The Flame

With the goal still half a continent away, the torch passed through my small town over a month ago with a windy cold, driving snow into our faces. We lined the road like penguins, huddled together for warmth and shelter, four, five deep on either side. The street was blocked, police cruisers patroling up and down trying to keep the road open.

On the side feeder streets buses were disgorging more school kids, coming from 50 miles away; mothers were pushing strollers through the crowd, trying to get a glimpse of the route. Stores emptied; businesses closed shop; people wrapped in their warmest, were waiting, stomping feelings into their feet. Everywhere you looked, people were still coming. Then it got so crowded, you couldn't see anything.

Lights flashing, a procession of fire trucks rumbled by, giving us a burst of horns. It was cold and our breath smoked. Beside me shivering, were grade niners, holding onto each other. Some had flags to wave, so they waved them. Others had cell phones out, taking pictures of each other, red noses and all.

The runner was late, way behind schedule, and we had been standing there for an hour, jostling each other. The line was solid to the east and solid to the west as far as thr eye could see. More cars passed; the sponsoring Coke truck blaring music moved by' more police and emergency vehicles, lights ablaze, flashing, tried to keep the road open. The anticipation was there but where was the runner?

By now I could see nothing beyond the press of people. Eventually a shivers passed through the crowd, full sirens approached, and a phalanx of police cars squeezed through the constricted road. The cops inside, for once, were smiling and waving to the throng. I was up front, holding hands, forming a chain, to keep the tide of people back. We had overflowed curbside, and half-choked off the way. I recognized the police chief in his SUV, so the runner had to be near. Hold tight, I warned the adjoining links, and we held as the crowd surged again and pushed us onto the road some more.

Then the crowd roared and applauded, and in a flash, a young girl, with a bright smile, proudly holding the flame, bounded by. Who was she? What had she done to deserve the honour? In 12 seconds she was gone, swallowed by the crowd. Someone hit me on the head with the flag he was waving so enthusiastically.

What had just happened? That was it. The fruit of all the waiting? No more? In minutes the crowd cleared, rushing for warmth. It took longer to clear the choked-up parking that grew around the passing of the flame. A line of yellow school buses tried to weave through the congestion.

On a cold, blustery winter day, the sun had shone for 12 seconds, warmed the air with enthusiasm, then passed on. Hundreds of elementary graders, no doubt, had to write about the chain of runners who brought the flame all the way from Greece, onto our shore, heading for Vancouver.

So, last night, I saw the flame arrive. Then the lighting of the rings. In spite of my innate cynicism over such a tribal ritual, I was touched, remembering that for 12 seconds I was also a part of it.