The resounding question ringing with the cellphone alarm in my ears was Why? Why am I awake at 3:00 A.M.? Why are we rushing to pack up our sleeping bags after two hours of sleep? Why did we sign up to spend 24 hours running along 216 miles of central Oregon highway? Why would anyone pay money for a weekend of sitting in a sweaty van, eating caffeine gels and granola bars and advil by the handful and yet still feeling fatigued and hungry and bloated?
In my dazed rage and confusion, I swore to myself that I would not be participating in this nonsense next year. Or ever again. The nightmares of last year’s relay must have been suppressed somehow or contorted with endorphin-swirled memories of the after party. But in that moment I summoned the scarce mental energy I had available to imprint a future note-to-self in my brain: This is hell.
I was running the Cascade Lakes Relay with a group of my former college track teammates. School and family reunions are little shovels that unearth older versions of ourselves that we forget exist under the pile of day-to-day minutiae. These days, I put on makeup to go to work, skinny jeans to hang out with my cool friends, a furrowed brow when reviewing the wine list on the menu -- a stylish facade over my sweats and t-shirt personality. But when I’m around the people who knew me when I was 18, I melt a little. I regress a little, back to the me they knew.
Sitting around a table with nine of my college friends, I am like Bruce Willis in that horrible time travel movie when he is confronted with his younger self and you don’t know which one is the bad guy. In my case, I can’t tell if it’s worse to be the sort of person whose all-time favorite restaurant is the Olive Garden or to be someone that judges the sort of person whose all-time favorite restaurant is the Olive Garden. Did I used to be a loser or have I become a snob?
For a former hippie turning into a hipster, it’s difficult to distinguish between maturing and selling out.
I ran the last leg of the race, just over six miles through a winding single track trail along the Deschutes River. The combination of sleep deprivation, scenic beauty and actual light of the sun at the end of the virtual tunnel of the finish line was enough to induce a religious experience. My teammates gathered behind me to sprint the last 200 meters down the homestretch and all the farts and bad jokes and politically incorrect comments of the past two days were forgotten and I loved them all like family.
They are my family. They, like my blood family, have made their mark on me whether I like it or not. Regardless of the new bandwagons I jump on or the various ways I “grow up,” I’ll still owe a corner of myself to them. The corner that likes poptarts more than fancy waffles and listens to pop music and doesn’t need alcohol to have a good time--just sunshine and board games.
Who am I kidding? I am definitely doing this again next year.
Who am I kidding? I am definitely doing this again next year.
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