Flashes of Panic

I spent a big chunk of this morning standing on the Shore Road in Cape Elizabeth handing cups of Gatorade to people who looked a lot warmer than I felt. A. was running the Mid Winter Classic and I volunteered to help out in order to feel like I was doing something productive.

Putting out cups and filling them, the first half hour to forty minutes, is mindless work that is best done with more people. It’s when the runners start coming by that things get interesting, because they all look different. Some are happy to see a drink; others wave you off. They listen to their headphones or they chatter with us.

Chatter. Lots of that. We all talked at the stop while we were setting up, but when the runners arrived it was just advertising. We had Gatorade on our first table and water on the next, so we spent a lot of effort making sure people got what they were after, calling out what we had in our hands, letting them know there would be water after the Gatorade, making sure they didn’t do what my brother once did (chug a cup of water and dump some kind of energy drink on his head.)

After a few minutes of chirping “Gatorade! Gatorade!” I started feeling like I’d burned out any circuits in my mouth to say anything different. (A runner took a cup and said, “Thank you.” I replied, “Gatorade!”) I figured we must be driving each other batty. So I started trying to change things up.

First there was the parrot. “Gatorade! Gatorade! Aawwk! Gatorade!”

There was the stadium huckster. “GAtorade, HERE!”

Then there was the gas station. “Last Gatorade for two and a half miles!”

There were several variations on the bar. “Gatorade shots, water chaser!” (One runner asked for a double.) “Set up a Gatorade for the lady in blue!”

And the discount store. “You can’t beat this offer on a cup of Gatorade! You won’t see a better price until the finish line! Everything must go!”

By this time I’m certain my fellow volunteers would have carried me over to Crescent Beach and pitched me in the ocean if they hadn’t needed my hands, but the runners, at least, weren’t hearing the same jokes over and over. I got to try each one on a fresh audience.

Sometimes when I’m in good shape and racing regularly, it’s hard for me to convince myself to show up and help make the races happen. If there’s anything that’s good about not being in racing shape, it’s that I can get out a few times a year and make a contribution, give back a little where I’ve taken so much.