3454.
I have been initiated into a strange Utah ritual. The entire STATE stands still. Shops and businesses are closed. Traffic is rerouted and parades are held. Even temples in the state are closed. Not fully understanding at first, I ignorantly said I would participate. Indeed, I thought I knew what I was getting into. I could not have been more wrong.
It all begins at the butt-crack of dawn. Hapless people arise and put on a wildly colorful assortment of shirts, shorts and shoes to participate. Money has been tendered in quiet corners and through the mail for the privilege of taking part. As the darkness still shrouds the sky, friends and loved ones get into cars from all over the Salt Lake Valley and begin the ascent to the top of the hill where some of these same strangely attired people are unceremoniously dumped off on this winding, narrow road with bad pavement and they disappear into the darkness. There are no streetlights in this area and they have to put temporary lighting near the porta-johns that are available for the brave souls who were apparently born with no sense of smell who require that answer to nature’s call.
Mind you, while this moment of dropping off is happening, some of these people exchange hugs and a few tears as an endless parade of returning vehicles flips a “U-ie” and heads downhill. Others are sufficiently jaded by their repeat offender status at this unusual event to simply stuff their earphones into place and trot away as if nothing out of the ordinary were occurring.
I was astonished at the number of cars streaming up the hillside as if none of these people had ever heard of sleeping in. What is even more odd than the above scene is that some of those in the returning cars have donned the same type of colorful clothing for an event in another part of the Valley. I know because I was one of those folks in a returning car.
Branded with random numbers attached with safety pins to the front or back of various shirts, these people seem oblivious to the fact that most of the world remains blissfully unaware that there IS a 4:30 in the morning.
I confess my part in participating in this ritual. While I willingly said I would do this (Beth would say I was dragged into it – not true. I went voluntarily and stepped off into the abyss of insanity), I didn’t fully realize what was about to happen until we had hugged goodbye as she was getting out and I was departing for my moment of eternal glory.
Okay, so it wasn’t so much about eternal glory as it was about praying for daylight and a person in the same color shirt as me whom I could follow so I could hope to find my way to the end of the road printed so colorfully on a handy little pocket sized map. The poor benighted individual at the start of my portion of the day’s events was handing out route maps to those of us standing, stretching and meditating on what might be ahead of us on the trip. I wore the shirt that was the ‘badge of honor’ for this event. It was black. Black? In the desert? Whose bright idea was that? I was personally just hoping that the grim reaper wasn’t wearing a 5k shirt.
There is almost a tacit understanding and prayer of hope among the newest initiates that someone ahead of them knows where in the hell they are going. I know that was what I was thinking. Especially in light of the fact that their precious little map meant absolutely nothing to me.
While I confess my absolute faith in OTHER people when it comes to direction, I am a hopeless loony when it comes to finding my way around. It isn’t that I don’t have a strong desire to know my way from sea to shining sea, but I can get lost in the damn grocery store! My skill lies in my ability to fold maps neatly.
Look, we all come here with skill sets and finding my way isn’t one of them.
While I have traveled all over the nation to do vacations and road trips and what not, I am also blonde enough to be willing to cop to the fact that I have ZERO sense of direction. This fact was made perfectly clear to me in college when some erudite individual said, “If you want to know which direction is ‘north’ just look to the mountains. The whole valley was ringed with them so either my compass didn’t respond to their specific direction or I must have missed just which of those mountain peaks represented Utah north.
I more than make up for my lack of directional skill in my total ability to provide comic relief for those who are blessed with navigational skill. Those people are under stress because of folks like me so I do my part the best way I can. I find a deep sense of comfort in the soothing voice of the little man stuffed into the GPS unit who tells me which way to go. I’m just hoping that little soothing voice doesn’t ever tell me to take the next left turn to Albuquerque and go to blazes.
As an example of my clueless behavior when it comes to direction finding, Beth and I were in Atlanta, Georgia for a "Time Out For Women" event and she hands me the direction sheet and says ‘Tell me where we are’.
I believe I said ‘We are on the road.’ Worked for me.
She was NOT amused. Beth said ‘You got that right!’
Although I am ‘directionally challenged’, I have to tell you here and now that I did achieve a minor miracle today. After 365 days of planning, sweating and telling myself that the ice cream in the freezer was NOT calling my name in a siren song of syrup, nuts and whipped topping, I clocked in a personal best time for the 5k distance.
58 minutes from the popping of the starting balloons (Do what? Even in the redneck south we start our events with a gun!), to crossing the finish line isn’t too shabby for someone who should be date stamped as past her prime and ready for disposal.
I was amazed at the marathon runners who whipped past me on the route looking like gazelles in full stride as opposed to me, who at times felt like an elephant lumbering along. Their lithe, clean lines and the full and purposeful strides led them past me toward their well deserved rewards. I could appreciate their skill. I just wish I shared it.
When I heard the shouts of encouragement and the cheers and applause of the people lining the route, it kept the adrenaline flowing like cheep booze at the bar call. As they shouted out their various messages, some would holler out the numbers of people as they passed and I heard MY number (3454) being called out and a personal shout out of how great I was doing came from someone whom I didn’t know, but who shared at least that moment of the journey.
My tears started shortly after I rounded the final corner of our route (thanks to all of those who led the way and didn’t lead me into blind alleys or bars). Beth was standing there camera in hand. You have to memorialize these events when they occur lest someone think you are making it up or that you are drunk. I honestly think even though she had already done more than a yeoman’s work for the day in completing her 10k run (that’s right, campers, she RAN her event), she was more proud of me than I was because I could see in her eyes that she thought more of what I had done at that moment than I did.
Which felt kind of awesome – and kind of strange too.
Although I am more than proud of what I accomplished, I honestly believe that she understands about just how strange this world of night arrivals and ziggurat drives back to parking lots and unknown or unfamiliar destinations is to me. This is a shade of color in her world spectrum that I simply had never understood – until today.
Though I am not yet in shape for running (Holy Moses! Did I say ‘not yet’?), I can now get a glimpse of what it means to prepare and then to test your personal mettle as you put it all on the line and hope and pray you can find yourself sufficient to the task at hand.
For the record, I didn’t place first, but I wasn’t expecting to do so. Frankly, I was simply hoping to cross the finish line without the use of my lips and teeth to drag my carcass across.
I was pretty specific in my prayers to Heavenly Father about what I was expecting and didn’t ask Him to give me something I hadn’t done my part to receive on this event. That would be wrong. Instead, I asked Him to hear not only my prayers but also the prayers of the people who were praying for not only me but also for Beth and for us to be able to finish our events. I totally FELT their prayers today.
What happened today was more about friendship and trust than about distance and sweat. I choose to believe that it was a walking and running example of what it means to believe.
For a while, I didn’t. It was just too hard.
But my life has changed because Beth believed I could do this.
She says she ‘knew’. Beth said that believing has uncertainty and there wasn’t uncertainty in her because she KNEW I could do it. She also said all I needed was a good, swift kick in the ass. So thanks for knowing and thanks for the kick in the ass.
You know, sometimes the best helping hand is a good firm push. Or in my case, a firm kick to the seldom used and saggy buttocks.
So for those who have not experienced what it is to arise at some unknown hour to slip into clothing that is not main stream and participate with strangers who become kin through this ritual, I encourage you to try it.
But don’t do it alone.
This is an event best shared with someone who already sees the end of the journey even if you can’t.
As a codicil to this event, Beth kindly reminded me before we got to this morning’s events that "there would be an ambulance standing by" for me in case of need.
God love her. Because at that moment I was beginning to wonder about her sanity…and mine.
I have been initiated into a strange Utah ritual. The entire STATE stands still. Shops and businesses are closed. Traffic is rerouted and parades are held. Even temples in the state are closed. Not fully understanding at first, I ignorantly said I would participate. Indeed, I thought I knew what I was getting into. I could not have been more wrong.
It all begins at the butt-crack of dawn. Hapless people arise and put on a wildly colorful assortment of shirts, shorts and shoes to participate. Money has been tendered in quiet corners and through the mail for the privilege of taking part. As the darkness still shrouds the sky, friends and loved ones get into cars from all over the Salt Lake Valley and begin the ascent to the top of the hill where some of these same strangely attired people are unceremoniously dumped off on this winding, narrow road with bad pavement and they disappear into the darkness. There are no streetlights in this area and they have to put temporary lighting near the porta-johns that are available for the brave souls who were apparently born with no sense of smell who require that answer to nature’s call.
Mind you, while this moment of dropping off is happening, some of these people exchange hugs and a few tears as an endless parade of returning vehicles flips a “U-ie” and heads downhill. Others are sufficiently jaded by their repeat offender status at this unusual event to simply stuff their earphones into place and trot away as if nothing out of the ordinary were occurring.
I was astonished at the number of cars streaming up the hillside as if none of these people had ever heard of sleeping in. What is even more odd than the above scene is that some of those in the returning cars have donned the same type of colorful clothing for an event in another part of the Valley. I know because I was one of those folks in a returning car.
Branded with random numbers attached with safety pins to the front or back of various shirts, these people seem oblivious to the fact that most of the world remains blissfully unaware that there IS a 4:30 in the morning.
I confess my part in participating in this ritual. While I willingly said I would do this (Beth would say I was dragged into it – not true. I went voluntarily and stepped off into the abyss of insanity), I didn’t fully realize what was about to happen until we had hugged goodbye as she was getting out and I was departing for my moment of eternal glory.
Okay, so it wasn’t so much about eternal glory as it was about praying for daylight and a person in the same color shirt as me whom I could follow so I could hope to find my way to the end of the road printed so colorfully on a handy little pocket sized map. The poor benighted individual at the start of my portion of the day’s events was handing out route maps to those of us standing, stretching and meditating on what might be ahead of us on the trip. I wore the shirt that was the ‘badge of honor’ for this event. It was black. Black? In the desert? Whose bright idea was that? I was personally just hoping that the grim reaper wasn’t wearing a 5k shirt.
There is almost a tacit understanding and prayer of hope among the newest initiates that someone ahead of them knows where in the hell they are going. I know that was what I was thinking. Especially in light of the fact that their precious little map meant absolutely nothing to me.
While I confess my absolute faith in OTHER people when it comes to direction, I am a hopeless loony when it comes to finding my way around. It isn’t that I don’t have a strong desire to know my way from sea to shining sea, but I can get lost in the damn grocery store! My skill lies in my ability to fold maps neatly.
Look, we all come here with skill sets and finding my way isn’t one of them.
While I have traveled all over the nation to do vacations and road trips and what not, I am also blonde enough to be willing to cop to the fact that I have ZERO sense of direction. This fact was made perfectly clear to me in college when some erudite individual said, “If you want to know which direction is ‘north’ just look to the mountains. The whole valley was ringed with them so either my compass didn’t respond to their specific direction or I must have missed just which of those mountain peaks represented Utah north.
I more than make up for my lack of directional skill in my total ability to provide comic relief for those who are blessed with navigational skill. Those people are under stress because of folks like me so I do my part the best way I can. I find a deep sense of comfort in the soothing voice of the little man stuffed into the GPS unit who tells me which way to go. I’m just hoping that little soothing voice doesn’t ever tell me to take the next left turn to Albuquerque and go to blazes.
As an example of my clueless behavior when it comes to direction finding, Beth and I were in Atlanta, Georgia for a "Time Out For Women" event and she hands me the direction sheet and says ‘Tell me where we are’.
I believe I said ‘We are on the road.’ Worked for me.
She was NOT amused. Beth said ‘You got that right!’
Although I am ‘directionally challenged’, I have to tell you here and now that I did achieve a minor miracle today. After 365 days of planning, sweating and telling myself that the ice cream in the freezer was NOT calling my name in a siren song of syrup, nuts and whipped topping, I clocked in a personal best time for the 5k distance.
58 minutes from the popping of the starting balloons (Do what? Even in the redneck south we start our events with a gun!), to crossing the finish line isn’t too shabby for someone who should be date stamped as past her prime and ready for disposal.
I was amazed at the marathon runners who whipped past me on the route looking like gazelles in full stride as opposed to me, who at times felt like an elephant lumbering along. Their lithe, clean lines and the full and purposeful strides led them past me toward their well deserved rewards. I could appreciate their skill. I just wish I shared it.
When I heard the shouts of encouragement and the cheers and applause of the people lining the route, it kept the adrenaline flowing like cheep booze at the bar call. As they shouted out their various messages, some would holler out the numbers of people as they passed and I heard MY number (3454) being called out and a personal shout out of how great I was doing came from someone whom I didn’t know, but who shared at least that moment of the journey.
My tears started shortly after I rounded the final corner of our route (thanks to all of those who led the way and didn’t lead me into blind alleys or bars). Beth was standing there camera in hand. You have to memorialize these events when they occur lest someone think you are making it up or that you are drunk. I honestly think even though she had already done more than a yeoman’s work for the day in completing her 10k run (that’s right, campers, she RAN her event), she was more proud of me than I was because I could see in her eyes that she thought more of what I had done at that moment than I did.
Which felt kind of awesome – and kind of strange too.
Although I am more than proud of what I accomplished, I honestly believe that she understands about just how strange this world of night arrivals and ziggurat drives back to parking lots and unknown or unfamiliar destinations is to me. This is a shade of color in her world spectrum that I simply had never understood – until today.
Though I am not yet in shape for running (Holy Moses! Did I say ‘not yet’?), I can now get a glimpse of what it means to prepare and then to test your personal mettle as you put it all on the line and hope and pray you can find yourself sufficient to the task at hand.
For the record, I didn’t place first, but I wasn’t expecting to do so. Frankly, I was simply hoping to cross the finish line without the use of my lips and teeth to drag my carcass across.
I was pretty specific in my prayers to Heavenly Father about what I was expecting and didn’t ask Him to give me something I hadn’t done my part to receive on this event. That would be wrong. Instead, I asked Him to hear not only my prayers but also the prayers of the people who were praying for not only me but also for Beth and for us to be able to finish our events. I totally FELT their prayers today.
What happened today was more about friendship and trust than about distance and sweat. I choose to believe that it was a walking and running example of what it means to believe.
For a while, I didn’t. It was just too hard.
But my life has changed because Beth believed I could do this.
She says she ‘knew’. Beth said that believing has uncertainty and there wasn’t uncertainty in her because she KNEW I could do it. She also said all I needed was a good, swift kick in the ass. So thanks for knowing and thanks for the kick in the ass.
You know, sometimes the best helping hand is a good firm push. Or in my case, a firm kick to the seldom used and saggy buttocks.
So for those who have not experienced what it is to arise at some unknown hour to slip into clothing that is not main stream and participate with strangers who become kin through this ritual, I encourage you to try it.
But don’t do it alone.
This is an event best shared with someone who already sees the end of the journey even if you can’t.
As a codicil to this event, Beth kindly reminded me before we got to this morning’s events that "there would be an ambulance standing by" for me in case of need.
God love her. Because at that moment I was beginning to wonder about her sanity…and mine.
