Monday, July 28, 2003
San Miguel - The Good, The Bad, and The Strange
The Good
The busride down here. Yes the smooth and easy 17-hour bus ride. Only my friend Shannon, from my last adventure in San Miguel, can appreciate why an uneventful 17 hour bus ride would be considered one of the good things about San Miguel. This time, Shannon, there was no bribing of the border police at 2AM, there was no confusing bus changes and 5 hour layover spent sitting on our suitcases looking forlornly at the buses that weren't going to San Miguel. There was not the traumatizing sight of our bus leaving the San Luis pitstop WITHOUT us! There was no running after the bus, screaming "WAIIIIT!" There was no Shannon to skid out behind the bus, scraping the skin from her knee as I ran on (Man down! MUST COMPLETE MISSION!!!) to bang on the driver's window and scare the living bejesus out of him as we hear faint calls from our fellow passengers still waiting at the bus stop. "No! Don't worry! He's just going for gas! Come back, gringas stupidas!" No limping back, to tend to Shannon's wound and hide our red faces. No. There was none of that. Instead we had a smooth ride with the spanish-subtitled movie, The Scorpion King starring The Rock. And much sleep. Does it get any better than that?
The Bad
The scorpion. Oh yes, the scorpion that was clinging to the side of our bathroom sink on our second night in our lovely blue and yellow apartment. We peered down at it, whimpering a little. It was small, but what do we know about scorpions? We know cockroaches, oh do we know the way of cockroaches. But what of scorpions? How do you kill them? How do you keep them out of your house? Are they attracted to food, to damp corners, to the smell of fear?? Ponyboy smashed it with a bottle of TUMS as it tried to sting the plastic with it's tiny little poisonous tail. It was traumatizing. Later I asked my spanish teacher how to kill scorpions. "First Megan, what I do is spray it with insect repellant." Ok, check, I can do that. "And then I set it on fire." Wait. I thought I had misunderstood her spanish. "You light it...on fire? con fuego?" "Yes. THAT is how you kill a scorpion" I am just hoping not to see one again. I bet it makes those little high pitched screechings, the demons in the movies do when they are set on fire. shudder.
The Good
This town is intensely romantic. Mariachis serenade couples in the Jardin every night. Fresh roses beaded with dew are sold on street corner every morning. The city park we walked through had couples draped on each other's arms whispering into each other's ears around every turn of the path. And it was 2 in the afternoon.
The Bad
This town is intensely hilly. Every day my walk home leaves me sweaty and heaving. While our apartment is only 3 blocks from the main square, it is 3 blocks straight UP. The air is thin and I find in the middle of conversations, the need to stop, to breathe, and to sometimes hold my chest as I catch my breath.
The Strange
OK, after our long walks home, as we try to slow our thumping hearts, Ponyboy and I sometimes watch bad 80's dubbed or subtitle movies on our cable tv in our apartment. There is a Mexican commericial that comes on often when we watch the movies. This commercial portrays various people from various walks of life. Here is a kid playing soccer. Here is a man getting out of the pool. Here is a lady at a spinning class. All normal middle class type of people. But, they all have one thing in common. They are all scratching their rear ends. Just really digging in there, to reach the unreachable itch, while they look around sheepishly to make sure no one notices. We are confused by this. What does this mean? The commercial ends with a close up on some type of medicine. On the box of the medicine is a drawing of intestines. In these intestines are little parasites swimming around. Swimming around in the intestines. Swimming. yes. The grapic portrayal drops our mouths open in surprise. The parasites make you itch? And this happens to people from all walks of life? The commercial has done its job. We are now terrified. Our entire bodies start to itch. We consider buying the medicine, JUST IN CASE.
Every time this commercial comes on now, I just...have..to look away.
The Good
The people in my intensive Spanish class. They are all friendly and we exchange ideas and advice about living in San Miguel.
The Bad
The people in my Spanish class are all around 18 years old. There's even one 14 year old. I've never felt like such an old fogie. Like I'll accidentally bring up Alf or something.
The Good
My Spanish teachers. They are totally unlike my high-school Spanish teachers, who were always SO mean. My teachers at the Instituto Allende are helpful and patient. They also teach entirely in Spanish. "Don't be afraid to ask me questions. Es me trabajo."
The Strange
Because my teacher have a limited amount of words they can use and a limited amount of words we understand, the questions they use to teach us are strange bordering on bizarre. They all seem to have to do with cleanliness. "Megan, do you think Robert brushes his teeth every day?" "Victoria, do you use a soft towel or a rough towel to dry off after a shower." "Natalie, do you wash your face? How often? and so on. You feel you must come to class freshly scrubbed and ready to defend your daily cleansing routine.
The Good AND the Strange
La Cucaracha. Ah, yes, the bar I call La Cuca. Say it in Mathew McConaghy's voice from Dazed and Confused, "Party at La Cuca" This place is...amazing. It is my Lovejoy's of San Miguel. And if there are those of you who live in Austin and haven't been to Lovejoys before, go, go now my child, and experience the Joy of the Love, the bar that is Austin. La Cuca is a hole in the wall with no sign and beers for 10 pesos (1 dollar). Yes, you could take the equivalent of 10 dollars into La Cuca and you would be set for the night and then some. And this is good, because La Cuca is open until 6AM, yes 6AM. And you will stay all night. You will close La Cuca. And that, mi amigo, is something to be proud of. And the people. You will not be sitting alone for long. You will meet Jorge, Miguel, Paco, Margarita, some Scottish guy and many many friendly Mexican men and women. And the women will dance on the table and motion for you to join them. Perhaps you will, I did not. There are a few gringo students, but this a mostly local bar. A local bar, but incredibly friendly local bar. I danced with Miguel while Ponyboy sang "House of the Rising Sun" with Jorge. I spoke hours of Spanish with a mulleted Mexican man who compared me to Vivien Leigh. I almost threw up in the streets on the way home, while the sun was peeking over the mountains. We slept the entire day and night after this drinking fest at La Cuca. We slept for hours and hours, unable to get out of bed, save for a few sips on our bottled waters. I felt a little like Sleeping Beauty, or perhaps Jesus.
The Bad
I have to be at class at 9 every week day. That means no La Cuca every night. Perhaps this is a good thing. All I know, Ponyboy came home at 7 in the morning after a night at La Cuca, while I had to get up a half an hour later to go study reflexive verbs. Is that fair?
There is much more that is good, bad and strange about San Miguel, but I think that will do for now. Es verdad?
Wednesday, July 23, 2003
My town - San Miguel de Allende
If, long ago, I was given the power of creation, if God spun the dusty globe and asked me to point, to choose, to create a place, I like to think I would have created San Miguel de Allende. I would have chosen Mexico because it suits my personality and tastes. It's messy and colorful, sometimes dangerous, sometimes welcoming, and behind the doors, a music beat pumps rhythmically. It reminds me a little of my bedroom in high school. I would have been greedy. I would have chosen the mountains of Central Mexico. I would have scattered red, blue, orange, yellow buildings along the mountain side. Their heavy wooden doors would open up to breezy courtyards where fountains drip and parrots screech. The people would be kind, the water dangerous, the scorpions deadly. I would have thrown down stones to create winding cobblestone streets that reach impossible heights. I would have dotted the town with ancient churches. I would have whispered inspirations in the ear of the designer of the central church, La Parroquia. He will draw his thoughts in the sand with a stick and create an enormous iglesia in the town plaza, the pink spires piercing the sky. I would have pushed my finger into the surrounding countryside, creating hot springs and canyons. I would send frequent rains and frequent sunshine, I would make the air thin, so naps are necessary.
My town would be discovered by dogs. Dogs from a dry mission 5k away from what is now San Miguel. I would lead them down to Los Charros, the springs of San Miguel, and they would in turn lead their owner, the monk of the mission, to the springs. The mission would soon after be moved this beautiful location and the life of the town would begin. Many years later my town would be the birthplace of the Mexican Revolution. The town's inhabitants could now have pride in the history of the town as well as the beauty. The country would be so proud of my town that they would name it a historical monument. The cobblestone streets, churches and age-old buildings would be kept intact by law forever. There would be no street lights, and taxis would speed their way through the winding streets, pausing only briefly at each intersection. Descendants of the first dogs will roam the streets, dirty but not sickly, thin but not mean. Even the dogs in San Miguel de Allende are happy. I would create an apartment at the top of a steep hill, where the cobblestone turns into more treachorous scattered rocks, where sprained ankles are more than likely. This bright orange apartment will open its doors many years later to the exhausted Ponyboy and Baby Birdie early one Saturday morning. The landlady, Teresa will still be in her pajamas, but invites them in to sit. Yes of course you can pay, but first, sit, talk, tell me about yourselves. Sientase. She will introduce them to her sister, who is also in her robe. Later Ponyboy and Baby Birdie will stand over their terrace, looking out across the town as the sun rises and the roosters crow. The roosters would welcome the morning, the dogs would welcome the night. Ponyboy will like the perros, will like the idea of a town ruled by dogs. Churchbells will ring throughout the day. On Sundays they will ring constantly. The normal chiming followed by a rapid, spastic ringing. As if the priest had turned away and a small child had gotten a hold of the rope and pulled down over and over, giggling. That is what Ponyboy and Baby Birdie think at first. But it will happen every time. I would give them a magical first day in the town, where beautiful moments abound if you sit for awhile and watch. They will sit in the plaza of the Church of San Francisco at the exact moment a Mexican bride is guided by her father to the church. The priest and a shy, sweet-faced groom will wait on the church steps as the bride rushes past a fountain covered with white daisies, white roses and looped with pine branches. 45 minutes later the couple will come out of the church, and be pelted by rice by family and friends. Instead of rushing off, they will stand on the church steps, hugging each and every family member as a mariachi band dressed white plays romantic Mexican music. Finally they will walk off to their car, the mariachi band following, trumpets blasting, guitars strumming. It will bring tears to Baby Birdie's eyes. Ponyboy and Baby Birdie will leave the church plaza, a little dazed at the sureal beauty of San Miguel and its people. This is what my town will do to all the people that visit it. And this is only the morning of their first day...
Monday, July 14, 2003
Y I Heart Ponyboy 4-evah
Recently it has been brought to my attention that Ponyboy has yet to appear in any of my online stories. This, of course, was brought to my attention by Ponyboy. Not in a whiney, look-at-me-I'm-Baby-Birdie's-fiancee-I-need-attention sort of way. More in a calm, I'm-not-angry-with-you-just-disappointed sort of way. And then there was last weekend. The weekend of trekking through the sweltering parking lots of New Braunfels. Our wedding and Mexico plans being thwarted by multiple middle-aged ladies behind multiple middle-aged counters. "No, you can't buy your bus ticket today. You can only buy it the day you are actually leaving for Mexico. Only on the day that you've driven down from Austin, with all of your suitcases and passports and prepared bravery for a 14-hour bus ride. Only if there's still space on the bus. And only if we feel like selling it to you." "No, I'm sorry. If you want to rent this space for your wedding ceremony, you can only have 50 guests, and no chairs, and you can't reserve parking spaces, and we won't actually let you get married, because we're just MEAN!" On top of all this, Ponyboy had to deal with Baby Birdie's paranoid squawking, "Well where are they going to park Adam? WHERE are our guests going to PARK? CAN YOU TELL ME THAT?" The heat and the shrill chirping and extreme hunger can turn a calm man inside out. And Ponyboy is not a calm man. It made him to stop mid-step and say "NO!" It made him turn to Baby Birdie and Mahlett the bridesmaid and say, "Well, just forget it then! I can't take it! Let's just not get married!" It stunned Baby Birdie mid-squawk into silence. It turned Mahlett to the drink. Later Ponyboy told us he was just joking. We're not so sure.
So all of the recent events convinced me that it was indeed time. Time for a Ponyboy Post. So this is for you Ponyboy. This is the tip of the proverbial 40, which gushes sweet beer down to the proverbial curb, my dear homey. This is my Benicio del Toro's elbow toast in The Usual Suspects, "There you go." This is my greasy-haired, stained-shirt Mickey Rourke's toast, "Here's to all my frieeeends". This is my caps off to you. This my homage to the boy that is Pony.
Top Ten Reasons I Heart Ponyboy
1.) You can never be bored with Ponyboy. One day when we had nothing to do, he came up with an unusual way to end an ongoing argument. An argument regarding the size of our heads. He dragged out that ol' bathroom scale into the kitchen, and darnit if we didn't just take turns weighing our heads. That's right, one at a time we got down on the kitchen floor, and laid our temples where our feet normally are placed, while the other stood over peering down at the scale numbers. Mine was a 10 pounder, while his was a hefty 14 pounds. I think he mighta cheated. I mean, I have an ENORMOUS noggin!
2.) He'll eat just about anything. On a trip to Scotland, he ate an entire plate of haggis (or as Americans like to call it, sheep's intestines). The entire heaping plate. 15 minutes later he was running and clenching through the twisting turning halls of an old Scottish castle, vainly searching for a bathroom, while I snickered and pointed. His bathroom adventures are remarkably similar to mine.
3.) He's a great storyteller. You know this if you are one of the lucky ones who have heard his The Rabid Squirrel story. If you have not heard it, then, by gum, you really need to. His tale is so compelling, that you feel that you too, are running down the street screaming, looking behind your shoulder as the rabid squirrel gallops after you. And yes, my friends, it is a true story. I may be able to write, but Ponyboy is a master of the oral tradition of story telling. huh huh, you said oral. shut up. you're gross.
4.) He knows everything about music. everything about good roots music. Before I met him, I was like, Muddy Waters, who? Carl Perkins, what? John Coltrane, how? Bill Munroe, why? Ernest Tubb, when? for shame, Baby Birdie, for shame.
5.) He buys me vintage dresses. Most of the time they fit.
6.) He can entertain himself. One time I caught him in the kitchen opening a bottle of coke singing to himself "Who left the Coke out?" to the tune of the popular song, "Who let the dogs out?" He then laughed to himself, NOT because he realized the idiocy of his lyrics, but because he realized that it was indeed HE who had left the aforementioned coke out. yes.
7.) He asked me to marry him at Gruene Hall. damnit if that isn't the coolest.
8.) His confidence in himself. If we are at any social engagement for a long enough period of time and if there is some amount of alcohol consumed, Ponyboy will always, inevitably take his shirt off. Any social engagement. "What? It's hot in here!" This gave birth to the age-old saying that we all know. Say it with me. The party hasn't started until Adam takes his shirt off.
9.) He taught me how to swing dance. That's where I get to wear all of my vintage dresses.
10.) His hair. Although the beloved pompadour has now transformed into a more modern, Backstreet Boy, rumpled and mussed coiffure, it still retains that glistening sheen of Royal Crown. It is still the Dark Helmet. It is still the Pillow Stainer. It is still the Greaser. It is still Ponyboy.
And that's why I love Ponyboy 4-evah.
Monday, July 07, 2003
Baptized by Heat
or
Long Run and Hot Sun make Baby Birdie Go CRAZY
Circle down. Glide down through the clouds. To the bird's eye view of the state of Missouri. Until the 225-mile long Katy trail is now visible, snaking it's way through the state. Dive down towards the white-grey gravel trail, where the air grows heavy and hot. Plunge into the treetops, below the branches, up and over cyclists, around and through runners' legs. Fly through the tunnel of oak trees, over brown wood bridges, over slow moving muddy water. Follow the trail that cuts through clearings and groomed fields with tiny green seedlings that push their way up towards the glaring sun. Towards the tiny shuffling lone figure. Slow down. Hover flapping over the white-capped Baby Birdie, dive in her ear and look out her eyes.
Crunch crunch. slosh slosh. breathe in, breathe out. The sounds of solo long distance running. Humid stillness broken only by the crunching of my feet, the sloshing of my water bottle, the labored breathing of my lungs, and the occasional "On your left!" of the mountain bikers. Running through hot damp cotton. My body as wet as a sweaty-palmed handshake from a Southern preacher. I dripped my way down the trail, avoiding the sunny spots, treasuring the shade.
Ponyboy and I were in Missouri for the 4th of July holiday. To ooh and ahh over the exploding Koosh balls in the sky. To ooh and aah over the latest addition to the family, little 2 year old Maggie. Maggie of the tiny slapping bare feet. Maggie of the purple tutu stuffed with rose petals. Maggie of the newly learned and much repeated word, "NO!" And finally to run a small section of the Katy trail. A very small 11-mile section of the 225 mile trail that runs west of Clinton alongside the Missouri River all the way to St. Charles.
When one runs alone long enough in the heat, one begins to find one's own companions. Thoughts, annoyances, voices take on a life of their own. Everything becomes personified. I imagine it's a lot like prison.
After 70 minutes of running, my heart rate moniter became a worried mother walking alongside with her hand on my wrist. "Don't you think you're going too fast? Look, your heart rate's at 175! Meggy!" She's comforting and annoying at the same time. "180? Slow down! What IS your coach going to think?" Part of me wanted to shake off her worry, to fill my bird lungs with wet sunshine and streeetch those bird legs out and SPRRINNT! But no, like one of those leashed children at the mall, I kept to my shuffle. Kept trying to get that heart rate down.
After 80 minutes of running, my exhaustion and negativity took the form of the demon Despair. Despair is a skulking creature with matted muppet fur and long boneless arms. He creeps up behind you and wraps his arms around your ankles, weighting you down until you slow to a crawl. "Sssslooow down. What are you trying to prove? Look over there. Under the tree. What a loooovely place to take a nap!" If you are not careful, Despair will crawl up your legs and sit heavily upon your thighs, taunting you, daring you to stop with every step. Sometimes he will wrap himself around your belly. "Are you sure you don't have to peee?" Sometimes he will crawl up on your shoulders, push in on your temples and whisper into your ears. "You don't want to be heeere! You want to be at hooome. Drinking beer, eating fast food and watching Jackasssss. Why don't you just turn around?" Shake him off and he will scurry to the base of the next steep hill, waiting to pounce as you climb. I have my own ways of fighting Despair. I douse his tangled fur with Gatorade. I squirt Gu into his green eye. I use Maggie's newly learned word, "NO!" Sometimes he wins. Sometimes I stop. But rarely.
After 90 minutes of running, my fighting spirit took on its own form. And its form happened to be Robert Duvall. Yes, Robert Duvall. I told you it was hot. But not just Robert Duvall, it was his character Sonny that appeared to me that day through the haze of the 107-degree heat index. His character Sonny from the movie, The Apostle, the Southern Baptist preacher with a fire in his belly. It was Sonny who stood at the crossroads of the Katy trail that day in a blinding white three piece suit, mirrored sunglasses and a gleaming chromed head, slapping his knees and waving me forward. If you ever need inspiration as a long distance runner, just imagine Sonny jogging alongside you. He fell in with my stride, barely breaking a walk. I had quite the motley crew of hallucinations running with me now.
"Do you know why I'm here, Birdie darlin?"
"No, sir. No, I don't. I think it might be because I ran out of water. I don't feel so good."
"Birdie darlin, I'm here for you in your time of need. I'm here to get you through the fire. Do you feel the heat?"
"Yes, sir."
"I said do you FEEL the heat? Can I get an AMEN?"
"Um. yes, I mean, uh, amen."
"Now do you feel the breeze, Birdie darlin, do you feel that delicious cool breeze?"
"Yes sir! I feel it."
"I want you to breathe in that breeze! I want you to fill those lungs with the power of that breeze. I say, do you FEEL the breeze, do you feel the POWER?"
"Yes sir! I feel the power."
"I want you to feel the earth beneath your feet. I want you to push DOWN on that earth. Can you do that for me Birdie darlin?"
"Yes sir! Pushing down, sir."
And then a whiney voice came up from my left, "Excuse me, Sonny, yes over here, hello! So Despair and I were just thinking that Baby Birdie has gone too far. We think she should turn back."
And another voice at my ankle, "Yeessss. Turn back. turn back."
"Quiet woman! And quiet, you demon! " Sonny boomed. My hallucinations were now arguing. He turned to me, "Now Birdie darlin, do you have the inner strength? I want you to find that inner strength that I KNOW you have, and I want you to kick that demon off of you. Now say, get BEHIND me devil!"
"Yeah!" I gasped, "You get behind me, you bad thing!"
And with a kick I sent squealing Despair into the brush.
"Now are you ready?"
"Yes, sir. I'm ready."
And with a shake of the arm I sent the whimpering Heart Rate mother to the side of the trail. Sonny clapped and did a little shuffle dance around me, singing and raising his palms to the sky.
"You're a little nuts aren't you, Sonny?"
"No more than you, Birdie, no more than you. I said are you READY, Birdie darlin?"
"Yes SIR!"
And we took off sprinting. Whooping and cackling, Sonny pulled out in front of me. His white coat flapped and white cotton belly protruded in front of him, as we tore down the trail. We raced that last mile, Sonny and I. We raced until the end of the trail, where I stopped, hands on knees, gasping and coughing. And looked up. To find myself alone. And very very thirsty.
Tuesday, July 01, 2003
Baby Birdie Learns to Sprint
You. You know who you are. You are in so much trouble. You were supposed to be there Friday evening, weren't you? All of you. You left me whimpering at the start line, feathers fluttering in the wind, short bird legs insufficiently trained for speed. You're so bad. You were supposed to be there so we could all look at each other and laugh. This is a joke, right? We don't do track meets. We're triathletes. We're marathoners (almost). Let's all do this 3200 meter race as a joke. Let's let those high schoolers flash past us. Let's all laugh as we get lapped by a 12 year old. But no. Baby Birdie forgives you all, because she has a kind heart. And because it made for a funny story.
So little Baby Birdie finds herself at a track meet on Friday evening ready to compete in the 3200m (2 miler). Her coach encouraged her and her teammates to run in the meet to find out their fastest 2 mile time. Baby Birdie doesn't normally compete in track meets. Actually, she's really never competed in a track meet. She is more of a long distance chugger. Or something. Something that shouldn't be on a track. With large men. Large fast sprinting men.
I arrived at Nelson Field at 7:45, Friday evening for the All Comers Track Meet. If it hadn't been All Comers, I wouldn't have been allowed inside the gate. Prior to our race, they had a meet for kids. Little boys and girls huffed their way around the track. Some with heads thrown back, little fists punching the air, little fingers clutching batons. Others with slow shuffling skips and shy sidelong smiles at our cheering. Many of them without shoes, white socks flashing red dirt soles. Parents yelled and clapped, "No, sweetie, go that way. Back that way. One more lap, keep going. Mommy's so proud!" It was a sweet family-like atmosphere.
I warmed-up on the grass inside the track, watching the children compete as I jogged. A group of runners noticed my baby bird orphan status and adopted me into their fold. I joined them in their drills while peering towards the entrance. Jessica? Amy? Erika? Anyone?
The children were starting to leave. Buses parked outside waited to take them home. Still, no one from our group. The announcer read out the events for my track meet. I didn't hear my event. Oh, no. Am I at the wrong track meet? This was turning into a bad dream. I noted that I was still wearing clothes, so it couldn't have been a bad dream. They announced the first event, the four 100's. And then the gurgling began. The gurgling in the lower intestines. Oh please God, the last thing I need at my first track meet is watery bowels. Panicky, I clenched my way towards a large safe-looking building and pushed open the door marked "Women". After destroying the girl's bathroom, I headed back to the track. To the lady who came in as I was leaving, my sincerest apologies.
I came out as they were collecting folks for my event. I filed in with a group of 12 men, boys, and 2 other women. They all looked fast. I'm a Half-Ironwoman, I wanted to whisper. I tried to focus. "Runners, on your mark!" OK, Megan. You don't have to keep up with them. This is just a test. "Get set!" Keep your own pace. You can do this. "BEEEEEEP!" Oh CRAP, here we go! They pulled out in front of me. All of them. One man was behind me. But he was RIGHT behind me. We are around the first curve, I'm pushing my own speed, which was nothing compared to the people in front of me. And they're slowly getting smaller. Already. It's the first lap. And then I just...let..it...go. Listen to your breathing. Relax your arms. One lap down seven to go. Each lap I marked with a curled finger. The man behind me passes me. 3 fingers down 5 more to go. I was breathing hard. Stretch that stride. Breathe in to that stitch in your side. One mile down, one to go. I'm running the fastest mile I have ever run. "6:59!" the timer yelled as I finished my first mile. 6:59? I can run under a 7-minute mile? Holy crappity. I'm going to do this! But the other competitors can run 5-minute miles. I was being lapped. The first three men streaked past me. 5 fingers down 3 to go. All of the runners have now lapped me. That included the 12-year-old boy, and the two other women. Push it. Ignore the beeping heart rate moniter. I was lapped again by the 3 top men. Lapped twice? Let it go. This is for you. I started my last lap. One glance around could tell me that everyone else is finished. People are clapping on the sidelines for the girl that is running by herself. Lone Baby Birdie flying down the track. Coming around the curve, I saw the people collecting for the next event. Yes, they had to hold up the next event for me. Everyone is waiting for me to finish. More incentive to sprint to the finish. I stretched out my legs, pumped my arms and sprinted to the finish line with a time of 14:32. A personal best for me. Covered in sweat I shuffled over to my Gatorade and then out to the parking lot. "Great race!" a shiny faced, high-schooler smiled at me. I laughed and thanked him. I know now what it's like to come in last. And, you know, it didn't bother me that much. Exactly 3 minutes later, as I opened my car door, I thought to myself, When can I do this again? And you know what? Next time, I'm going to make you come. Yes, you.
