Crimming

August 27, 2018

Greetings from the Blue Line,

crimming. verb.  Denotes preparation for, and participation in, completion of, and/or celebration thereafter, the Crim Festival of Races.  See also passion.

There is always an irresistible energy right before the start of the race.  This one was no exception, and if not for the dampness the runners would have been giving off sparks, arcs of blue-white electricity between them. We were crowded against the starting line, straining at the line, wanting to go.

I looked back across the throng, thousands of athletes, idling at high rpm’s.  Once in a while someone would leap straight up, bouncing to warm up, and then someone else, like runner wack-a-mole.  I could feel the heat from the bodies around me, smell the sweat and the ointment and the miles on the shoes.  People stretched, tried to do their prerace routine packed in among the mob.  Excuse me. Sorry.  Oh, my bad.  Ope!

A dingy sky swirled above the glazed bricks, indifferent to us, intent on its own agenda.  We edged up to the start and waited to be released as the first wave of runners took off.  It began to sprinkle.  We waited.  The pause was too long.  People began muttering.  The rain was picking up.  My right foot was on the starting line.  Breathe in and out. We are going.  Lean, breathe in…

And then we had to quit.

I sat on the tile floor of the pavilion, my back against the wall.  I was dressed to run ten miles not camp out on the floor, but I was surprisingly comfortable in my little corner.  Somehow, I arranged my tight hamstrings and glutes and calves, already twitching from a hard week of running, into some semblance of ease. 

The storm was stomping around outside like a petulant child, banging thunder, thrashing about in the puddles.  Rain roared against the pavilion, a wet percussion to an unknown beat.  The Crim would wait till the tantrum passed.

Thousands of runners were crowded into the space, along with the friends who had been at the start.  Now refugees in exotic shoes, huddled in colorful knots, laughing, trading stories, trying to be grateful we were inside and not in the storm.  The rain punished glass roof above us, the water sluicing off the edges of the building in waves.  The runner’s voices added to the din, the sounds intertwined and looked for places to echo.

The roar softened, still as loud but without the edge of new noise.  There was no individual voice, no single sound.  It became more like surf scouring against rock, foamy and rich with life.

I closed my eyes to imagine it more clearly.  And then without knowing I was going there, I was dreaming. 

I don’t know how long I was gone but I woke slowly.  Something brought me awake, that unique intimacy of being completely vulnerable in a dream and knowing that someone was watching me sleeping.  I opened my eyes, felt the world again, heard the tamped roar of the surf.

The world still was at full tilt.  I looked up to see the rain on the glass, the people pooling around my sanctuary, flowing up and down the halls, their voices as liquid as the world outside.  All I could hear was everyone wondering the same thing.  I stood and stretched and walked out into the melee and willed the storm to pass.

Someone said they heard there was a small chance they would have to cancel the race.  I scoffed at that, admittedly only armed with naive belief in momentum.  The Crim had run for more than four decades.  I caught the eye of the race director, Andy, and he had his Zen look going.  His calm was going to work.

When things go exactly as planned the race is an amazing thing.  And then the storm came, and it became epic.  The wizards behind the curtains moved thousands of athletes and volunteers and spectators and police; packaged us up in dry places, and watched the sky until it was safe to run again. 

And then it was.  I wasn’t aware of where it began but suddenly we were moving outside, the same runners, only an hour and a half older.  We took our places and restarted our ritual dances.  And someone whispered ‘Go.’ And we did.  We churned across the start again, laughing, telling the story already, and rushed into the ten miles.

Thirty seven times I have run the Blue Line.   Decades of crimming; pasta and running shoes and traditions and superstitions and variations, that now includes a nap.  And every year, no matter the time, always running with the best.

Hope this finds you with dry feet,

David

Copyright © 2018 David Smith