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| "C'mon, 1212, you're makin' me look bad." 7:20 a.m. I was thinking "What have I gotten myself into NOW!" The stomach butterflies were a-flyin'. But I was psyched: 7 months of training, today's the day! | Before the start: Dressed nattily for the occasion. Everybody else looked like a real skater. But only I could go to Walmart AND skate 38 miles in the same outfit. | At the finish: "I bust my butt for a stinkin' coffee cup?!" It was worth it. But I tore my lucky shirt and left some skin on a Georgia bridge. Bummer. The other skaters were gasping as I was going down. I thought "That's my luck, missing all the action. Then I realized, I WAS the action. |
Ohmigod, tell me this is only a dream! There I was in Athens, Georgia, elevated about 3 inches from the pavement on wheeled ski boots, technically known as "in-line skates". Was I actually entered and about to start in one of my wild-hair ideas: the 17th annual "Athens-to-Atlanta" road skate!? (Also known as the "First and Maybe Only Time Dennis D. Tries Something Like This!") In my daytime job, I'm a soil scientist with the U.S. Department of Agriculture. But on weekends, I sometimes strap on a pair of skates and enough padding to look like Bib, the Michelin Man. I really enjoy rollerblading, even though I'm not especially good at it. In fact, if they had a sport called Butt Skating, I'd be on the Olympic team. But I do have a great time and meet great people, even though I need another hobby like a hole in the head.
I entered the half-distance for this Athens-to-Atlanta skating "event". It's called an event because it's not supposed to be a race. Ha! Give me a break. Although all of the skaters are very friendly and sociable, most of them seemed like high-octane speed freaks. Except me. I was the 49-Year Old Kerosene Powered Weenie Boy. But I was there.
The full distance was 86 miles. No way, Jose. Thirty-eight miles for the half-distance was enough for me. Folks enter from around the U.S. and even several foreign countries, not including West Virginia. Since it's billed as a road skate, not a race, I think maybe I'll see some other geeks out there too. Wrong. Out of 812 entrants, I was the only one that had the guts to wear a daypack full of survival gear. My wife Judy said I was embarrassing her. She wasn't worried, though; she said I could stay out there for days with all my gear and foodstuffs.
It was kind of shaky right from the get-go. I was practicing in the Athens Federal Building parking lot at 7 a.m. in the dark. A guy from Michigan joined me; I think it was Arnold Schwarzenegger, or Fabio, or one of those other Olympic testosterone machines. While I felt pretty proud to stay mostly upright, he was whizzing past all around me. I mean, these real skaters can fall so gracefully and bounce right back up. Me, I crash into a heap and look like Beetle Bailey after a pounding from Sarge, with arms and legs sticking out at unnatural angles. It's like untying a knot of body parts before you can stand up.
I got to admit I was psyched at the starting line. Seven months of training: today's the day! That is, between bouts of nausea and sheer panic. But everyone else was in a festive mood and really supportive, and that rubbed off on me. So I calmed down to mere high anxiety. A quote by George Gobel captured the moment: "Did you ever feel like the whole world is a tuxedo, and you're a pair of brown shoes." 811 pros, and then me. There was even a guy who was kicking a soccer ball while on skates. I think this should be illegal.
My wife Judy took some pictures, then left after the start to meet me at the finish line. I asked her how she'd pick me out from all the other skaters. She said I have a "distinctive skating style." (What she meant: "I love you hon, but on skates, you're a real goob.")
Things went well at the start. Meaning I didn't fall. I actually passed lots of skaters on the uphills. Then came the downhills. Oh God, those downhills. They're supposed to be the easy part, right? Noooooo. I tried keeping up with some folks, but the speed wobbles would scare the heck out of me. Anything past 20 mph was my sound barrier. That's the point where I can't hear my own screaming, so I have to slow down. It takes energy to brake, and it also robs your momentum for the next uphill; not a great race strategy, man.
About 10 miles into this, I decided to push the Weenie Boy envelope. The next downhill was mine, flat out. (Not a great idea to attempt something new on race day. Don't try this at home, kids.) I was doing about 20 mph, and almost made it across a bridge. Almost. I suddenly felt myself balancing on my toes and thought, "uh ohhhh, this is not good." I was a'goin down. I became one with the concrete, and somehow ended up skidding on my shoulder with my legs in the air. (They don't teach THIS in yoga class.) The traction grooves in the bridge surface added to the ambiance of the moment, too.
I quickly untangled and was skating again, to the disbelief of several folks. Embarrassment helps. The bad news: I tore my lucky shirt. Bummer.
The race is on a Sunday morning so the traffic is pretty light. But hey, let me tell you something. The folks driving cars like '89 bondo-covered Trans Ams with a diapered 2-year old standing in the back seat, sucking his fingers and looking through spit-smeared windows are bad enough. But don't EVER mess with a blue-haired little old lady's desire to get to or from church! I saw several skaters have close calls with folks who I thought would bat them with their embroidered handkerchiefs.
The rest was just grinding out the miles. Police held traffic at all intersections, and volunteers at checkpoints and water stations gave real encouragement. I drank over 15 bottles of water, plus the 2 quarts in my "camelbak." I ate so many bananas I had an urge to swing from a tree.
The sag wagon made regular trips, and always stopped to ask "how ya' doin?" I usually croaked out "fine as frog's hair!" I lied. There were some pitiful looking folks in there; they probably looked better than I did. Another support vehicle came by later and said the sag wagon was making one last sweep in ten minutes: get in or you're on your own. I thought, well, I've gone about 30 miles, was a good hour from finishing, and kinda hurting. Dang, maybe I will climb in this time.
At that instant a vehicle whooshed past me so fast I got sucked in its vacuum trail. It was the sag wagon! And it was filled up and leaving me on the battlefield! Well, I thought, at least that makes the decision easy. I'm out here on my own now. Actually that felt good; one less thing, y'know. From here on, it was just me and the church ladies from Hell.
I probably broke the overtime budget for the Gwinnett County Sheriff's Department. There were police at every intersection holding traffic throughout the race, even for Weenie Boy. Picture this: a policeman in mirror sunglasses holding a dozen cars in all directions while a lone "skater" bumbles and bounces across in front of everybody. After several repeats, I was still embarrassed.
The final three miles actually were great. I knew I would finish, whatever it took. Besides that, I had my personal cop car escort, the benefit of being last at the time. He asked me several times on his loudspeaker to stop and he'd take me in. I'd wave him off, so he just kept following me into town. The line of cars behind him were afraid to pass, probably thinking he was into one of those slow speed chases with a lunatic.
We finished in the little town of Dacula. Neat place. I'll return there some time when I'm not delirious. Most of the finish line paraphernalia was already down when I approached. Who cares! It was the most beautiful sight in the world to me. Five hours 43 minutes. Glacial speed to a real skater. But finished! A little dinged up, but I can't describe the feelings of disbelief and accomplishment.
I had a victory drink of, what else, another freakin' bottle of water. It tasted like champagne to me. And sitting on the curb with a victory meal of another banana was, well, stupid. My legs cramped and sprang backward trying to kick my butt like demons getting their revenge. I felt like the title character in Dr. Strangelove who had to occasionally stop his one hand from strangling him. Easy, legs, I feel your pain.
Thirty-eight miles. I can't believe it. Would I ever do something so insane again? You betcha. This is the kind of insanity that keeps you normal and focused on life's important matters. Like persevering through adversity, enjoying new experiences, and finding out that the little string thingy that's supposed to open a gauze wrapper doesn't always work when you're tired, swollen, and really need it to. No problem. To paraphrase Yogi Berra: "Ninety percent of life is half mental."
This one's for all the brown shoes out there.
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