by Daryl Sneath
I stood beside the pusher like we were together waiting for the train. I stood there and did nothing. I watched her get to her knees like some final parody of prayer. Our eyes met the moment before impact. She smiled. She smiled at me to say everything would be okay when I knew there was no way in hell that it would. There was time for her to get to her knees and smile at me and I didn’t even reach for her. Looking back I see a boy whose instincts tell him to step away from the edge of the broken ice when someone ahead of him falls through, a boy who watches, dumbfounded and useless, as the current pulls the fallen under. What kind of instincts tell us to step away from the person who loves us most the moment she needs us, the moment she needs us to step forward—despite all our fear, despite whatever else that’s in us to cause delay—and reach out our hand? How difficult it is when it matters most to reach out a hand.
All I can hear is the screeching of the train. All I can see is her smiling and me stepping away.
I don’t know why we do what we do. But we do.
CLIPPINGS (5)
(taken from “Local Legend in the Making,” Heron River Review)
“Grandson of local business duo—Stephen and Serra Down—Vector Sorn did his hometown proud winning gold at National Track Tourney [sic].”
~
Stephen and Serra clipped all the articles I was in the way Rayn used to and continued to paste them into her book which they gave me when I told them I was leaving. They said I should continue it, that she’d want me to. In a way, this keystone project I’m writing—this collection of stories, these clippings from my life—is Rayn’s book continued.
Heron River is my hometown because Rayn wanted it to be and Max wanted what Rayn wanted, even if it meant three hours of commuting for them both every day. He would’ve done anything she wanted. He loved her inarticulatably. They had the kind of love that predates speech. Sprung from the sea of awakening. I witnessed it every day for more than fourteen years. To me Heron River is simply where I grew up. I don’t mean to sound dismissive or arrogant but I really don’t know what it means to do a place proud.
CLIPPINGS (6)
(taken from “Swift-footed Canadian Youth Takes National Title in World Best Time,” iaaf.org)
“Reminiscent of a young Sebastian Coe, Canadian Vector Sorn stakes his claim on the future of the metric mile taking the National Youth title in an age-group world best time of 3:43.43.”
~
The only thing I’d ever staked was a tent in the backyard and at the time I’d never even heard of Sebastian Coe. ‘A claim,’ as it were, on anything, had never entered my head.
CLIPPINGS (7)
(taken from “Veni Vidi Veci: a Champion’s Story,” Globe & Mail)
“His greatness weighed, his will is most assuredly his own, and the athletics world waits with bated breath for the next act.”
~
As for my will, I suppose it is as much my own as it is for anyone. I’m not bound or governed by any sort of real obligation. I don’t run because I have to or because I was meant to or because I love it (because I don’t) or even because I’m good at it. I don’t run because Rayn wanted me to, although her desire to see me excel does have something to do with why I continue to do it, if I’m being honest.
CLIPPINGS (8)
(taken from “Sorn Soars to Vectory,” TorontoStar.com)
“As though propelled by the sandals of Hermes himself, young Vector Sorn flew around Varsity Stadium in a performance which brought the capacity crowd roaring to their feet.”
~
I remember when I first read this article. Rayn used to call me Herman, a play on the god’s name only she and I and Max knew about. Coincidence I guess. But I’m certain words like coincidence exist only because things occur we cannot explain, like accidents, which are something Rayn believed in the purposefulness of, which is in turn why what looked like an ‘e’ instead of an ‘i’ on my birth certificate paperwork stuck and I became Vector.
CLIPPINGS (9)
(taken from “Sorn: Born to Run,” Toronto Sun)
“Not too many of us knows [sic] from an early age what we’re born to do. At fourteen, Heron River native Vector Sorn knows he was born to run.”
~
At fourteen I didn’t know much. At twenty-two I don’t know much more, but I do know this: I certainly wasn’t born to run. No one is. Running is an evolutionarily developed and inherited activity which has helped sustain us as a species. But it’s not a purpose. Such a notion suggests a belief in a preordained, preternatural reason for being. Which is silly and egotistical. Not to mention I believe in very little.
CLIPPINGS (10)
(taken from “A Rare Vector,” nationalpost.com)
“A rare Vector of seismic magnitude and unwavering direction. A god in mortal’s clothes. Daunting, mythical speed. An athletic artist. A heart of golden fire.”
~
If my heart was ever made of fire it burned out long ago.
NATIONAL YOUTH CHAMPIONSHIPS: VARSITY STADIUM, TORONTO, ON
From the Journal of Vector Sorn
We were at the start, the twelve of us. We looked like we’d been punched from a mould on a factory line. Tall, lanky ectomorphs. Springy. Sinewy. Like gazelles. One guy was short. Another, overmuscular for his age and looked more like a sprinter. One had a beard already. For the most part, though, we were physically the same. We’d been engineered to do this. Not by choice or by happenstance but by evolution. Every anatomically equipped human being can run—opposite arm, opposite leg, one foot after the next—but we were among the few whose muscles fire at a greater rate over time, whose hearts pump more blood more efficiently, whose bodies can withstand more pain because of a brain more willing to push. We were the rats in some god’s science lab.
In the early days the worst part was the waiting.
My stomach turned and I yawned.
We stood behind the line and the announcer went through the list. So and so from such and such. Provincial champion A, provincial champion B. Returning silver-medallist. Member of the national cross-country team. Defender of this. Winner of that.
We stood there shifting from one foot to the other, shaking out our legs, our hands, staring down the track, rolling our heads from shoulder to shoulder, feigning calmness, pretending to be relaxed and indifferent to the mounting intensity, the amplified sensation of our hearts thumping in our ears.
‘And rounding out this field of fine young distance runners—’
Say my name, I thought. Just say my name.
‘—the youngest of them all, Vector Sorn, who has made an assault on the record books this season, breaking the provincial and national records an unprecedented nine times in nine successive races. Let’s see if he can do it again today.’
Sure. Why not. Let’s see.
There was applause from the packed stands across the track. Rayn and Max were there somewhere. I could picture them. Rayn standing when they announced my name, hands like a megaphone, yelling something like, ‘Come on, Herman,’ even before the race had begun, oblivious to and unconcerned with those around her, unembarrassed, genuinely excited and nervous and proud. When she sat again she’d slap Max’s leg three times like it was a drum. ‘That’s our son,’ she’d say. ‘Our son.’ Sitting back in the bleachers, legs crossed at the ankles, Max would smile behind his aviators, a program rolled in one hand, the other free to touch her arm. His way of letting her know he was proud and excited too. His way of saying, ‘Just so everyone knows, she’s with me.’
They were the kind of couple everyone noticed. Max was six-four and Rayn was five-eleven. They were both fit, put together, confident, relaxed, and unerringly happy. Max was a two-time Olympian. He won silver medals in the hundred metre fly at Seoul and Barcelona, out-touched both times for gold. Rayn had the fastest C-1 in the country for six years and could’ve been competitiv
e on the men’s side. Had there been women’s paddling in the Olympics she’d have stood atop the podium. She would’ve been the flag-bearer. There was no doubt.
Max and Rayn met at the zoo of all places. There was a monorail accident, serious enough but no severe injuries. There was a lot of standing around: Max was one of the boys in blue, Rayn one of the women in white. The first thing he said to her was, ‘You look like an expert. I’ve always wondered, if man came from monkeys, where did women come from?’ She smiled and folded her arms. ‘The future. We came back out of curiosity. What a mistake.’
They loved to retell the story and when they did they made it sound like a movie. They could’ve been in the movies. The camera loved them. They made a lot of money doing commercials on the side. They were the couple on the beach in ads for island vacations, the carefree newlyweds at the casino, the tired parents savouring their morning coffee while playful chaos ensues in the background (I was one of the screaming kids—my big debut). Max was the F-150 guy in dusty jeans and workboots. Rayn was the lakefront runner clad in Nike from head to foot, an iPod strapped to her arm. Anytime the Toronto Police Department needed one of their own for a photo op they called on Max. Decked out in his uniform he looked like he’d been cast for the latest cop film. Rayn was forever on the cover of the magazine and brochures for the zoo: in her lab coat (arms crossed and smiling), bottle-feeding a baby bear, leading a group of zoo-goers through a pavilion.
Their faces were everywhere.
People couldn’t take their eyes off them. Every time we were in the city someone asked for their autographs, not knowing who they were exactly but knowing they had to be somebody. They’d write ‘Cleopatra and Marc Antony’ or ‘Jesus and Mary Magdalene.’ One time someone held the pen out to me and without hesitation I took it and signed ‘Superman.’ I was ten. Rayn couldn’t stop laughing. Max started calling me Kent. Vector Herman Kent Sorn, lone progeny of Max Sorn and Rayn Down, sole beneficiary of their singular and collective greatness.
I was never the kid who begged his parents for a baby brother or sister. I knew why I was an only child and so I never mentioned it. I can’t recall now how I found out. I’ve known for as long as I can remember. I’m sure I overheard them talking. I listened at the top of the stairs a lot. The gist of it is the doctors strongly recommended they stop with me. Rayn nearly died in labour, which is almost unheard of in this part of the world nowadays, I know, but it’s true. It was close. She haemorrhaged badly. There was a lot of damage. Not irreparable. But still. It would’ve been risky to have another child. Imagine living with the knowledge that your mother almost died giving birth to you. Rayn wouldn’t like it if she knew I thought this way, but I can’t help it. Sometimes the truth is the truth.
After the gun all I heard was our spikes tearing the track away beneath us. The sound of a torrential downpour. Halfway down the back straight I was already ten metres ahead. At the line I heard someone say, ‘Three to go,’ and I saw the digital clock go from :42 to :43. I was in a rhythm. I felt like I could go on forever, which is always the way in the beginning. Around the track again and I heard, ‘Two to go.’ The clock looked exactly the same except for the 1 in front. There was a symmetry about it I loved. I could hear the crowd and I glanced up on my third pass but it was impossible to make anyone out or hear individual words. My breathing was heavy now and I could feel my heart in my ears.
If you froze time and pulled me from the track at that moment and sat me down somewhere like in a talk show and shoved a mic in my face and said, ‘When you’re out there running and you’re ahead by so much, what is it in you that won’t let up? What makes you push so hard to the end?’ I wouldn’t know what to say. ‘Being the best,’ maybe. ‘Setting the record.’ ‘Because I can.’ But none of these are good reasons. One day they won’t be reasons at all because they won’t be true. One day I’ll lose. I know that. As naïve as I was at fourteen about the permanence of some things, I knew that one day I would lose. Max had been the best and he had lost the biggest race of his life—twice. So it had to be something else. To be honest it was the only way I knew how. Really, it’s the only way any competitive runner knows how. It certainly wasn’t unique to me. I saw the way the guys behind me drove the line, arms about each other’s necks some of them, faces full of agony. We all ran the same way: to exhaustion, beyond any reasonable effort, to the point where our whole bodies hurt and we couldn’t see straight, like our lives depended on it and the eternal footman was at our heels, taunting us. It’s absurd, I know, but true.
Three hundred metres to go and my body was screaming. Had my muscles the independence to get at my brain they’d have strangled it. Everything burned. As I hit the final straight I closed my eyes and Rayn was right there beside me, her voice strained and full: ‘Come on, Herman.’ My heart was about to explode: the exquisite pain of it. I can never remember the last fifty metres, all ache and relief and elation. I broke the line and collapsed. Hands on me instantly, hauling me up. Arms flung around the shoulders of strangers.
In the emergency tent, they stretched me out on a table. I closed my eyes and went after silence. Baron was there shouting numbers, predictions, assurances, claims of greatness. His voice, like the others, seemed distant.
Eventually I opened my eyes and my breathing settled.
‘There,’ someone said. ‘He’s alright. You’re alright.’
Like anyone could know.
My brain and mouth were in sync again but I said nothing and nodded. Someone pulled me to a sitting position and gave me water.
Baron’s hands on my shoulders. Like I was his. Like he created me. ‘See? I told you. He’s fine. What a run. What a god damn run, Vec. National champ. National record. World best time. Can you believe that? A world fucking best time. And this is just the beginning. You wait. You’ll see.’
I looked at him. He was beaming.
I closed my eyes and moved to lie down again.
The emergency people stretched out my legs and lowered my head. I gave them my weight and let them manoeuvre me. Eventually everything passed, like a storm, and I felt normal again.
Normal. Whatever that was.
CLIPPINGS (11)
(taken from “Police Investigate Domain Ride Accident,” Toronto Star)
“Police have confirmed there was nothing suspicious with respect to the cause of yesterday’s monorail accident. ‘It’s just one of those inexplicable misfortunes,’ maintains junior officer and former Olympian Max Sorn. ‘Thankfully no one was seriously hurt.’”
~
The accompanying picture in the Star is of Max directing uninvolved lookers-on away from the accident site. He appears serious and effective. If you know the story and look closely enough you can see that his attention is not fully on those he is directing but on Rayn who is in the background in her lab coat, arms folded, looking in Max’s general direction. They used to joke about how it was the perfect picture to accompany the story of their meeting (a story I heard so often it feels like a memory): Max seeming to be in control while Rayn quietly waited for him to summon enough chutzpah to approach her.
METRO ZOO: TORONTO, ON
The area around the station had been cordoned off with police tape. Zoo-goers formed a crowd. They stood on their toes and craned their necks to see.
The sun was high and hot. Behind his aviators Max was calm and cool. Impressive, intimidating. He stepped up to the crowd, hands in the air. ‘Keep it moving please.’ He walked back and forth along the line of lookers-on, edged them back and onwards. ‘Paramedics coming through.’
The ambulances blipped and nudged their way, parting the throng the way a whale moves through a school of fish.
With one hand Max directed people aside. With the other he ushered the ambulances in.
Rayn watched. She stood in the background in her lab coat, arms folded. Someone else in a lab coat was talking to her.
Later, Max entered a building marked Information. He needed a signature. He leaned on the counter and just as he did a door opened and out she walked in her lab coat, pencil behind an ear, eyes full of blue light and wonder.
‘You look like an expert,’ he said. ‘I’ve always wondered, if man came from monkeys, where did women come from?’
She smiled and folded her arms. ‘The future. We came back out of curiosity. What a mistake.’
By the end of the day they were Max and Rayn. One would never be whole without the other again.
CLIPPINGS (12)
(taken from “A Down-pour of Paddle Power,” Heron River Review)
“The ‘Rayn’ came a-pouring ‘Down’ yesterday at the hundredth annual Paddle the Heron funraising [sic] event when fourteen-year-old daughter of Stephen and Serra Down—owners of Down to Earth and main sponsors of the event—outclassed the fifty boat field, including five-time winner Stephen Down himself (second to his daughter this year), by over a minute. Rayn is the youngest ever victor of the century-old race and the first ever woman. She is pictured here showing off her spoils: the coveted Heron trophy and the handcrafted paddle donated by her parent’s [sic] store. In all, the event raised four hundred and seventeen dollars to be put toward the Heron River Conservation Project. A great day was had by all.”
~
If drive and spirit are genetic I get them as much from Rayn as I do from Max. You can tell from the picture. The energy in her smile, the grip she has on the trophy and the paddle, the urgency in her eyes.
She would’ve excelled at any sport—especially the individual ones—but it was paddling she put all her time and effort into. She spent two or three hours a day on the river from ice-out in April to the first crust-over in November. For ten years.