Race Day

Being a friend means more than just hoisting a beer and toasting good health to the guy or guys you've shared a few dirty jokes with. There are times when sacrifice is called for, laying down your prevailing interests for the good of others.

A friend in need is a friend indeed.

I'm just trying to figure out what need my friends at The Knitting Circle had for me to drag my ass out of bed at an hour one usually associates with returning vampires, only to slog through my leg of a relay race some three hours later. I could have met them at the hand off point after a nice sleep in, hot shower and one or two bloody marys. Believe me, you couldn't hinder my performance any more than a summer full of "I'll do double laps tomorrow" already did.

There were two choices: get up at 3.30 am and jump in the car to get there in time for the start, or stay with a friend and get up at 5 to make the 15 minute drive to the start.

I opted for the latter.

Big mistake unless having one beer and being shushed off to bed at nine thirty is your idea of what an adult male should normally expect his Saturday nights to consist of.

There I was in a nine year old's bed, some sort of fish tank aglow in my eyes and a floor full of Lego to circumnavigate at the risk of foot lacerations in case that one beer caught up with me.

I couldn't sleep.

I tried to let the fish soothe me but they made me have to pee. Not a good idea with the "Achtung Lego Minen" field all around me. I counted sheep. I counted tits. I counted all the times I had made just the right impression but that stopped at two.

Finally I jumped into Legoland and built a fissionable reactor just to get sleepy.

Got up at five, got out on time and got to the starting line, meeting up with the rest of the usual team and this year's substitute, the old flame. I didn't recognize her at that hour because when we were a number she was always gone by that hour. If she'd have worn an indented pillow on her head I'd have spotted her right away.

The national anthem was sung. If you can imagine the quietest place you've ever been, do so. Then imagine it quieter still.

When a uniformed police officer sings the anthem on September 11, 2011 you've got to assume hands are over hearts with intent and we're all in a silent space nobody is sharing.

The relay consists of five roughly equidistant legs that each member of the team covers while the rest of us pile into a car to chase to the next handoff point through city streets, poorly worded directions and infinite barricades. When the car owner is dropped off on the course to do his leg, we take advantage of his social profile and consider committing bank robberies while we've got his car.

As I said, I had the later, indeed, final leg of the race which was re-routed because of some recent flooding. In times of flood, the bottomlands are wet and the high ground stays dry. The only problem with high ground is that you have to go up a hill to get there and so it was that the flat, flooded, runnable bottomland was foresaken so that we could race up a damned hill!

At the crest of which we were promised "its all downhill from here."

This is Pennsylvania. We've known that for years.

Then it was over. The finish line was crossed. Congratulations on not dying en route were issued, chocolate milk was drunk with impunity and it was revealed that my car keys were missing.

'Scuse me, let me borrow the Subaru for a while and pay no attention to the bank alarm.

Bunny on.