Ghosts of Strathmore, the tragic legend of Margay McCulloch.
We play in our racing karts, tiny replicas of the mighty fearsome, fast and priceless machines of our racing heroes. Some of us have, and will go on to careers in full sized race machines, even Formula One, Indycar and the such. Perchance to follow in the rubber tracks of Canadians: Villeneuve, Tracy, Goodyear and Berg. For now we play in the sunshine on the paved serpentine circuit where once there were only fields of grass reaching towards the sun, dancing at the mercy of the prairie winds.
There were times, long ago, on this very land where more sinister events took place. This is the legend of a troubled soul named Margay McCulloch. Margay was an American, but borders were vague, and fence posts were still trees. Margay sought refuge in British North America, he wandered from the Dakota hills across the prairies and back, he traded wheat for oil, and oil for whiskey.
Long before the Railroad when the mountains stood alone against the sun (credit to Gordon Lightfoot) wagon wheels and the hooves of horses made their own tracks.
Before that Canadian Dream and the Trans Canada highway, crossing Canada by road meant a trip through the U.S. of A! If you had to avoid passing through America, for scoundrels such as Margay, then the dusty trail went through Strathmore, it was not the paradise it is now, but you could get a drink of whatever you needed. Margay never got farther west than Strathmore. The stories of the dusty cowtown of Calgary, with it's Northwest Mounted Police camp were not on his agenda. The mountains, where the sun set, were never more than a faint outline, like his long lost ambitions.
Margay made his camp on the hill behind where the Canadian Tire Store now stands. It was a peaceful place back then, where sleep or unconsciousness would last undusturbed until the rising of the sun. He found solice on that hill, with a fine view of Ghost Lake and Strathmore.
Margay had made one too many a bad deal over the years, and settled for peace over ambition. He ended up destitute on that hill, overlooking the site where the karts now run, fields of grain now replaced by rows of black solar panels. Eventually, a tired, whithered, old man of 42 passed out and never again rose up.
Always remember, Margay still watches from above, possibly from below. He is watching, and he knows when you squeezed another kart too hard to make a pass, or used that chrome horn a bit too hard to get by. He is watching, and he has a place reserved, next to him under that hill. “Room for One More!” he says.
Beware the ghost of Margay. Stay Safe!
- Brian Grant
