"I bought T-shirts and CDs out of that van!" a friend, one of the senior editors at Motor Trend, exclaims in surprise. But I'm not surprised — this story couldn't get any weirder.
There was a time when the camperized Ford Econoline van was a common sight in Canada. They still are, but not quite as ubiquitous as the rental RVs that replaced them. This one's pretty special though: it made people cheer, it made people cry, it had a public life and then a secret second one, and eventually it took its place in history.
This the support van for Terry Fox's valiant cross-Canada marathon attempt, a 1980 brown Econoline that still has the original plastic vinyl interior and horrific orange shag carpeting like somebody skinned Animal from the Muppets and turned him into a rug. Currently, it resides at the Canadian Museum of Hope in Gatineau, Que.
I sometimes feel like we British Columbians don't fully understand the Terry Fox story. I certainly didn't. As a kid growing up on the West Coast, I heard the name, did the runs, saw Terry's name on the side of schools. He was a titanic figure then, a fallen hero to be lionized and made into statues. Then, a few months ago, I heard about his van. I did a little research. I spoke to Terry's brother, Darrell Fox. I learned I was wrong. Few people in this province saw Terry run. We saw him on television, sure, but we didn't see him on the road, chipping away at the miles, going the distance. I think that if he'd made it here, to his finishing point in Stanley Park, we'd have understood better the dogged determination in his eyes. It's not that he wasn't a hero, it's more that we lose sight of the human aspect of the Marathon of Hope.
The Ford contains all of that humanity. Certainly it did so in those first few months on the road, when Terry and his friend Doug Alward scrapped it out as they figured out their new routine. The Econoline saw Terry's weaknesses, it held his exhausted sleeping form, sheltered him from the photographer's flashbulbs, filled with the sweaty stink of athletic endeavour.
Quite frankly, it became a revolting rolling gym locker of a thing. There were three of them in there: Terry, Darrell, and Doug; three young men eating 1980s diner food and throwing their stinking gym socks in the corner. It was a farty, smelly, toxic, no-man's land. That's perfect. We like our heroes polished and perfect, ready to be cast in bronze and feted with laurels. But Terry was just a 21-year-old kid with a van, some friends, and an iron will. Sometimes he got cranky. Sometimes he lashed out at his friends. Sometimes he sat in the back of the van, worn out from the road, wept, and despaired.
And, as we all know, in the end he didn't make it. West of Thunder Bay, Terry's marathon came to an end, though the legend and the good works done in his name would continue to grow.
The van turned back. People saw it returning and felt their hearts sinking. Terry, Doug, and Darrell flew back to B.C., and there is an interview with the cancer agency employee who had the job of driving it East to return it to Ford. He talks of seeing the bright, expectant looks on people's faces, of seeing the resulting tears; in the days before instantaneous news, the returning van was the first sign people had that Terry's marathon had stopped.
There is no better metaphor for Terry's run; the vessel turned East, and the boy went West. His story continued, it grew touch millions, and he made a difference.
However, the van didn't simply end up in the wreckers. The decals were removed, it was cleaned, and it went back into inventory. A family bought it as their camper, and spent a few happy summers touring around Ontario in it.
It changed hands, was bought by another family. Their son moved to Vancouver and joined a rock band. He needed a tour vehicle: the old family van? Perfect. Thus, the Terry Fox support vehicle found itself on tour with Removal, No Means No, the Hanson Brothers, and a whole host of other Canadian rock groups. It's here that my friend finds himself buying a tour T-shirt. The guys call it the Terry van, and it runs without stop. In fact, the thing is so reliable they don't bother repainting it or changing anything. It's all-original, though increasingly battered as the mileage mounts - 100,000 km, 200,000, 300,000.
At a party in North Vancouver, Douglas Coupland has just published Terry, a celebration of the 25th anniversary of the Marathon of Hope. The book is a collection of photos and artifacts from Terry's early life and his run, little fragments imbued with deep meaning. Somebody walks over and strikes up a conversation. "You know," they say, "Terry's van is parked on my street."
Say what? Coupland calls up Darrell Fox. The next morning, they drive out to a side street near the PNE. And there it is. It took some time to negotiate a transfer of ownership - the van had other memories now for its current owner — but eventually this relic of Canadiana came back under the Terry Fox name. It was restored in short order, a Herculean task after so long , and made its own journey from coast to coast, giving the Western provinces a glimpse of what might have been.
It's May. Thirty-five years ago this month, Terry would be running through Nova Scotia. It is early in the run, and not that many people know what he's doing. Few are there to cheer him on. He gets up at four o'clock in the morning, in the silence and the darkness, attaches his prosthetic leg and starts out again, running yet another marathon day.
The van drives on ahead a few miles to wait for him. It is quiet except for his breathing, no one around. Terry Fox runs, but he does not run alone.
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