Extreme Frontiers: Racing Across Canada from Newfoundland to the Rockies (10 page)

The cadet next to me told me that after parade and before breakfast they had to clean up their dormitory, something I’d be
spared at least. Last night he had got to bed at about twelve after sorting his files, polishing his boots and ironing his
shirt for this morning. The files were reports written on various scenarios they had practised, as if they had been at a crime
scene or an accident and were writing up the appropriate paperwork. The actual work day starts at eight, but they’re up at
five to get ready for parade, and the evenings are spent doing stuff like the patrol drives I mentioned. It’s a massive commitment
but they all seem to love it – working as a team, determined that every member of the troop will graduate with flying colours.

For the next ten minutes I experienced a little of what they would go through for the last four months of their training:
I was shouted at while standing at ease, trying to stand to attention, and marching in lines of four, in step, arms swinging
back and forth in unison. Finally it was time for inspection. This
big guy walked over, wearing knee-length boots with studs in the leather soles that made them crackle over the tarmac. Swagger
stick under his arm, he took one look at me before reminding me that Elvis was dead and my sideburns were too long, and pointing
out that my shirt was wrinkled, there was no shine on my shoes and my hat was crooked.

‘Frankly, Boorman,’ he said, ‘you look like you survived a train wreck.’ He walked round behind me. ‘Where did you find that
shirt? It looks like a road map it’s got so many wrinkles. You need to see the barber, son – you look like a bear.’

Parade over, mercifully, I had to report for my ‘pairs’ – an exercise you have to complete in four minutes or you’re asked
to leave. Basically it’s an assault course designed to simulate some of the obstacles you might encounter on the beat. It
occurred to me then that if I failed, they’d probably send me home early, which might not be a bad thing.

If my shirt didn’t fit properly, then the T-shirt certainly didn’t. They’d given me an XL and it reached almost to my knees.
Of course I’d forgotten something – I always do, and this time it was my socks. Already half into my kit, I had to get back
into full uniform, including my hat – a cadet cannot go anywhere on camp without being dressed properly – and run back to try
and locate the missing pair of RCMP-issue socks, while the rest of the troop were getting ready to warm up.

So I jogged back to my room, working up a sweat I should have been saving for later. Mungo commented that I was taking it
very seriously, but everyone around me was fully committed and I would feel terrible if I was just taking the piss. I had
to look hard for the socks; they were nowhere to be seen. I’m not the tidiest person, but it was a small room – they had to
be somewhere! Finally I found them, stuffed, for some reason,
down the back of my bed. I was beginning to suspect sabotage. Where was Russ, anyway?

Stupid as it might sound, I suddenly felt homesick. I’d convinced myself I was going to let the side down, make a fool of
myself, and all I wanted to do was go home. I mean, only an idiot forgets his socks. What was I thinking?

In the gym and finally dressed correctly for the pairs run, I spoke to a cadet who was originally from England. He’d been
in Canada thirteen years, had married a French Canadian, and told me he’d joined up because it was every young Canadian boy’s
dream to become a Mountie. He was only a week into his training, but along with the rest of the cadets – bar me, obviously –
he was enjoying every second.

They checked my blood pressure and told me I was good to go. Pity. I warmed up with a cadet who had just completed the course
in two minutes and fifty-five seconds. That was pretty good, given that the record was two seventeen. I had to do it in less
than four minutes and I was determined not to let anybody down.

The course was a five-lap run around a series of cones, up and down some steps, and over small jumps and a vault where you
hit the ground on either your back or your front, depending on which lap you were on. I tried to set a pace I was comfortable
with and I had the encouragement of my troop behind me. It was tough: five consistent laps then on to a machine where you
push your weight against pressured bars as if you’re wrestling with a suspect. You wheel the machine from side to side, then
it’s on your back and up again, on to your stomach, up again, and this time instead of pushing the weights you’re pulling
them. When I was finished, my hands were on my knees as I waited for the time with bated breath. Three
minutes and fifty-four seconds – that gave me a full six seconds to spare. I had done it!

Back in uniform, I was introduced to three instructors: Craig, who was dressed in the kind of dark-coloured fatigues SWAT
guys wear, Paul and Ian. They told me to change into the judo pants and T-shirt; then, joining the rest of Troop 2, we strapped
on our gun belts and made our way to another gym with padded walls and floor, where we all started running around. I had no
idea what was going on. I was either being inducted into a mental asylum or was about to take part in some kind of self-defence
class, but it was hard to tell. Ian had us working on loosening exercises for our hips, shoulders and arms. Rolling my hips
from side to side, I commented to Mungo that it was at times like this that I missed my wife. No time for the joke to register,
though, because now we were throwing ourselves flat on the floor. It felt like being in playschool, only much sweatier. I
was just following what the others did and it took a moment for me to realise that we were practising falls, rolling with
a throw or a punch, taking a suspect down with us. It went on and on and on. Finally we started working with a partner, in
my case a very fit-looking guy with a shaved head who proceeded to toss me around like a rag doll.

When we’d finished in the padded room, I crawled back into my uniform for another parade. Then I was off to meet Dion, a corporal
who was to be my driving instructor. At last some respite, some action other than the physical stuff that I’d just about had
enough of. When Dion mentioned the words ‘collision avoidance track’ I brightened considerably.

The car was a Ford Crown Victoria, which is standard police issue in North America. As we made our way over to the track,
Dion told me that he’d graduated twenty years before but had
come back to teach the new cadets how to drive a police car properly. He showed me how to drive at speed towards a number
of cones and swerve to avoid them safely. Only he stalled the engine. Well, maybe he didn’t. We came to a sudden stop because
I hadn’t realised that there were brakes on my side too; I had my foot planted on the pedal.

A few more runs – with me off the brake this time – and then it was my turn. This was much more like it: behind the wheel of
a police car and driving hard. Anything with an engine (especially an up-rated V8 like this) and I am in my element. With
no cones disturbed on my first go, Dion told me I was ready to attempt a J-turn – that’s driving backwards, swinging around
to face the other way and driving off again in one smooth motion. He did it first – wheels screeching, we raced backwards,
then he spun the car and before I knew it we were facing the other way and speeding off once more. When my turn came, I have
to say it was as smooth as a knife through hot butter. Even Dion was impressed. The only thing was, I’d swung to the left
instead of the right, which wasn’t so safe given that in Canada they drive on the right-hand side of the road.

From the track, we moved to the underground shooting range and the more serious side of police work. Down there with Troop
2 all letting rip with 9mm automatics, the noise was pretty loud. They were firing at targets fifty metres away, round after
round after round. It’s all about speed, safety and accuracy, and these guys were very good. One cadet shooting right in front
of me had all his rounds in a group no more than a few inches apart.

When it was time for my turn, they told I wasn’t going to shoot at targets. Not just yet anyway. No, what they had in mind
for me was much more realistic. My instructor took me to
another room and I was given an automatic to replace the rubber gun in my holster. I was about to take part in a movie – an
interactive scenario that would be screened on to the wall in front of me. I’d been called to a building where people with
guns were shooting each other and I had to determine who was a threat and who was not. I had plenty of questions for my instructor:
should I have my gun holstered or drawn? What could I expect?

‘Well,’ he said carefully, ‘you’re answering a call where people are shooting each other inside a building.’

That was the point, of course: you never know what to expect – every call a Mountie receives is different and you can assume
nothing. Pistol drawn, I was in a building where an alarm was sounding, following another cop. I could see somebody lying
motionless on the floor and ahead of me the cop was unloading his weapon into one of the rooms.

Then it was my turn: a bad guy with a handgun levelled at me. ‘Get on the ground!’ I yelled. ‘Get on the ground!’ He didn’t
move, so I had no choice. I tried to shoot him but my gun jammed and the bastard killed me.

After my instructors checked my gun, we did the same thing in another building. This time there was a wounded man lying on
the floor of a corridor calling for help. Ignoring him, I moved on as a screaming woman came rushing out of a room at the
far end. Inside I found a man with a gun pointed at another guy who was on his knees in front of him, while a woman in the
corner was screaming at the top of her voice.

‘Police officer!’ I yelled. ‘Put your gun down. Put your gun down now.’ He wasn’t listening. He shot the guy on his knees
and I had no choice but to pop him.

Afterwards I asked the instructor if I’d been too slow to react,
but he pointed out that I didn’t know if the man was going to shoot. He’d been waving the gun at both the man in front of
him and the woman in the corner and at some point a judgement had to be made. If I was a real cop, that judgement would be
based on my experience, training and instinct. Maybe I made it too late, I don’t know. But I had no choice but to bring him
down. ‘Ultimately,’ the instructor said, ‘you have to be able to explain why you made the decision you did.’

Personally I’m not a fan of firearms and I’m grateful that our police force doesn’t carry guns on an everyday basis. But as
my instructor pointed out, it’s all about the culture of a country, and although police officers in Canada carry guns, it’s
a vastly different culture to the United States, with a fraction of the population and a much lower crime rate. Everyone has
a view, of course, and back home it’s always an ongoing discussion. I know plenty of people who believe our police officers
should be routinely armed; I’m just not one of them. It was great to do the simulation, though, and I can see how beneficial
it would be for the cadets. I’d been edgy, jerky in my movements, but the instructor pointed out that the more familiar you
are with your side arm, the more relaxed you’ll be, and when you’re relaxed you think more clearly.

I was impressed, not just with the whole Mountie training, but with myself. All in all, this day as an RCMP cadet had not
gone badly at all. It’s not something I think I’d want to do for a living – the whole thing is a little too regimented for
someone like me – but it was great fun and a privilege to have been allowed to go through it. I knew that every member of
Troop 2 was going to graduate, no problem.

*

The next day was 1 July, Canada Day, which commemorates confederation in 1867, something we knew all about from our time on
Prince Edward Island. We were still in Regina and there was to be a big celebration with a massive fireworks display, so we
thought it would be great to hang around and see what went on.

Downtown at the Saskatchewan Legislative Building, we wandered among the crowds. Wandering was all I could manage – after my
day with the Mounties, I was aching from the waist down. Across the park from the legislature there was a fair going on with
music playing, and we gathered over there. Russ was being nibbled by mosquitoes and his mind was on finding somewhere that
sold bug spray, but when that wasn’t forthcoming he opted for candyfloss instead. There was this one fantastic truck with
a smokehouse for ribs and chicken actually built into the trailer. I spoke to the owner’s son and he told me that they had
a restaurant in the city and this was how they serviced outdoor events. The family were Americans from Oklahoma; this guy’s
father had been in the military originally, based in Canada, and when he left, he opened the restaurant and stayed.

We were walking along by the lake, and after a while I sat down on a rug next to a middle-aged lady and asked her what Canada
Day meant to her. She thought about it for a moment before she answered. She told me that apart from it being a holiday, her
daughter, who worked as a teacher in Egypt, always came home for Canada Day. Her plane was landing about now and her dad was
picking her up and bringing her to the lake for the fireworks. The woman was interesting to chat to, describing herself as
a flag-waver in a way that lots of Canadians don’t. She said that the Americans were flag-wavers but that most
Canadians were a bit reticent about being too overtly patriotic – I put it down to the British influence, a stiff upper lip
and all that. Her only gripe about this Canada Day was that given that Regina was the Queen’s city, she felt that Wills and
Kate, who were on a tour of the country, should be here rather than in Ottawa. She admitted to being a bit of a royal fanatic
and was delighted that Canada’s younger generation seemed to have taken the royal couple to their hearts.

I was so pleased to have been there for Canada Day. In every city across the country Canadians were celebrating the anniversary
of confederation. We don’t have anything like that at home; in England, nobody bothers much with St George’s Day – if anything,
St Patrick’s Day takes precedence. As the fireworks began, I decided that we ought to adopt the sentiment and have a Britain
Day maybe. Why not?