Meditations from Exchange Zone One
6:00 a.m. - Rain. Thunder. Lightning. Go back to sleep. No way there's a meet today. You hit the snooze button the allotted seven times, smile, dream of that night in Tahiti you'll probably never have.
8:00 a.m. Phone ringing but why? Turns out it's sunny now, nice out. Bring your sunscreen it's going to be warm. The buses are loading. Do you have the spike kit? And the med kit? And how about the key to the track shed?
Up you go, it's off to track so you pack accordingly. Both a heavy coat AND shorts. Sunscreen. Rain gear. Thermals. Sandals. Short and long sleeved t-shirts. Hats - visors and toboggans and ones that cover your whole face. You're packing to climb Everest though you're only going to Pace. It's two exits down off of 285 and with no traffic, you'll be there in 20 minutes. If somebody wrecks, you'll get there by next Wednesday.
You empty your closet into your trunk, remember your pad, and wonder why those coaches can't keep up with the shed key. About that time, you hear something hit the ground. It's the keys to the shed.
Jesus wept.
Later: You strategically miss the coach's meeting. You figure the track's still oval, the finish line's marked, the lanes are numbered, so you realize again that only humans can complicate this sport.
Okay, so you won no awards in cross country when you claimed runners only needed to know three things. Left foot. Right foot. Forward. Somehow athletes expect more than this. Oh well...at least you were a good tennis player once.
Anyway, Fast Freddy is firing the gun today. This is good, though it's rumored he did shoot seven fans last year. Bad for the sport, but you got home before 'That 70s' Show' at nine. Okay, so he's a bit dangerous but he makes very short speeches and keeps things going in a hurry.
You voted for him for president.
You laugh out loud. People stare, probably find that weird. Oh well, at least you were smart enough to miss the meeting.
Later: You wonder who invented all this, maybe it was that Jerry Jones outing except the Kool Aid didn't finish the job. So, you dodge shots and discuses and thank God they don't throw the javelin anymore. Avoid runners warming up, try not to get raked into the sand pit, look up to see vaulters flying over Mableton - those kids who'll live forever and don't know this is dangerous.
"It's a RUSH!" one vaulter said. You start to agree, but you notice his left side is shattered, and he's walking funny due to the day he went up as a boy and almost came down as a girl.
You envy kids and glad you're not one at the EXACT same time.
Anyway, the day unfolds and you do what you're trained to do: Stare at your pad, talk to yourself, keep the world away from you. You smile, as you should.
After all, you're both an idiot and a genius at the exact same time.
Later: Morning turns to afternoon which turns to night and circles back again. Your clothes are in piles, arranged by the season. Someone stole your t-shirt but the seasons have switched back to winter.
There are numbers everywhere on your pad. You remember the day a lineman paid you to give him extra tackles in exchange for Fritos and an ice cream sandwich. Maybe you can start a side hustle. Then again, Milesplit exists so probably not.
Oh well, time to take down the tent, smash your fingers in that pole again. It seems you'd learn, but this is the idiot side coming out, you're lucky you can work a light switch.
With this said, you stash as many Power Bars into the winter clothing section of your pile as you can, scream bloody murder when your hands get pinched, and help your coaches carry the tent back to the van. Wherever that is.
Finally: You're on the couch, refreshments in hand, listening to Red Forman threaten to stick his foot up his boy's backside. You're just thinking - about how a lot of people when they retire get bored and then they die.
With this, you laugh. After all, you have the cure. Simply send them out one day to write about a track meet. If that don't kill em, hypothermia or a heat stroke probably will...
No Kool Aid required...
- Dunn Neugebauer