first mile. It was a horrendous pace. The next closest runners were a hundred yards behind us. He looked at me, maybe a little surprised to find someone so close, and when he sped up after that first mile I stuck to him. We ran uphill and down, faster than I’d ever run before. The runners who lined the course to watch were excited to see someone actually challenging the champion.
Werezak’s strength overcame my grit in the end. He just plain outran me. It was as if he had an extra gear, and when he pulled away from me there was nothing I could do but watch his broad back and the heavy, hard pump of his legs. I finished third that day and I never came close to beating Werezak again. Oh, I chased him. I ran with him race after race, stuck on his shoulder like a bug, but he was bigger and stronger and always faster.
But there was a moment sometimes, during those races, when there’d just be him and me out ahead of everyone, our pace matched, shoulder to shoulder, sweating, heaving deep breaths as we ran. He’d give me a little look then. Just a flick of his eyes, a squint and then a firm nod before turning to the running again. That look was everything to me. It meant I was an equal. It meant that my effort qualified me and that I pushed Werezak, made it harder for him, made it a race. Even though I never won, Ken Werezak’s glance was my trophy ribbon. I’d shopped all my life for validation like that.
I didn’t know then about my people’s legacy of distance running, of messengers running in moccasins across the plains or through the forest to bring news of game or to herald a gathering. I didn’t know about the spirituality of running, about that detached Zenlike state the elders advised young men to seek, attain and hold. I didn’t know about the exhilaration of chasing a herd for days and days and returning with meat for the band.
All I knew about running was that it made me feel alive and powerful. If it didn’t erase the heaviness of my life, it at least smoothed the edges. It released me, and running after Werezak was the pinnacle. Lining up for the starter gun already makes you an equal, allows you the opportunity to try. Being first across the line isn’t the biggest thing. Letting them know you’re in the race is.
AT THE CENTRE of our being, as at the centre of our Mother Earth, is fire. It burns within our cells, and because of that we are entranced by fire, drawn to it relentlessly. As we gaze into it, something eternal in its flicker and dance calls to us. In the Ojibway world, great stories and teachings were shared around a fire. The men and women we grew up to be were shaped by the tribal fires that burned in our villages. The embers of them reside within us today, patiently waiting to be fanned into flame. On this journey, I have sat by many fires, but it is only now, in retrospect, that I see how much I learned there, in those fires burning bright.
Lemon Pie with Muhammad Ali
. . .
IT WAS FEBRUARY 25, 1964, deep winter in northern Ontario. At that time of year the nights descended like judgements, dark and deliberate. I shared a room with my foster brother, Bill Tacknyk, and my bed was the lower of the two bunks. When bedtime came I always fell asleep to the sound of his radio playing softly in the darkness.
That night he was listening to a boxing match. Cassius Clay was fighting Sonny Liston in a place called Miami. You could hear the crowd behind the announcer’s voice. It was like a sea, roaring, then murmuring, then crashing into silence. The announcer was excited, and his words came out of the darkness like the jabs and combinations of the fight itself.
Clay was lightning quick as he pounded the lumbering Liston. He opened a cut over Liston’s eye and the announcer yelled that there was blood everywhere. The crowd noise was enormous. It filled the corners of our dark room, and when Bill’s legs draped over the edge of his bunk, I sat up too. We were galvanized by the details of
Werezak’s strength overcame my grit in the end. He just plain outran me. It was as if he had an extra gear, and when he pulled away from me there was nothing I could do but watch his broad back and the heavy, hard pump of his legs. I finished third that day and I never came close to beating Werezak again. Oh, I chased him. I ran with him race after race, stuck on his shoulder like a bug, but he was bigger and stronger and always faster.
But there was a moment sometimes, during those races, when there’d just be him and me out ahead of everyone, our pace matched, shoulder to shoulder, sweating, heaving deep breaths as we ran. He’d give me a little look then. Just a flick of his eyes, a squint and then a firm nod before turning to the running again. That look was everything to me. It meant I was an equal. It meant that my effort qualified me and that I pushed Werezak, made it harder for him, made it a race. Even though I never won, Ken Werezak’s glance was my trophy ribbon. I’d shopped all my life for validation like that.
I didn’t know then about my people’s legacy of distance running, of messengers running in moccasins across the plains or through the forest to bring news of game or to herald a gathering. I didn’t know about the spirituality of running, about that detached Zenlike state the elders advised young men to seek, attain and hold. I didn’t know about the exhilaration of chasing a herd for days and days and returning with meat for the band.
All I knew about running was that it made me feel alive and powerful. If it didn’t erase the heaviness of my life, it at least smoothed the edges. It released me, and running after Werezak was the pinnacle. Lining up for the starter gun already makes you an equal, allows you the opportunity to try. Being first across the line isn’t the biggest thing. Letting them know you’re in the race is.
AT THE CENTRE of our being, as at the centre of our Mother Earth, is fire. It burns within our cells, and because of that we are entranced by fire, drawn to it relentlessly. As we gaze into it, something eternal in its flicker and dance calls to us. In the Ojibway world, great stories and teachings were shared around a fire. The men and women we grew up to be were shaped by the tribal fires that burned in our villages. The embers of them reside within us today, patiently waiting to be fanned into flame. On this journey, I have sat by many fires, but it is only now, in retrospect, that I see how much I learned there, in those fires burning bright.
Lemon Pie with Muhammad Ali
. . .
IT WAS FEBRUARY 25, 1964, deep winter in northern Ontario. At that time of year the nights descended like judgements, dark and deliberate. I shared a room with my foster brother, Bill Tacknyk, and my bed was the lower of the two bunks. When bedtime came I always fell asleep to the sound of his radio playing softly in the darkness.
That night he was listening to a boxing match. Cassius Clay was fighting Sonny Liston in a place called Miami. You could hear the crowd behind the announcer’s voice. It was like a sea, roaring, then murmuring, then crashing into silence. The announcer was excited, and his words came out of the darkness like the jabs and combinations of the fight itself.
Clay was lightning quick as he pounded the lumbering Liston. He opened a cut over Liston’s eye and the announcer yelled that there was blood everywhere. The crowd noise was enormous. It filled the corners of our dark room, and when Bill’s legs draped over the edge of his bunk, I sat up too. We were galvanized by the details of
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