Run Read online

  PUFFIN

  an imprint of Penguin Random House Canada Young Readers, a Penguin Random House Company

  First published in Viking hardcover and Penguin paperback by Penguin Canada Books Inc., 2003

  Published in this edition, 2013

  Copyright © Eric Walters, 2003

  Introduction copyright © Deborah Ellis, 2013

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Run was written with the generous permission of the Fox family and the Terry Fox Foundation.

  Publisher’s note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

  Walters, Eric, 1957–, author

  Run / Eric Walters; introduction by Deborah Ellis.

  (Puffin classic)

  Originally published: Toronto : Viking Canada, 2003.

  ISBN 978-0-14-318790-5 (pbk.)

  1. Fox, Terry, 1958–1981—Juvenile fiction. I. Title.

  PS8595.A598R85 2013  jC813’.54  C2013-902478-6

  Ebook ISBN 9780735270480

  Cover illustration by Martin Côté

  www.penguinrandomhouse.ca

  a_prh_5.5.0_c0_r0

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Introduction by Deborah Ellis

  Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  After Note

  Author’s Note

  Terry’s Letter Requesting Support for His Run

  For Terry

  INTRODUCTION BY

  DEBORAH ELLIS

  On April 12, 1980, Terry Fox dipped the tip of his artificial leg into the chilly Atlantic waters off St. John’s, Newfoundland. It was a simple act that took a second, but it marked the beginning of a mission of hope that continues to this day. The Marathon of Hope is about searching for a cure for cancer. It is also a manifestation of the hope we share with all of humanity—that the world as we know it, with its pain, sorrow and injustice, can be made better through our combined intentions and efforts.

  To call it a marathon is accurate. Human beings can change in an instant, if we get the right new piece of information into our brains at the right time, a piece of information that supercedes our old ideas. But it usually takes that new information a long time knocking at the door of our thick skulls before finally being let in to do its job. Changing a whole society takes even longer.

  First, we have to collectively recognize that something is wrong. Then we have to imagine that it can get better. After that, we have to believe we can play a role in the improvement. Then we have to take the first step. And all along the way, we get knocked down, go off in the wrong direction, stop believing, feel alone and have to reset our compasses for the way ahead. At some point in the marathon, we know there is no turning back. We are no longer the people we once were. Even if the ultimate goal is still beyond our reach, we can declare a victory. We have moved something forward, even if it is only ourselves.

  Run is about a boy, Winston, who is without direction. He feels unconnected at school and unattached to his family. He runs away, but with no destination or ambition. He knows that what he has is not satisfactory, but he’d be hard-pressed to say why or what should be in its place.

  A chance meeting with Terry Fox changes Winston’s life by changing his view of what is possible. It’s crazy that anybody would run across Canada, doing a marathon-length run every day, day after day, through all kinds of weather and over all kinds of terrain. It’s insane that anyone would do it on one leg.

  And yet, here was someone doing just that, an ordinary young man with his best friend, also an ordinary man, doing this extraordinary thing. One step at a time, one mile at a time, day after day after day for the long, long haul. Through this example, Winston begins to understand his own capacity for tenacity.

  Eric Walters writes often of youth who are lost and feel powerless, who find their way back to their humanity through service to others. I think that’s true for us at any age. In our own small circles, we can feel trapped, frustrated and lonely, with nothing to occupy our minds but misery. When we are able to open our eyes to the larger world, a world that has an important place for each of us, we find the power we need to shake up our own lives.

  I have known Eric for some years and understand that for him his writing and his work is not about money or fame or awards. It’s about recognizing something that needs to be fixed then setting about doing the work to fix it. Whether it’s raising money for cancer research, as he does with this book, or raising awareness about ignorance and the potential we have to overcome it, or whether it’s with the Creation of Hope orphanage in Kenya that he started, Eric lives what he believes—that we all have the ability to be kind.

  Terry Fox and Eric Walters show us that being a man does not have to be about violence. Being a man can also be about taking responsibility for improving the world.

  I’m pleased to see Run reissued in this Classic edition. For readers familiar with Eric’s work, it will give them a reason to revisit a solid, inspiring story. For readers just discovering Eric Walters, Run is a good place to start.

  FOREWORD

  For some time, educators, parents and supporters of the Terry Fox Foundation have expressed the need for a Terry Fox book written for the young reader. At the same time, the Foundation has been inundated with requests from writers eager to tell Terry’s story. While we have always acknowledged the worthy goal of sharing Terry’s story with today’s youth, we long ago made the decision not to pursue these projects, abiding by Terry’s wish, expressed in the mandate of the Terry Fox Foundation, that his example of courage and hope be used specifically to raise money for cancer research through the annual Terry Fox Run.

  Over the years, however, the demand for such a book has grown, and with that in mind, the Foundation recently reconsidered its longstanding position. And so the search began for an author who could tell Terry’s story in a way that would reach a younger audience.

  We began by approaching all those who had expressed interest in this initiative in the past, and that is how we came to choose Eric Walters. Eric Walters’s passion for writing this story, together with his philanthropic mindset, were a natural fit with the mandate and philosophy of the Terry Fox Foundation.

  Of tremendous importance to our family was a factual presentation of the events that relate to the Marathon of Hope; equally important was an accurate portrayal of Terry’s character. Further to this, Eric willingly allowed family members to be part of the process
from the early stages of Run. For this we are truly grateful. Eric also introduced us to his editor, Michael Schellenberg, and to the wonderful and enthusiastic team at Penguin Books Canada. We were moved by Penguin’s sincere desire to be a part of the project, together with the company’s willingness to offer support for cancer research through the sale of Run.

  When Eric suggested a story with elements of both non-fiction and fiction, it was with some trepidation that we first considered it. These feelings were short-lived. It was a very emotional experience for all members of our family to read the first draft of Run. We are immersed in the story of Terry Fox through our varied involvement in the Terry Fox Foundation. However, to read words from Terry that he did not actually speak, but could have spoken, has had a tremendous impact on all of us. We are also delighted that Doug Alward has found a prominent place in Run. Doug, in his unselfish act of giving up a year of his life to drive the van during the Marathon of Hope, truly defined friendship. He played a critical role as the only member of the Marathon of Hope to accompany Terry from Day 1, in St. John’s, Newfoundland, to Day 143, when Terry was forced to end his run in Thunder Bay, Ontario, due to a recurrence of cancer. His role will never be measured.

  It is of immense comfort to our family to know that Terry’s story will be shared with the next generation in a way that would certainly meet with Terry’s approval. We are truly thankful to Eric Walters and to everyone at Penguin Canada for bringing this publication to fruition.

  Betty, Rolly, Fred, Darrell and Judi Fox

  August 2003

  1

  MAY 21, 1980

  The police car slowed down and then came to a stop.

  “Is this the building?” one of the officers asked me. I was in the back seat of the cruiser, and he had to talk through the metal screen that separated me from them.

  “This is it,” I answered.

  The cops climbed out of the car, slamming the doors shut behind them. They walked to the front and then stood there talking. I could see them, but of course I couldn’t hear what they were saying. There weren’t any handles on the insides of the back-seat doors so I was trapped in the little cage until they decided to let me out. Even if there had been handles it wouldn’t have done me much good because of the cuffs binding my hands behind my back.

  Finally one of them—the big cop—came around to the side and opened up the door.

  “Get out,” he said gruffly as he reached in, grabbed me by the arm and pulled me out of the car. I banged my head against the door frame as he dragged me out.

  “Oh, yeah, watch your head,” he scoffed, and his partner started to laugh.

  “That was pretty careless of him, wasn’t it,” the first cop—the old one—said.

  I was tempted to say something, but thought better of it. Keeping my mouth shut now would be the first intelligent thing I’d done all night. When these two had first caught me I’d smart-mouthed them. All it had got me was these cuffs digging into my wrists.

  “Here, let me have him,” the older cop said. I was all right with that—the big guy scared me. He grabbed me by the arm and walked me toward the door of the building. The big cop was already inside the first door, standing at the directory panel.

  “What’s the entry code to get in?” he barked at me.

  “Zero-one-nine-eight-five, and then push the star button,” I said.

  He punched in the numbers and then pulled at the door. A little red light flashed and the door remained closed as he tugged against it. He tried it a second time and the same thing happened. Again he used his big, fat, clumsy cop fingers to try to input the number. The light flashed red and I chuckled.

  “Are you sure that’s the code?” he demanded.

  “I could do it for you if I wasn’t wearing these handcuffs,” I said. “Couldn’t they come off?”

  “Soon enough,” the cop at my side said. “This is what we have to do to make sure you aren’t going to try to run again.”

  “Where am I going to run to now that—?”

  “Are you sure these are the right numbers?” demanded the big cop.

  “I’m sure,” I said. Are you sure you know all your numbers? I thought but didn’t say.

  Suddenly the door buzzed and a little green light flashed. The big cop grabbed the door and pulled it open. He entered and I followed after him, the older guy still holding me by the arm. We stopped in front of the bank of elevators and he pushed the call button. Almost instantly a door glided open and we entered.

  “What floor?” the big cop asked.

  “Penthouse.”

  “Penthouse? How ritzy.” He pushed the button and the elevator door closed and we started up.

  “Nice building,” the older cop said.

  “Nicer than either of you two could afford,” I muttered under my breath.

  Suddenly the big cop spun around, grabbed me and slammed me up against the wall of the elevator.

  “I’ve put up with enough from you, you little punk!” he muttered through clenched teeth.

  “Slow down, Bob,” the older cop said.

  “He thinks this is some sort of a joke!”

  “Come on, he’s not worth it!” He laid a hand against the other guy’s arm.

  “I just don’t like little pukes like this who think they’re better than everybody else…little pukes who’ve been wasting our time and keeping us from doing our jobs because they run away from their cushy little penthouse apartments!”

  “He’s not worth it,” the second cop said again. “Let him go…let him go.”

  The elevator pinged and the door started to open. Slowly he eased his grip, and I coughed as I took a deep breath.

  “You’re lucky this building isn’t taller,” he said as he released me completely.

  The older guy took me by the arm and guided me out of the elevator.

  “Which way?” he asked.

  “Left…it’s number five,” I sputtered.

  The big cop pounded his fist against the door and the sound thundered down the hall of the apartment building. There was no way my mother—or anybody else on the floor—could have missed the knocking. I shuffled my feet nervously. This wasn’t going to be pretty. It never was.

  “This is where you live, isn’t it, kid?” the big cop asked.

  I started to nod my head when through the door we could hear the sound of the chain being unhooked. The door opened and my mother appeared.

  “Sorry to disturb you, ma’am. Is this your—?”

  “Winston!” she exclaimed as she stepped out into the hall and wrapped her arms around me. “Are you all right?”

  “Sure…I’m fine. I was—”

  “Your hands!” she exclaimed, cutting me off. She spun me around slightly to look at them. “You’re in handcuffs!”

  It wasn’t like she was telling me anything I didn’t know. The cuffs were digging painfully into both wrists.

  “We had no choice but to—”

  “Had no choice but to place a fourteen-year-old boy in handcuffs?” my mother demanded.

  “That’s right,” the old officer said. “Now, do you want to continue this discussion out here in the hall where all your neighbours can hear, or can we step inside your apartment to explain the situation?”

  Despite everything, I had to stifle the urge to chuckle. Without knowing my mother, he knew her—she was always worried about what everybody would think. Neighbours, family, people she worked with…even total strangers.

  My mother retreated back into the apartment and we followed. Just before she closed the door she poked her head out into the hall and looked both ways.

  Then, “Could you please take the handcuffs off?” my mother said.

  “Certainly, ma’am,” the older cop said.

  His partner dug into his big belt and pulled out a small metal key. H
e grabbed me by the arm and spun me around. I felt the cuffs tighten and dig even deeper into my left wrist.

  “Quit squirming around,” he ordered.

  They tightened again, but I tried to stand still and not cry out. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much this was hurting. The cuff dropped off my left hand and I brought my arm around to examine it. There was a deep red mark around the entire wrist.

  “There,” the big cop said as I felt the cuff come off my other hand.

  I brought it forward. It had a matching mark on the wrist. I rubbed my left wrist with my right hand. They both hurt, but that one hurt more.

  “Mrs. MacDonald, I’m Constable Esplen,” the older cop said, “and this is my partner—”

  “I’m not Mrs. MacDonald,” my mother said. “I’m Ms. Evans.”

  The big cop turned to me and scowled. “Your name better be MacDonald,” he snapped.

  “It is! My name really is Winston MacDonald!” I protested.

  “Good!”

  When they’d first caught me I’d refused to give them my name, and then I’d given them a made-up name. That was all part of what had got them so angry.

  “And I’m Constable James,” the big cop said.

  “Where did you find him?” my mother asked.

  “An alley just off Yonge Street.”

  My mother turned to me. “What were you doing downtown in the middle of the night?”

  “Mostly running from them,” I replied. “And I would have gotten away if that alley hadn’t been blocked.”

  “Don’t take that tone with the officers!” my mother snapped. “Answer my question. Just what were you doing there?”

  I didn’t say a word. She could make me do a lot of things, but she couldn’t make me talk if I didn’t want to.

  “We know there was some alcohol involved,” the big cop said.

  “You were drinking?” she demanded angrily.

  I was going to say as little as possible. It drove her crazy.