Congratulations !
You have been awarded points.
Thank you for !
- Story Listed as: True Life For Adults
- Theme: Inspirational
- Subject: Inspirational / Uplifting
- Published: 08/20/2012
The Relay
Born 1958, M, from Vancouver, WA, United StatesThe Relay
If you find yourself driving north up Interstate 5 somewhere near the border between Oregon and Washington, you will cross an old green bridge. If it is on the third weekend in July, you should keep going north until you get to the 99th street exit. You can take it if you want, or keep going and eventually get to Seattle if that interests you more. But, if it really is the third weekend in July, I would try very hard to convince you to take the exit and head west.
Now, if it happens to be nearly two-thirty in the morning, and you have followed directions and continued west, you should see a light on the horizon that resembles the glow of outdoor stadium lights. It is okay if you do, because that means you have found the West Clark County Relay for Life. I am walking around the track that encircles the high school football field, and I am one of the few people who watched you drive by. Last year I may have missed you, but this year, at two-thirty in the morning…
* * *
At two-thirty in the morning I was ready to stop walking, go to my truck, lean the seat back and sleep until it was time to get up and begin the slow, painful process of tearing the camp-site down. My legs hurt from walking all day, and I had failed in my attempts at avoiding blisters through the judicious use of tape and thick socks.
Two-thirty in the morning was not a bad time of the day to give it up for another year. I had supported my Relay for Life team by walking most of the day. Unfortunately I did not keep track of my laps by taking a bead from the track-side campsite that gave beads for each lap walked. Nor did I keep track of the miles by using the pedometers that the RLF planning committee gave out for free to those who wanted them.
I was a free spirit on the track, caring not for accumulated laps or miles; only that I was walking, like I had for the last seventeen years in support of the American Cancer Society and their annual fund raising event. I was walking because it made me feel as if I were contributing something by going around that track, that I was doing something good for a good reason. But, at two-thirty in the morning I was ready to pack it in.
And then she ran by me.
She could not have been more than sixteen. In the stadium lights her hair seemed to glow as she ran. She was dressed in running shorts and a track shirt with the initials of a local high school across her abdomen.
Sixteen years old!
I helped organize our first Relay for Life team seventeen years before. I had been with the local fire department back then, and we set up our camp-site and provided first aid for the Relay. Every year I walked for my team until my feet were blocks of blistered pain inside my shoes. I walked late into the night and managed to survive with little, or no, sleep.
As I walked this night I did the math: when first I walked in the Relay for Life that young lady who just ran by me was a year away from being born.
I tried to ignore her. I pulled my iPod out of my pocket, threaded the wire to my earphones through the front of my sweater, pushed the earphones into my ears and turned my music on. With classic rock playing in my head I could ignore anything.
Except her.
While I had been setting up my iPod, she had reversed direction and was running at me. She ran by me and smiled.
Again I did the math. I am easily old enough to be her father; I am mathematically old enough to be her grandfather. At that moment I felt very old, the pain in my legs and feet amplified, and again the desire to walk off the track and go to sleep in my truck was hard to resist.
But I continued walking with the music of the seventies (and some early eighties) in my head. And even though I was alone with my music, all around me were the other Relayers, all walking through the artificial light cast over the track by the stadium light. Some walked alone, as I did, and others walked in pairs or, at most, groups of three or four. The pace was slower, more deliberate. The emotion of the luminary ceremony and the quiet of the early morning turned our thoughts inward, and the walk became a kind of meditation; a walking wish, hope, prayer, for what we were trying to accomplish.
I saw her on the other side of the track, still running, her hair still bouncing with each stride. I watched her progress around the track until she was just about to pass me again. On her way by she stretched out her hand; instinctively I met it with my own hand.
That was neat. Suddenly the pain did not matter as much. She just gave me a high five and a big smile. Now I was motivated.
I walked nearly a quarter of the way around the track by the time she ran completely around it and was coming at me again. But now she was giving everyone high fives. After two more times around I saw her leaving the track and going through campsites, giving high fives to those who were resting or waiting their turn to walk for their team.
Still tired; still sore, I realized that I was looking forward to having this young lady run by me, smile, and slap my hand with hers. Everyone around me on the track watched her. I could not hear what they said – my iPod was still plugged into my ears – but they were all smiling. Everyone changed course slightly in their path around the track to insure that they were accessible to her and her exuberant high fives. They tracked her progress until the moment came when she ran by them and extended her hand.
We all leaned toward her as we met her hand with ours. We all wanted to get closer. We all wanted to share her youth, her vitality, her energy; at a quarter to three in the morning.
Finally I could not disguise my age and the sorry state of my legs and feet. Despite the fact that the young lady continued to run, I felt it was time to allow someone else to take my place and be energized and motivated by her.
As I stumbled through the parking area behind our campsite, I looked back at the track, at the stadium bleachers where they set up the luminary message: HOPE, which was changed to CURE during the luminary ceremony. Cure still glowed, but it was harder to see beneath the stadium lights.
In my truck I leaned the seat back and stared out the window at the small section of the night sky above the bleachers; above the CURE. There were a few stars out bright enough to be seen through the glare of the stadium lights. And there was one bright light that cut across that dark slice of sky…
* * *
On the third weekend in July, if you happen to be flying into Portland International Airport (PDX) on the red-eye, and your flight path that takes you just west of the airport, you probably cannot see the dark oval beneath you that is Vancouver Lake. In fact everything beneath you is darkness littered with tiny points of streetlights, and maybe some parking lot lights. When you look a little further east you will see the brilliant hole punched into the dark landscape by the stadium lights around our track. If you look hard enough you may see the tiny figures of people walking around the track, but I doubt it. At your altitude and distance I think it is likely you only see the stadium light. It will grab your attention for a moment while you think, what is going on down there at this time of night. Then you will look away without having seen the white truck parked off behind the campsites on the east side of the track.
You turn away from that tiny window, looking forward to landing and getting home. What you do not know is that I have watched you traverse the western sky as I lay back in the seat of my white truck. I am not thinking about you that much, though. I am thinking about the magic found at events like this; magic that can draw the attention of complete strangers as they travel through the darkness; magic that takes the shape of a word written with paper bags and tea candles; magic that keeps me walking even when I have every reason to stop.
And the magic that is embodied in an energetic sixteen year old. I hope she comes back next year.
The Relay(William Cline)
The Relay
If you find yourself driving north up Interstate 5 somewhere near the border between Oregon and Washington, you will cross an old green bridge. If it is on the third weekend in July, you should keep going north until you get to the 99th street exit. You can take it if you want, or keep going and eventually get to Seattle if that interests you more. But, if it really is the third weekend in July, I would try very hard to convince you to take the exit and head west.
Now, if it happens to be nearly two-thirty in the morning, and you have followed directions and continued west, you should see a light on the horizon that resembles the glow of outdoor stadium lights. It is okay if you do, because that means you have found the West Clark County Relay for Life. I am walking around the track that encircles the high school football field, and I am one of the few people who watched you drive by. Last year I may have missed you, but this year, at two-thirty in the morning…
* * *
At two-thirty in the morning I was ready to stop walking, go to my truck, lean the seat back and sleep until it was time to get up and begin the slow, painful process of tearing the camp-site down. My legs hurt from walking all day, and I had failed in my attempts at avoiding blisters through the judicious use of tape and thick socks.
Two-thirty in the morning was not a bad time of the day to give it up for another year. I had supported my Relay for Life team by walking most of the day. Unfortunately I did not keep track of my laps by taking a bead from the track-side campsite that gave beads for each lap walked. Nor did I keep track of the miles by using the pedometers that the RLF planning committee gave out for free to those who wanted them.
I was a free spirit on the track, caring not for accumulated laps or miles; only that I was walking, like I had for the last seventeen years in support of the American Cancer Society and their annual fund raising event. I was walking because it made me feel as if I were contributing something by going around that track, that I was doing something good for a good reason. But, at two-thirty in the morning I was ready to pack it in.
And then she ran by me.
She could not have been more than sixteen. In the stadium lights her hair seemed to glow as she ran. She was dressed in running shorts and a track shirt with the initials of a local high school across her abdomen.
Sixteen years old!
I helped organize our first Relay for Life team seventeen years before. I had been with the local fire department back then, and we set up our camp-site and provided first aid for the Relay. Every year I walked for my team until my feet were blocks of blistered pain inside my shoes. I walked late into the night and managed to survive with little, or no, sleep.
As I walked this night I did the math: when first I walked in the Relay for Life that young lady who just ran by me was a year away from being born.
I tried to ignore her. I pulled my iPod out of my pocket, threaded the wire to my earphones through the front of my sweater, pushed the earphones into my ears and turned my music on. With classic rock playing in my head I could ignore anything.
Except her.
While I had been setting up my iPod, she had reversed direction and was running at me. She ran by me and smiled.
Again I did the math. I am easily old enough to be her father; I am mathematically old enough to be her grandfather. At that moment I felt very old, the pain in my legs and feet amplified, and again the desire to walk off the track and go to sleep in my truck was hard to resist.
But I continued walking with the music of the seventies (and some early eighties) in my head. And even though I was alone with my music, all around me were the other Relayers, all walking through the artificial light cast over the track by the stadium light. Some walked alone, as I did, and others walked in pairs or, at most, groups of three or four. The pace was slower, more deliberate. The emotion of the luminary ceremony and the quiet of the early morning turned our thoughts inward, and the walk became a kind of meditation; a walking wish, hope, prayer, for what we were trying to accomplish.
I saw her on the other side of the track, still running, her hair still bouncing with each stride. I watched her progress around the track until she was just about to pass me again. On her way by she stretched out her hand; instinctively I met it with my own hand.
That was neat. Suddenly the pain did not matter as much. She just gave me a high five and a big smile. Now I was motivated.
I walked nearly a quarter of the way around the track by the time she ran completely around it and was coming at me again. But now she was giving everyone high fives. After two more times around I saw her leaving the track and going through campsites, giving high fives to those who were resting or waiting their turn to walk for their team.
Still tired; still sore, I realized that I was looking forward to having this young lady run by me, smile, and slap my hand with hers. Everyone around me on the track watched her. I could not hear what they said – my iPod was still plugged into my ears – but they were all smiling. Everyone changed course slightly in their path around the track to insure that they were accessible to her and her exuberant high fives. They tracked her progress until the moment came when she ran by them and extended her hand.
We all leaned toward her as we met her hand with ours. We all wanted to get closer. We all wanted to share her youth, her vitality, her energy; at a quarter to three in the morning.
Finally I could not disguise my age and the sorry state of my legs and feet. Despite the fact that the young lady continued to run, I felt it was time to allow someone else to take my place and be energized and motivated by her.
As I stumbled through the parking area behind our campsite, I looked back at the track, at the stadium bleachers where they set up the luminary message: HOPE, which was changed to CURE during the luminary ceremony. Cure still glowed, but it was harder to see beneath the stadium lights.
In my truck I leaned the seat back and stared out the window at the small section of the night sky above the bleachers; above the CURE. There were a few stars out bright enough to be seen through the glare of the stadium lights. And there was one bright light that cut across that dark slice of sky…
* * *
On the third weekend in July, if you happen to be flying into Portland International Airport (PDX) on the red-eye, and your flight path that takes you just west of the airport, you probably cannot see the dark oval beneath you that is Vancouver Lake. In fact everything beneath you is darkness littered with tiny points of streetlights, and maybe some parking lot lights. When you look a little further east you will see the brilliant hole punched into the dark landscape by the stadium lights around our track. If you look hard enough you may see the tiny figures of people walking around the track, but I doubt it. At your altitude and distance I think it is likely you only see the stadium light. It will grab your attention for a moment while you think, what is going on down there at this time of night. Then you will look away without having seen the white truck parked off behind the campsites on the east side of the track.
You turn away from that tiny window, looking forward to landing and getting home. What you do not know is that I have watched you traverse the western sky as I lay back in the seat of my white truck. I am not thinking about you that much, though. I am thinking about the magic found at events like this; magic that can draw the attention of complete strangers as they travel through the darkness; magic that takes the shape of a word written with paper bags and tea candles; magic that keeps me walking even when I have every reason to stop.
And the magic that is embodied in an energetic sixteen year old. I hope she comes back next year.
- Share this story on
- 15
COMMENTS (0)