where Dom was living at the time, he was the
person I called, because most people have
only one friend they can call upon for an ask
such as this – and for me – that’s Dom.
It had started so well. We pinned our
bibs to our quick-dry shirts and joined
the jittery throng of runners amassing
on Montreal ’s Jacques Cartier Bridge, the
syrupy morning light practically begging
all those runners to throw their arm around
a buddy and snap a selfie. Running the
marathon together had been Dom’s idea and
I was pretty chuffed when he asked me. He
is beefy and broad-shouldered, while I have
more of a “runner’s” physique.
Skirting down past La Ronde and onto the
Jacque Villeneuve racetrack we chatted about
our families before crossing into the Old Port,
via Pont de la Concorde, as the conversation
drifted to work and what we were up to more
generally. At Montreal’s City Hall, we hung
a left and we began the steady climb toward
Parc Lafontaine where the half-marathoners,
the bulk of the runners, would peel away to
finish their race.
Had we ended our own run there, those
might have been some of the best times Dom
and I had spent together in years. Instead,
we jogged west, then east, before heading
north on a long and blistering turn-around,
the afternoon sun and temperature climbing
steadily. I am a slightly faster runner than
Dom (slender has some advantages). My plan
had been to pace him to the midway point
then ratchet up to my own pace. Instead, I
had hung back. He seemed thrilled to be
slightly ahead of his target and I was thrilled
to help make that happen for a friend. That’s
when things turned. He started to slow. I
pushed a little, and he perked up. Then he
slowed and I pushed again, and again. That’s
when the hurt set in. I’ve hit the wall. But
I’ve never felt the helplessness of seeing
someone else hit it close up.
As we spiralled slower, I gave up the push.
The euphoria of making it happen for my
friend had fizzled. He was dead on his feet,
it was my fault, the sun was cooking and
the hurt was catching. I wanted to scream
at him, “Quit now, or I will take you down
myself !” I had never felt so disconnected
from him in my life. That was when he
turned to thank me.
He didn’t quit. And I didn’t kill him either.
It got pretty ugly, but we crossed the line
together. He ran another marathon not long
after that and called to tell me all about it. I
was genuinely happy for him. I was about to
tell him that I wished I had been there. But I
caught myself.Rob Thomas lives in Ottawa, where he writes,
teaches and runs his own race...for the most part.Buddy System Fail
We hadn’t trained together, run together or even
spoken all that much, yet here we were partnering
up for a marathon. What could possibly go wrong?H
e turned to me with his teeth
clenched, the strain of the run
distorting his smile. “You’re a good
man,” he wheezed. “ Thanks for sticking
with me.”
Naturally, I felt a surge of pride and
a deep connection with the man stum-
bling along beside me. In that moment,
we were as one, our hearts pounding in
unison. We had both taken on a little
more than we were really up for and
the frayed ends of our hubris were f lap-
ping in the breeze for all to see. But thatsense of deep connection was f leeting.
Truth is, he had picked just about the
best possible time to say something
nice. Because, at that point, I was ready
to kill him. How did we get here?
Friendship. Friendship made us do it.
Dom lives in San Diego. I live in
Ottawa. We might only speak about
once or twice a year (usually because
he is stuck in traffic), but we are tight
because we have history. When the
Mexican drag queen, whom I had just
met, needed a place to crash in MontrealBy Rob ThomasABOVE
Rob Thomas
and Dom
running the
Montreal
Marathon72 Canadian Running September & October 2019, Volume 12, Issue 6Marathonfotocrossing the line