in 12 seconds. I used a vacation day for moments with a stranger. So what is this, really?
The night before I was talking to my friend Larry.He said “the moment won’t mean much to him but it will mean a lot to you.” It’s clear Springsteen understands this already. Bruce is ready to receive me.
I step forward and stick out my hand. He takes it. He looks me in the eye. It’s there. The connection. This is what I want. Even though he understands this is my moment, I think he wants it too. ight
I say “Thanks for all the great music. It’s been a big part of my life.” He smiles warmly. He has heard words like this thousands of time but he accepts it like it is the first. Our faces are close together. It’s an intimate moment. We turn to the camera. I put my arm around him. As soon as the picture is taken I say “and I am so sorry for what I have done to it on karaoke night,” I feel his shoulders shake. A gravelly “ha, ha, ha” slips out. It feels genuine. That was my moment. Appreciation and a laugh.
I move off to allow the next connection. I barely remember getting my phone back. We move to the coat check collection. PEI Woman comes up behind me. She is trembling.
We are given our autographed books and leave the store. Some of us decide to go for lunch. After being received we need to commune. Teri, Alison, Melissa, Randy, Joey and I go upstairs for lunch. We are all still buzzing.
After we order lunch, Melissa says she is not happy with her picture. Teri tells her “go back and ask them to take it again. They will.” Melissa gets her wristband, which had been cut off as we left, and goes back. Twenty minutes later she returns. She brings a story.
This summer Melissa’s 18-year-old sister died in a car crash. Melissa’s first time through line she told Bruce his music helped her get through the suffering. When her picture was retaken Bruce said to her “Did you have a sign requesting Terry’s Song in the pit in Pittsburgh?” Terry’s Song is a eulogy to Bruce’s longtime assistant Terry Magovern. When Bruce saw the sign in Pittsburgh, which included a picture of the 18-year-old girl, he asked Melissa “is this your sister?” Bruce remembered that connection. I don’t know about anyone else at the table but when I heard that story I choked up.
Melissa said “I don’t think you can really appreciate Bruce’s music until you’ve lived a little.”
Why did this day mean so much? Why did 600 people spend hours in line for 10 seconds with one man? Why were so many people disappointed they could not do the same? Why did strangers suddenly relate to each other? Springsteen’s music taps into the pain of life and defiance you need to keep moving forward. It celebrates “that it ain’t no sin to be glad you’re alive.” The artist and his fans are connected by those ideals. We were there to feel that connection and return it to him. It turns out twelve seconds was just enough time to do that.
Still, the picture and autographed book were a nice bonus.
My Marathon
Okay. This is starting to feel cool.
My cousin Lou and I are drifting with a long river of runners into the Direct Energy Centre at Exhibition Place to pick up our pre-race packets for the Scotiabank Toronto Waterfront Marathon.
The conference room is draped in running gear, nutrition supplements and enthusiastic volunteers. I open my pre-race packet, a red bag/backpack, to find ads, tasty giveaways, and most importantly my timing chip and my running bib. My name is printed out in big letters just above my number. CRAIG 4288.
Yes. This is starting to feel cool.
That feeling had been missing for more than a month. 5 weeks ago I was 20 kilometres into a 30 kilometre run when I realized I was starting to limp badly. I flagged a cab home. By the time I got into the kitchen my right foot could barely support my weight.
A visit to the local physiotherapist revealed the culprit - really low arches. I started rehab. A week later I ran again. I was down the block and around the corner before I had to turn around and come back. The marathon is a month away and I can’t even run one kilometre.
More stretching. More stationary bike rides. I even got some advice on how to run differently. I thought I was running on my forefoot but apparently I was not doing it enough.
I gave the new method a try. It seemed to work at first. Then, one week before the marathon, about 5 kilometres into my planned 13 kilometre run, my right calf tightened up. I stopped immediately. Every remedy I could find at Shoppers Drug Mart came home with me.
The final insult came on the Thursday before the race. I got a cold. I thought it would be just a stuffy nose but it just got worse and worse leading up to the race. Since I have sleep apnea a stuffy head means I can’t sleep with my CPAP. This device blows air down my throat to keep it from collapsing at night. Without it I wake up, just a little bit, about 400 times an hour. The night before the race a combination of cold medication and nasal sprays allows me to wear the device.
So this cool feeling is especially welcome. My participation had been in doubt, but despite the cold it is game on.
My cousin Lou is a police officer from Austin, Texas. His wife Joanna and 8 month old daughter are here as well. Lou is always in amazing shape but he’s trimmed down even more for this. Our other partner was supposed to be my older brother Jim, from New Jersey. He roped me into this by sending me his registration form for the race. There was no conversation prior just the implied message “I’m going to run a marathon in your back yard. You can come watch me or………”. When I asked my wife if she was okay with my committing the time to training she just said “we already both know you’re going to do it.” Unfortunately Jim had to drop out with a calf injury. Jim and his wife Lynn are here anyway to visit and to cheer us on.
The morning of the race Lou and I catch a cab down to the start line. It is overcast. The temperature is around 9 degrees. We are meeting my brother Scott and his wife Natasha. They are going to carry my backpack with warm clothing and some supplies we may need later in the race. I wondered if Scott would join us. In fact the night before I asked him “Have you been secretly training and are running the race tomorrow?”
Scott’s reply was “why would I do that?”
When he left I said to Lou “you notice he didn’t deny it”.
We see Scott and Natasha down the street. Scott is dressed in running shoes, black shorts, and a black and blue short sleeve windbreaker over a black tech shirt. Lou said “are you running?”
Scott pulled up his jacket and showed us his bib.
I love this about Scott.
So we pose for a picture then the three of us walk into the starting pen with thousands of other people. It takes a full 11 minutes before we get through the starting gate and the chips tied into our laces are activated.
The three of us are running down University Avenue past the opera house on our left, into a canyon of glass and steel towers. Our pace is casual, but the pulsing energy around us is anything but.
We turned left onto Wellington and see an even more wonderful site. Jim and Lynn are there cheering us on. I know it is killing Jim not to run this but you could not see a trace of that on his face. He is in full on support mode, and when Jim is full on anything it is impressive. High fives all around and on we go.
We slide through the crowd as the race goes east then south on to Lakeshore Boulevard where it heads west. This is something else. The Gardiner Expressway towers over us and a sea of humanity bobs up and down in a concrete cavern. We stop at the second water station. I have Gatorade and water. My plan is to fuel up at each one. I’m not going to give dehydration or energy depletion a chance. I have belt full of energy gels as well which I will take every half hour to 45 minutes. When I look up I can’t find Lou or Scott. I look back. Nope. I walk back. Nope. So I move ahead. There is Lou in his orange running shirt. I am wearing orange as well so that I am easy to spot. We are off. Lou stops to stretch occasionally and Scott and I usually do the same. Lou has run 5 previous marathons and Scott one so I am taking cues from them.
The mood is festive. There are a lot of people cheering on the sides of the route. Man I could get used to this. As we move towards the Exhibition grounds we start to see signs. At the Princess Gates I laugh out loud when I see a young woman’s message “THIS IS THE WORST PARADE EVER.”
It’s not much longer before we see the leaders coming back the other way. They are lean and their strides are long. They look like a different species, humans gene-spliced with greyhounds. One comes by dressed completely in a Flash outfit. That broke the spell a little bit.
As we move along I keep looking around to keep track of Scott and Lou. We are fairly close but the crowd of runners is huge. It’s easy to get lost as you dip and dart around people. I look back and see Lou stopping to stretch. He waves me on. That’s okay. He’ll catch up later. So on I push.
Off to my right is the 4:40 bunny. He is a sleek young man in his 20s with the time 4:40 pinned to the back of his windbreaker and grey construction paper bunny ears stapled to his hat. His job is to pace people who want to finish in 4 hours and 40 minutes. “No way. I am not taking 4 hours and 40 minutes to finish this race.” A week ago I wasn’t sure I’d be able to run. Now I’m getting competitive. My foot feels fine. My calf feels fine. I move past the 4:40 bunny and starting passing people. I see one of Scott’s friends and his wife on the side of the road so I run by and give him a playful fake punch in the stomach. Don’t worry. Scott’s coming.
At Windermere Road the course turns and goes back East. At the turn I see Natasha. I give her a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. The support really inspires you. No, I don’t need anything from the pack. I feel great. And I don’t want the 4:40 Bunny making any ground on me.
So now I’m going east. Lake Ontario blows us a brisk kiss. I see Scott coming west but not Lou. Curious. Did he get ahead of me somewhere? Did I lose him like I almost did at the second water stop? Could he be sandbagging with all the “I don’t care about the time talk?” After all he has run a 3:30 marathon. Granted he was 27 at the time, but still. I’d better try to catch Lou. I reach into my zipper pocket where I have a baggie containing a card with my name and number on it (in case I collapse), Tylenol and Motrin (for pain relief later) and $80 (in case I need to cab it home) and my Ipod. I take out the Ipod and dial up my first race playlist which I’ve named Persperation. The opening piano chords of “Prove It All Night” rings in my head. The steady beats of these songs get me into a good running groove as I move past the 15 kilometre mark.
Just shy of the Rogers Centre the path splits in two. On the left the half marathon runners peel back off into the city. On the right the marathon runners carry on. A lot of runners drift off to the left. I’m grateful for the room, but it gets a lot lonelier. I haven’t been running with anyone for a long time.
I see the Westin Harbour Castle hotel ahead. That’s where Jim and Lynn are staying and to no surprise there they are waiting for us. “Yay Craig!” yells Lynn. “Looking good bro” Jim yells with a big smile on his face.
“Have you seen Lou?” I said.
“No, hasn’t come through yet. Do you think he’s ahead of you?”
“Yeah, I thought he might have been sandbagging.”
Jim and Lynn look surprised and laugh. But I can’t stay and talk. I have to not only stay ahead of the 4:40 bunny, I have to catch the 4:30 bunny. And he is out there.
Up ahead looms the halfway point. I promised myself that I wouldn’t make any decisions about how I was going to race until I knew how I felt at the midway point. After all I missed 5 weeks of training. But I feel good. I feel the distance but I have life in me. So I make a decision. I am going to surrender to the less appealing parts of my personality. I am going to let my competitiveness rise to the surface. I am going after the 4:30 bunny. And I will pass one person at a time until I catch him.
I put on my next race playlist, Inspiration. The Rocky theme pumps in my head. “Trying hard now, it’s so hard now, feeling strong now”. Let’s go.
We turn south on to Cherry Beach. I’m passing a man probably about 5-10 years older than me when a teenage girl runs up and yells “I love you Dad. I’m so proud of you. You are awesome!” She runs with him. Ahead are a crowd of his friends with inspirational verses from the bible. I have tears in my eyes. I didn’t think that this experience is going to be so emotional, but it is.
On down Cherry Street I go and my hamstrings are starting to tighten up. When we make the turn I stop to stretch. The benefit last about 45 seconds. As I head north I see the 4:40 bunny. He is way to close. Then I see Scott and Lou running together. “How are you doing?” I ask. Scott says he’s feeling it. Lou asks how I am. I say “my legs are tight”. Lou says “stretch”. No need for that. I’ll just reach into my side pocket for my secret weapon. I’m going with the Tylenol first, then I’ll save the Motrin for another 10 kilometres. My left hand reaches down to undo the zipper. Huh? It’s already undone. Uh-oh.
The pocket is empty. The baggie must have fallen out when I took out my Ipod.
This is a shot. There will be no relief. No place to hide. It’s going to be me and this experience. I decide to get over it. I can’t waste any energy on what I don’t have.
The race turns east on Commissioner’s Road, past movie studio hangars. It is bleak and this area is ugly. We are 25 kilometres into the race. Despite the tightness in my legs I’m doing okay. A few people are passing me, but not many. I am still picking off people.
There’s another dip south on Leslie street. Then we turn around and come north .The water stations are becoming more welcome. Soon I will be at my maximum training distance, 29 kilometres. When I ran 26 kilometres I was counting down stop lights as I approached home. When I ran 29 I felt a lot better. Still, after this everything is a mystery.
I turn right back onto Lakeshore Boulevard. The next turn is north on Coxwell. I hope to see my wife Nancy and my sons Shane, 7 and Curtis,3, there but this is not guaranteed. Sophia was running a slight fever this morning so that may need some extra attention. Curtis is also a wild card. Three year olds aren’t known for patiently waiting on a curb for an hour in the cold win to see if someone runs by. I hope they will be there, but it’s a crap shoot. I turn north on Coxwell at the movie theatre. I look ahead. No family. It’s a letdown, but only because I am already so emotional. I grab some Gatorade, water and eat another gel. I have to keep going.
I turn right and head into the beaches. I am past 30 kilometres. It’s no man’s land.
Despite everything I feel surprisingly good. I’m still moving. We are on Queen Street going east through the Beaches. I love this part of town with its quaint shops and pretty little parks. Nancy and I take the boys to a playground down here.
We hit the 32 kilometre mark and I say to the person next to me “just 10 k left”.
He says “you’re an optimist man”.
I say “We just have to keep going.”
I see his name tag. Shea. Cool. Like the stadium.
Step by step my legs are getting heavier. I am counting on seeing the kilometre markers go by for motivation but I haven’t seen one in a long time. I reach for my Ipod. I have an emergency playlist but I’m not ready for that yet. I turn on my usual running playlist. Emeinen’s Lose Yourself sung by Detroit’s Selected of God Choir pumps into me. Yes. This is good. I am no longer passing people. People have started to pass me. And it’s not the fast people either. I am into a different zone now. I am spending more time at the water stations. I’m walking a little past the end of the table. When well wishers say things like “you got this Craig” I soak it up. The gels are no longer going down so well. The Gatorades are a little acidic too. My fuel options are limited.
By the time we turn around at the eastern end of race and go west on Queen Street I am struggling, desperate for some markers. As I head west I look at the east bound runners for the 4:40 bunny. I see him. I’m still ahead. Do I still have a shot at the 4:30 bunny? Do I care? Can I afford to think like that anymore?
I see Scott and Lou. Scott says he is hurting. Lou doesn’t say much. I can’t remember what I said even after I said it. The thought crosses my mind to stop and wait, but it doesn’t stay.
Shea and I are on the same pace. People are passing me. I pass some of them when they stop to walk. I am no longer trying to pick people off. I am no longer trying to keep from being picked off. I am trying to keep moving forward. I reach for my next playlist, Desperation. Bruce Springsteen’s Lonesome Day starts it off. “It’s gonna be okay, if I can just get through this lonesome day.”
I am almost at Coxwell again. Will I get a familiar face? Wait. Who’s that on the corner/ Hey,it’s my good friend Larry Bambrick. He has a big smile. Up goes his hand for a high five. “IT AINT SO BAD! IT AINT SO BAD!!” He yells. I had borrowed that from Rocky III for our Tough Mudder obstacle course experience last November. As our hands slap I say “it really, really is.” I am at 36 kilometres.
Onto Eastern Avenue we go. I can feel a crowd beside me. I look to me left. I see the grey construction paper ears. It’s him. The 4:40 bunny has caught me. There’s nothing I can do about it. On we go. It’s not too long before he says to his crew “it’s time to walk”. Good. I can still stay ahead.
As I push on through I see something else moving up on my left. It’s Larry on his bike. “Is it alright if I ride with you?”
“That would be great. “
As we move down Eastern Avenue we talk. I’m grateful for the company. At least the solitude is over. Anything helps because there is no way to describe what I am going through. I am moving slow. My legs have been injected with concrete. Am I running? Am I shuffling? I’m not walking. Yet. I promised myself I wouldn’t walk except through the aid stations. I am about to break that promise.
“Larry. I have to walk. I have to.” I stop and walk a bit .”I’m just walking to the lights” At the lights I start running again.
Then he’s there again. Not Larry. That other guy. The 4:40 bunny. I look at him and say “ I have been trying so hard to stay ahead of you.”
He looked over to me with blank eyes. “Oh, I’m not on pace anymore.”
I’m not even being passed by the 4:40 Bunny anymore. I’m being passed by the sad shell of the 4:40 Bunny.
You’d think this would motivate me. It doesn’t. All I have left is me, the remaining distance, and the will not to quite. And Larry on his bike.
People at the side of the road starting yelling “you’re almost there”. We’re at 39 kilometres.
Larry said “when my brother Dave ran his marathon he said he hated hearing that. ‘I’m not almost there. I can see how far away the finish is’.”
It’s a good point. Toronto’s skyline looms in the distance like Oz. It might as well be. Will this ever end? Am I going to make it? Yes. Yes I am. And I’m not walking in either. Maybe just a little.
As we approach the Don Valley overpass a cold headwind hits us. “Man that’s a strong headwind” Larry says. It’s an innocent comment but my emotions are raw. In my head I say “keep it positive Larry.” It’s not admonition. It’s a plea.
Larry and I chat about mutual friends. We start up the overpass, one of the few hills on the course. I don’t mind running hills. I’ve always been good at it. As we move up a cold rain starts to hit us in the face. I laugh. “why not?” I say. Larry thinks I’m talking about a mutual friend’s personal life. He says “yeah why not, why shouldn’t she”. I think that is funny too.
We are starting to get into the city. I stop and walk a little bit here and there. I want to limit the walks though. Time is not a concern. I just want this to be over. 2 kilometres left. I start talking to my legs. “Come on you bastards”.
“Thanks for running with me Larry.”
“Oh no problem. “
“I really appreciate this. You’re a good friend. You don’t really get that many good friends.”
Larry looks ahead and rides along.
The steel and glass are closer. We are less than a kilometre. It’s happening.
“I’m going to make a push at the end” I tell Larry.
We both look ahead and see a small woman running in a style that reminds me a straw broom sweeping a floor. Larry smiles “at least finish ahead of her”
800 metre left. “That’s two laps” I say to Larry.
“Two laps” he says. “I’m going to leave you to this.”
I pick it up. I don’t know where the boost came from but I am running now, grimacing and pushing. I feel the wind on my face. I am passing runners again. 700 metres left. Really? Still that far? Keep pushing. Keep moving past all the people who had shuffled past my carcass in the last kilometre.
500 metres. Where is that damn finish line? How long can I keep this up? I’m not stopping.
I see Natasha ahead. It’s a relief. I’m aware of people cheering but just barely. There is only time to dig. There is only me and finishing. I just don’t see a finish line.
The race turns north on to Bay Street. There is the finish line. A digital clock sits on top of a red arch. I hear my name over the loudspeaker, but it’s just noise. I keep running.
I am blowing past familiar faces from the race. I am closing on someone just about to cross the finish line. Hey it’s Shea. I like that guy. He said “just keep running with me. I’m not fast.” How did he get so far ahead of me? Should I try to pass him too? I might just be able to do that. I have a few metres left.
Forget it. I’m here.
I throw my hands over my head and cross under the arch.
I’m here. I’m really here. It’s over.
I stop and look ahead. It’s over.
A brown haired woman with glasses and a big orange parka walks up to me and says in a gentle voice “are you alright?”
I don’t know how to answer the question. I stand silently looking at her.
She says “do you need medical attention.”
“I don’t need help”
I walk ahead to a group of smiling volunteers. One of them gives me my medal. It’s heavy and gold. Man have I earned this. I move up to get a silvery warm up sheet. Looking back I see Natasha. She has my backpack. She makes a motion to say “do I need anything.” I think I nod.
She runs up the barrier separating spectators from runners. I ask for my sweat shirt and say “go watch Scott finish the race” I don’t want t ruin that for her.
Damn. There are empty boxes but no bananas. I only see peels. Someone hands me a bottle of water.
How far back are Scott and Lou? I’m going to watch them finish. Can I stand here? No one is chasing me away.
At a white barrier just beyond the finish line I watch people finish. I’m wrapped in the silver sheet holding my sweatshirt.
Suddenly I see a familiar face coming across the line. Hey. It’s the 4:40 bunny! When did I pass him?
I walk up and say “way to go”. He was struggled but he finished. I sure can relate to that.
He looks at me and says “I am so sorry.”
I say “Don’t apologize to me. My goal was to finish ahead of you.”
He stares blankly then moves on past.
It doesn’t take long before I see Scott and Lou coming up Bay Street. They look good. I’m sure they don’t feel it.
Scott and Lou cross together. It feels good. This is something else.
We find Natasha and head over to the massage area. Lou had booked one. Unfortunately they are overbooked. Lou passes on it.
Scott had his cell phone on the run and has updates. Nancy and the boys were at Coxwell but the wait was too long for a 3 year old. I know it must have been tough for her to leave. I am grateful they were there. I can feel their support. I also find out that someone found my baggie with the money and called the house. Wow. Honesty exists.
It’s time to head home. When we get there Nancy shows me the sign Shane made “Go Daddy Go” the Gs are backwards. It’s beautiful. She looks up at me with tears in her eyes. “I’m so proud of you” and gives me a big hug. I needed this. Better than any medal. Almost better than finishing. Almost.
I look up my time online. 4:55:32.9
This is not the time I had in mind.
But you know what? 5 weeks ago I couldn’t put any weight on my right foot. 4 weeks ago I had to stop after a run down the block. A week ago I hurt my right calf. 3 days ago I got a cold. 2 nights ago I could barely sleep.
Today?
Today, I ran a marathon.
I had every chance to walk away and didn’t. I own this.
This is my experience.
This is my marathon.
My 1994 Saturn SL2
At 9:25 a.m. on Thursday June 4, 2009, as I turned right off of Leslie Street onto Bond Avenue my car really started making noise. It had sounded like Archie’s jalopy for weeks, chugging and chirping. This was different. This was a heavy thunk-thunk-thunk coming from under the hood. It sounded like my car was having heart failure. I was a few hundred metres short of my workplace and the noise worsened every metre.
By the time I turned left onto Scarsdale Road and then quickly right into the company parking lot the car was shaking. I drove half way down the short parking lot, and turned right into a parking space. Then it happened. THUD! Right from under the hood. I could feel it as much as I heard it. I massaged the clutch and the gas to see if I could go just a little further to fit all the way into the parking spot. GRIND GRIND GRIND! The car moved painfully forward. With every last ounce of effort it had my 1994 Saturn SL2 ground out the last few centimeters of its 260,483 kilometre life.
I had known the end was close. My mechanics told me that it needed a new transmission, among other things. To fix it properly would cost $2,000. For $4,000 I could get a car 5-7 years old. Since we bought a Toyota Sienna minivan for our young family last year I only need a car to go back and forth to work. The repairs would be good money after bad. Since my wife was still on maternity until the end of July I had hoped to at least get through the summer. Unfortunately, my Saturn just didn’t have that much life left in it. Goodness knows it earned its rest.
In February of 1994 I needed a new car. My older brother Jim worked for General Motors and said so much research went into the Saturn the company was never going to make its money back. I liked the sound of that. I also liked the idea of buying a North American car. My girlfriend at the time helped me pick out the colour, a rich burgundy. It looked classy. When I pulled out of the lot for the first time I slipped my favourite song into the cassette player. Badlands by Bruce Springsteen was the fanfare that heralded my Saturn SL2 into my life.
That night I went to my work on my night off (I worked on TSN’s Sportsdesk so everyone worked nights) and took turns driving my friends up and down Leslie Street. My new car had 4 doors, automatic seat-belts, and a standard transmission that shifted into fifth gear! I felt like I had arrived. I finally had a grown up car. My Saturn SL2 would become a companion, taking me to and from the most important moments of my life.
On July 28, 1994 my best friend Dave, his wife Relita and I took it on a big baseball trip. We drove from Toronto to New York. We saw the Yankees play the Red Sox, and the Who’s Tommy on Broadway. We drove down to Baltimore and met her brother Reynaldo for a couple of games, then all of us went to Boston for 3 games. I thought I’d let Dave drive it at some point, but I didn’t. I don’t know why, but I just couldn’t do it.
On December 27th 1994 it earned its first scars. I was visiting my older brother Jim in Connecticut for Christmas. I came down with the flu on December 27th. My car was the last one in the driveway and someone needed to go out for groceries. I gave my sister-in-law Lynn the keys. She came back in the house a few minutes later. Her face was pale. She said “I wrecked your car.” Their driveway was on a steep incline and I had cranked the steering wheel around so that if the brakes slipped it wouldn’t roll across the road into a neighbour’s tree. Lynn hadn’t put her foot on the brake when she started the car (she thought it was in gear like an automatic) and the car slid back into the brick wall at the side of the driveway. I said “don’t worry Lynn, we’ll get it fixed. It’s just a thing.” I was only half right. We could certainly fix it. My Saturn spent a day with the local dealership then it safely escorted my mother, father and me back to Canada. But I was wrong on one count. My car was certainly more than just a thing.
On January 2nd 1995 it took me to my new job at Discovery Channel. I started carpooling with some new friends. A constant source of entertainment was watching them recoil in discomfort every time the automatic seat belt slid over their shoulder. The drop-off was even better. It’s funny how the same people would need to be told over and over “you just have to open the door” as they tried to duck under and away from the mysterious device.
On December 19, 1997 my Saturn and I drove my girlfriend Nancy downtown to have dinner in the restaurant at the top of the CN tower. When Nancy got back in the car in the early hours of December 20th she was no longer my girlfriend. She was my fiancée.
On August 2nd 1998 I was pulled over by a police officer. I hadn’t renewed my license plate sticker. “Do you want to hear my lame excuse?” I told the officer. “No”. I told him anyway. It was midnight and I was returning a camera to the office at Discovery Channel. I had used the camera at my wedding the day before. In all the planning for the wedding the sticker had slipped my mind. The officer said “come to court and I’ll drop the charges”.
On April 18th 2003, my Saturn SL2 and I left Toronto at 4:00 a.m. We needed to be in Ottawa no later than 9:00 a.m. to make sure I made it into the pit, the area closest to the stage, for a Bruce Springsteen concert. They let the in first 300 people. I was 298.
On June 14th 2004 I walked out of Toronto East General Hospital and opened the back door of the car. I pulled up the carrier holding my one day old son Shane, and snapped it into the base fastened to the back seat. His first car ride was only five minutes long. Then we walked him into his home for the first time.
On June 23rd 2005 I received a call at work telling me my best friend Dave had died. I held myself together by gripping that steering wheel as I hard as I could. I just needed that car to get me home where I could fall apart. It did, then I did.
On February 27th 2009 my Saturn SL2 and I drove to Jay Peak Resort in Vermont to go skiing with my brother Jim. I wasn’t sure if the car would survive the trip. It had been with me exactly 15 years and the car was feeling its age. The tape deck hadn’t worked in 5 or 6 years. The air conditioning was gone for the last 2. It had arrived at the garage slumped across the back of tow truck more than once. I asked my mechanics, Maurizio and Peter, if the car could make this trip. They both told me with confidence yes.
So we set off on the adventure, just the two of us. I plugged my IPOD into the short distance FM broadcaster and we listened to every Bruce Springsteen album from 1973’s Greetings in Asbury Park to 1998’s Tracks. Winding through the Quebec back roads I was really happy to just be with my car. After all, this was my car. I had driven almost every kilometer the Saturn SL2 had traveled. My wife didn’t drive it because she can’t drive standard. In fact other than my sister-in-law’s incident I think the only people who had driven it were my brother Jim, who borrowed it to go up to Huntsville for a weekend, my younger brother Scott, who moved it for Nancy when I was out of town, and some guy who borrowed it to get some ice. I don’t ever recall sitting in the passenger seat. I had never been in the back seat. Well, not when it was moving anyway (wink). In fact, this is probably the last car that will ever be mine. The mini-van is communal property. So this was our last real time together, there and back across Ontario, Quebec and Vermont - my medium-red Saturn SL2 keeping me warm and safe as it sliced through cold wind and icy pavement.
Then there I was on June 4, 2009, sitting in my silent car in the parking lot at work. The car that had been with me through pretty much every important moment in my adult life had spent its dying breath to get me safely to work one last time.
The next day I watched as the tow truck pulled it away. When I told my five year-old son Shane the Saturn wasn’t coming back he wanted to go see it.
So Shane, my 11 month-old son Curtis, and I hopped in our Toyota Sienna and went to Greenwood Auto where my Saturn waited to have its snow tires and plates removed. Shane and I got out of the van. Curtis stayed in. He had only been in the Saturn once (and he can’t walk yet so this was just easier). But Shane had known this car his entire life. We walked around it and gave the hood an appreciative pat. The body was there but the spirit was gone.
I’ve never been sentimental about cars. I don’t give vehicles names. Still, I have to admit this car is special to me. I’m grateful to the people who built it, the engineers who designed it and to General Motors for trying to make something really good. I know that I will never feel the same way about another car. I know that inside the buckles and bolts, the glass and steel, and the dent-resistant molded polymer panels are the echoes of my life.
