On a warm evening in midsummer a late model station wagon turned off a busy main road and onto a quiet residential street. After driving a short distance it turned again, this time into a parking lot of a local high school. Moving slowly the station wagon proceeded until it reached the far corner of the lot and there it stopped.
The driver, who was alone, turned off the engine and sat quietly with his window rolled down and his forearms resting on the steering wheel. The sun had set and the last vestiges of twilight were giving way to darkness. The only sounds he could hear were the chirping of crickets and the pinging of the car engine as it cooled.
The driver was a man in his early forties. He wore an old grey t-shirt, walking shorts and Adidas training shoes. If the truth were known he had given up running altogether several years ago. He continued to wear the shoes because they were old, comfortable and familiar. At one time he believed non-runners who wore running gear to be slightly fraudulent but this opinion had now softened somewhat.
The man gazed over the school’s football field registering the goal posts at each end and a set of bleachers at each side. But most important to him, what drew and held his attention was the cinder track that enclosed the field.
After a time he finally stepped out of his car and let the gentle summer night envelop him. He moved slowly and deliberately as if he was savouring each moment like some long lost forgotten pleasure. Knowing precisely where he was going he made his way across a stretch of grass, stepped onto the track and began to walk. This was what he had come back for! After more than twenty years he could again feel the crunch of cinders under his feet and remember everything this track and his running here had meant to him.
As he walked his first impressions were all sensory. The scene was a picture in blacks and greys. There was the sharp, tart smell of the still warm cinders on the surface of the track and the cooler aroma of the grass on the infield. There was the sound his feet made as they crunched and shuffled along, and there was the feel of the soft, warm night air on his face and arms and legs. Even after two decades it all seemed so familiar and so full of pleasure to him. He almost expected some flow of energy to come up through his feet and invigorate his body. To him, this was sacred ground.
The track held so many memories for him. He could remember when it was built along with the new high school. He had been twelve years old and since he only lived down the street he knew some day he would be coming to this school. He remembered his first laps around the track when it was brand new, running with some of his friends early on a Saturday evening in June. His friends had quit after one lap but he kept going. He seemed to know even then that he would have a special relationship with this oval of cinders.
By the time he had enrolled in high school running was the biggest thing in his life. It would stay that way until he was halfway through university and had reached the limits of his ability. As he walked he tried to recall the countless laps and numerous races he had run here.
In the beginning he had been a sprinter. He had set a school midget record for the 100 yard dash running on this track. Back then races were measured in yards instead of meters and the race had taken place during a freak snow shower on the first day of May. He had frequently won races at 100, 220 and 440 yards all through his high school career. In his final year of competition he had dropped the 100, picked up the 880 and continued to win. His success had been due to ability, desire and a willingness to work hard and put every ounce of energy into a race.
There were absolutely no limits to what he was willing to give of himself. The first time he won the county 440 yard dash he threw up from exertion shortly after finishing the race. It wouldn’t be the only time this happened. He still carried cinders from this track under the skin on the palm of one hand, one elbow and both knees. They had been acquired during a meet against another school in his junior year. In his desire to win the 100 yard dash he had leaned too far forward at the finish line, lost his balance and come down hard grinding cinders into his flesh. The impact of crashing to the track while moving at full speed had also knocked the wind out of him. Gingerly his coach had rolled him over onto his back. When he could breath and talk again the first thing he wanted to know was had he won the race --- he had. After winning the 220 and running on a relay team he had gone to the hospital. A nurse had taken antiseptic and gauze pads and zealously scrubbed the heels of his hands, his elbows and knees until she was satisfied they were clear of any dirt and cinders and bleeding freely. He considered the few cinders that were still visible as small black dots to be mementos of that day.
As he walked he tried to recall how good it had felt to be fast. To know that in his school of fifteen hundred students he had been the absolute best at something. To him, speed had been the greatest gift of his youth. He had appreciated it and tried to make the most of it. When his running was done he had never been haunted by thoughts of talent wasted or opportunities squandered through lack of caring or hard work. At that time in his life, even when he wasn’t running, the feeling of speed and quickness had been with him. He felt like he had snap and zip, poised and coiled and full of energy that was looking for an outlet, a race to run. For a while this feeling stayed with him even after he stopped competing. But at some point he had lost it. He didn’t remember how it had gone, all at once or slipping away bit by bit, but now that good feeling, that potent feeling, that young feeling was gone. He knew the way he had known a few other elemental things in his life that it would never come back. This he simply accepted.
While his walk continued he went over in his mind the ritual he followed the night before an important meet. After dinner he would quietly retreat to his bedroom and close the door to shut out the sounds of the house. Then he would take his racing shoes and spike wrench and flop down on his bed. As he tightened each half inch spike and checked them for sharpness he would think his way through each of his races the next day and how they were going to go. He would carefully fold his uniform and sweat suit and pack these and his shoes, a towel, jock and socks into his gym bag. He clearly remembered the last Friday night he ever performed this ritual. It was the night before the provincial championships and since it was his senior year he was aware it was the last time he would ever run for his school.
Of all the days in a person’s life how many from the thousands or tens of thousands can they clearly remember? The racing from that last day he could recall with ease. He and three teammates had captured a second in the 4 x 440 relay. Since this ranked them second in all Ontario where there were more than six hundred high schools this was no small feat. But this was not his fondest memory of that day. What he enjoyed recalling the most was the first part of the morning. It has been an ideal June Saturday, the kind brides hope for. He had left his house early and walked the short distance up to the school where the team would gather before travelling into Toronto for the meet. He had been the first to arrive. As he walked back and forth in front of the building he had reflected on his time here, the people he had been with and some of the races he had run. Even then he could understand the last few years had been something special. They had given him memories he would keep forever. Running he had pursued wholeheartedly and he was grateful for the chance to have done that.
After the final meet there was nothing left to recall of the things he had come back to remember. The school year had ended with the signing of yearbooks and good-byes. University and the rest of his life followed. So his mind returned to the present, the quiet of the night around him and his journey on the track. He walked two more laps searching his memory for any additional thoughts and enjoying the pleasant sensations of the present. When nothing more came to him and he had reached the point closest to his car he stepped off the track.
He took a long last look around him. He wanted to seal this moment in his memory, to add to all the other good ones connected to this place and a time that had been so important in his life. Concluding his recollections, he walked slowly and quietly over to his car, got in and drove away.
POSTSCRIPT: As Port Credit Secondary School closes in on 100 years of operation it appears no relay team has ever put in a better performance than this 1970 squad. The members of the team were Dave Howes, Chris McGann, Tom Newitt and Stuart Saville. John Tutty was the coach. Should any PCSS relay team win a provincial championship before 2019 there’s a steak dinner in it for them, courtesy of the author.
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