Sometimes a little wakeup call is needed. Though I profess to be a man and athlete who lives in the moment, aware of my surroundings, I can still drift unaware into an unconscious mode, oblivious to what is going on around me.
I was reminded of that a couple times this weekend. My task at hand was directing an XTERRA offroad foot race. Although I had directed races at this particular venue twice in the past, this was the first one affiliated with the well-known and prestigious XTERRA series, and I was determined to do a good job. Making my task more difficult was the unexpected departure of my co-director, who was called out of town on military business. Still, I could and would present the racing public with a quality offroad event.
As race day approached, my mind was consumed with the myriad details of race directing. Chief among these concerns was the disturbing lack of volunteer support. In the past I’d had no such difficulty, owing partly to the simplicity of these races prior to our involvement with XTERRA. Also complicating matters was the course, a convoluted, inverted double-loop figure eight with three very key positions requiring volunteers who must direct runners through multiple passes, each time heading in a different direction.
I drove out to the race site the day before the event, intent on running the course to check it out. I wanted to be sure that maintenance crews had mowed the grassy areas completely, as the mown paths comprise part of the route. Also I had to check for fallen trees or other unexpected obstructions, as I hadn’t run there in months.
So I began. Early on, the course ascends a winding steep hill. As I bent my back to the task, driving strongly toward the top, I felt a sharp pull in the lateral compartment of my left knee. I stopped briefly, a bit concerned, then resumed running.
No good. The same pain, tugging hard somewhere in the vicinity of my lateral collateral ligament, threatening to lock my knee completely. So I stopped again, then walked a while. Determined to complete the climb, I tried a third time, and once again the pain stopped me in my tracks. This time I toppled to the ground and remained in a sitting position, juxtapositioning old familiar curse words with a few new contrivances.
My run was done. There I sat, in the middle of a grassy track, partway up the hill, surrounded by birds singing merrily amidst the fecund greenery of spring, and all I could do was cuss and feel sorry for myself. I hobbled painfully back to my vehicle, got in without so much as a look around, and drove angrily back home.
The next day was race day. Still worried about the volunteer situation, I dealt with all the other pre-race preparations, carefully loading my pickup truck with all the necessary acoutrements and equipment, including my mountain bike so I could ride around the course during the race to ensure things were going well. It would be a barebones effort, but I was confident I had everything I needed to stage a successful event.
Until my cell phone rang while I was en route. One of my course monitors was sick and couldn’t make it. I was already razor-thin on support staff; this put me in the red bigtime.
Damn! How was I going to deal with this unexpected setback? Would I have to change the course, running a single loop and shortening the total distance significantly? Could I manage the vacant monitor position myself? But if I did that, the finish line would be one person short, and I also couldn’t ride around the course troubleshooting during the early stages of the race.
My mind reeled as I continued driving toward the park. Still completely oblivious to what was probably the nicest morning of the spring season, temperatures climbing gracefully into the low seventies, a bright blue sky punctuated by a few fleecy white clouds, I pressed the gas pedal to the floor, as if by doing so I could outrace my problems. Speeding along at sixty miles an hour, my thoughts remained inward, trying to figure out the best course of action.
As I turned left onto a two-lane country road, my progress was quickly slowed by a small, rusty, white pickup truck, lollygagging along at about twenty-five miles an hour, less than half of what I’d intended to drive. Irritation bubbled up into my throat, my lips pressed together in a thin line, my hands tightly wrapped around the steering wheel.
What was this old geezer’s problem? Now he was doing fifteen and continuing to slow down. Involuntarily my truck crept moved closer and closer, my front bumper only a few feet from the bumperless back of his truck. Yet still he slowed, finally grinding his truck to a complete stop in the middle of the road.
Angrily I swung my truck around him to the left, intending to pass with a burst of power and a cloud of exhaust to express my indignation. As I did, the other driver’s hand came out of the window. Was he flipping me off? Stunned, I prepared to return his Italian salute, righteous fury flooding my senses.
Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw sudden movement in a field off to the right. There in a rolling grassy meadow surrounded by lofty trees clad in bright shades of new spring green stood several deer, including a tall buck with a proud rack of antlers. The sudden roar of my acceleration had spooked a couple of the deer and all of them moved quickly toward the woods. First one, then another, leaped gracefully over a split rail fence at the edge of the meadow, their white tails flashing in the morning sunlight.
That was what the old guy had been looking at and why he’d slowed down! He wasn’t flipping me off; he was pointing toward the herd of deer. In the midst of my self-consumed singlemindedness I’d nearly raced past them in a huff. Had the man in the white pickup not forced me to slow down and take a look I’d have never seen them.
I watched the last of the deer jump languidly into the next field and dance away into the woods. Then I sheepishly resumed my drive, sheepishly waving my hand out the window in apology and thanks. I hoped the old guy realized I’d seen the deer and was grateful to him; up til then I’d acted like a jerk.
As my consternation grew, so did awareness that I had been shown something of value, something I thought I’d learned long ago but apparently of which I need continual reminding. Driving much more slowly along the winding narrow ribbon of asphalt, mindful once again of the beauty in which I was immersed, I remembered that it is important to live in the present, to appreciate the splendor and the wonder that is this world. The future is important and must be dealt with via good planning (and hopefully a large measure of luck,) but the present is what is happening right now. It is that moment upon which I must bring my attention to bear; to do any less is to miss many of the lessons and blessings that are available to me.
Indeed our XTERRA race went on, and as always, a few little glitches did occur and were dealt with. None, however, involved the missing monitor position; a man who’d come out simply to spectate was glad to pitch in, as often happens, and no runners were lost irretrievably. The race was pronounced a grand success and all went home tired and happy, a measure of sunburn added in as a bonus. What I hope for as an epilogue is that one weary traveller on this celestial ball of clay and granite will pass through the next little while a bit more aware of the wonders with which we are all surrounded, grateful for my little wakeup call received unexpectedly on a sunny Saturday morning on a winding road surrounded by rolling green hills somewhere in the south.
