I didn’t cry for Princess Diana. I remained dry-eyed over John Lennon. Except when the deceased has been a member of my family or a close friend, I haven’t made a habit of crying when I hear of notable deaths.
With two exceptions.
At 13:50 Belgian time on May 8, 1982, racecar driver Gilles Villeneuve was zooming around the Omloop Terlaman Zolder, qualifying for the Belgian Grand Prix. His car touched another, flew into a series of cartwheels and disintegrated, in one of Formula One’s most horrifying accidents. At 9:12 p.m. St. Catharines, Ontario time, physicians at the hospital, where he had been flown, pronounced Gilles Villeneuve dead. I didn’t hear the news until later that night. Some people remember exactly where they were and what they were doing when John Kennedy was assassinated. Me, I will never forget what I was doing when Gilles died. Ballroom dancing at the St. Catharines Grantham FamilyYMCA. While Gilles, beloved of the tifosi, breathed his last, I was happily waltzing to The Blue Danube.
I cried all night. I didn’t watch another Formula One race or hang out at another racetrack until Gilles’ son Jacques signed with the Williams team. I call him my “baby”—well, he could have been, I reason. I’m the right age; I loved his father.
Last week, when news people announced the death of Pierre Eliot Trudeau, I felt the tears leap into my eyes. Every news report caused an identical response. Every red rose draped across the television screen provoked a tiny sniffle. I held a tissue to my eyes and blew my nose a hundred times during the state funeral, which I watched—regardless of business piling up—from my home office.
Half ashamed of my blatant grief, I tried to rationalize it as part of a mob reaction. Everyone else is crying; ergo, so must I. But on reflection, I realized it was so much more. And I remembered my reaction to Gilles’ spectacular accident. Why had I wept so bitterly then? Why was I quietly sobbing now, glued to my TV? Because both Gilles Villeneuve and Pierre Eliot Trudeau, using very different vehicles, had earned my respect, the respect of their countrymen and the respect of the world. Both shattered the image of a Canadian as a dour, slightly boring individual. Gilles, with his antics on the track, his magnetic personality, his winning ways, and Pierre with his red rose, his pirouettes, his fierce intellect, and his attraction for beautiful women, raised the barre for Canadians everywhere, while changing the picture of what the world saw in us.
I had been one of the first of Gilles’ non-Quebecbois fans, following his races, memorizing his statistics at a time when English Canadians didn’t know he existed. When he started racing for Ferrari, I was exultant. When he won, I celebrated and when he lost, I was despondent—emotions I have, incidentally, transferred to his son. I remember hearing that Gilles could get away with calling his Ferrari a “piece of shit” because, Enzo Ferrari said, he knew Gilles would go out on that track and drive that piece of shit with everything he had.
I wasn’t one of Pierre’s first and finest fans.
I must confess the Trudeaumania that had swept the country during Pierre’s first election campaign had underwhelmed me. I was attending Memorial University, and much more involved in the future of Newfoundland’s Liberal party than with federal politics. I ran as a delegate for John Crosbie when he was vying for the Liberal leadership in the province. Yes… Crosbie a Liberal… that’s how far back….
I was just twenty-two (heck, I’ve given away the goods anyway), working for a Halifax PR firm that handled Liberal business, when I met Pierre Trudeau. During his whirlwind re-election tour of Nova Scotia, I was handling some of the PR: watching for hecklers, running errands, making sure folks stuck to schedules. It was a heady time, but I must admit, the Trudeaumania bug still hadn’t bitten me. I think I still wondered what all the fuss was about
The Halifax speeches over, we were supposed to board a chartered plane for a short hop to Yarmouth, the next whistle stop on the tour. Fate intervened in the form of pea soup fog. I hadn’t seen much of Trudeau till then. I’d been tied up during the Halifax show, attending to the tiny details that make or break the big picture, but I’d heard he’d been a hit. Not wanting to appear fawning (and probably terribly full of my own importance!), I didn’t march up to Pierre and request an autograph. I quietly herded the faithful on to a chartered bus. Pierre boarded the bus, dressed in his trademark overcoat, laughing and chatting with dignitaries and media. He settled himself into a seat, closed his eyes and napped for the entire long, tedious trip to Yarmouth. When we arrived and people began stirring, his eyes flew open, his face illuminated, he smiled, and for the very first time, I thought, “Holy shit! THAT’s what they mean by charisma!”
This rather homely-looking, middle-aged man, with not the world’s best skin, was the most beautiful man on earth. I was a goner.
I don’t remember the speech. I vaguely recall going about my PR duties in a zombie state. But I’ll never forget the thanks I got for my minuscule role in P.E.T.’s re-election campaign. As he boarded the bus for the foggy, wind-swept trip back to Halifax, Pierre caught sight of me.
“Thank you,” he said, shaking my hand and kissing me lightly on the cheek.
“It was my pleasure,” I replied, knowing nothing was ever true r. I didn’t wash my face till next day.
I never met Gilles Villeneuve. I never saw him race, except on television. But I know, sure as shooting, that had I met him, I’d have had that same epiphany, that same awakening to the man’s indomitable persona.
Twenty years have passed. I’ve become older (definitely), wiser (maybe), and more aware of my own (for reasons best left unstated) mortality. I’ve succeeded at almost everything I’ve attempted and I’ve attempted lots. So…why do I weep for Pierre Eliot Trudeau? Why will I recall years from now that when I heard of his passing, I was cooking dinner? Roast chicken with fresh rosemary and thyme. Why do I still occasionally sniffle over Gilles Villeneuve? Why do I hear The Blue Danube Waltz when announcers mention his name? The passing of an era? The collective grief of a nation?
Poppycock! It’s love, man. You guys showed us how it’s done.
Merci, Gilles. Thank you, Pierre.
Copyright ©2000 Ev Mctaggart
