We were ready after all. We had trained hard, and we had trained in the rain. It would be a good test of the un-petroleum jelly we coated on our feet, our wick-away socks (yeah, good luck with that!), the toughness of the calluses we had built up over all these months of training. And so, on that first rainy morning, after being herded like cattle into a promenade of sorts to make sure we didn’t topple each other at the start, we walked. We walked in our rain gear, doubling up with ponchos and umbrellas that the wind kept blowing upwards in some strange fury. We walked in our Energizer bunny ears that soaked up the water and needed to be squeezed out every now and then. We walked in fanny packs and knapsacks filled with 3-Day essentials: sunscreen, lip balm, extra socks, cell phones, cameras, pink bandanas, water bottles, snacks. For a while, the sidewalks were filled, filled! with bunny ears. The route was so crowded with bunny ears that we bypassed a few grab ‘n gos, stopping at Burger King to pee instead, then Starbuck‘s, Dunkin Donuts, just to put a little distance between us and the rest of the herd. Moooo! We passed several Laundromats and wondered what it might be like to climb into a dryer, spin for a while, soak up all that good heat. While I kept hearing Grace Jones taking turns with Flash and the Pan singing Walking in the Rain in the back of my head (Walking down the street, Kicking cans, Looking at the billboards, Oh so rad…Walking, walking, In the rain.…), my mother and Ursula sang Singin’ in the Rain, twirling umbrellas, making splashes. Dance the swivel hips. The mood was festive, somehow. And finally, the maddening crowds thinned, the smog lifted, and we were able to air out our legs a bit. We caught up with each other at lunch, and eyed the skies suspiciously. The rain had stopped for the most part, but it threatened to spit and we kept our ponchos close. In the afternoon, we made our way through Wellesley, and I found myself walking past right past my most excellent plastic surgeon’s (Dr. Pitts) office, site of countless expander fill-ups, reconstruction consultations, and my first ever tattoo, and I thought of running in and saying hello, showing her my henna tattoos, or having my after pictures taken (maybe with lanyard showing, zoomed in on The Blue Footed Boobies?), but figured she’d be off on some summer holiday, it being a Friday in July, and that it would have to suffice to wave, close the circle, take note of this milestone. A few minutes later, I was walking past Newton-Wellesley Hospital, where I had all of my surgeries and procedures done last year, where Dr. Specht took care of the cancer and Dr. Pitts installed my new girl, my new lease on life. I wondered how many other walkers were remembering their last visits to NWH, musing over the irony, and that wonderful way things have of coming full circle. Well, look at me now...
Finally, after walking most of the day in the thundering rain, we entered camp exhausted but fairly delirious in our excitement to be there, and to be done for the day. We greeted the sun, grabbed our gear, put up our three pink tents side by side to take their places in the rows of tents that made up the tent city (a bit like Oz, if you ask me), found some respite in the shade, and made sure we were feeling fine before taking our place in the shower line (new experience: shower trucks). Later, we made our way to the 3-Day village, where several sponsors had set up tents (Energizer, New Balance), where the 3Day post office offered up letters from friends and family members, the Remembrance Tent the chance to honor loved ones lost to breast cancer, and the 3-Day Store the opportunity to outfit yourself in every possible 3-Day-logoed gear. After picking up our new pins--power team, for having raised so much money, and the $5K+ pin--and feeling a bit like Girl Scouts with our new merit badges, we grabbed dinner--spaghetti and meatballs, salad, and big gooey brownies--took our seats under the big top, and heard about some of the more amazing people in the crowd: the man who will walk in every 3-Day event this year, the woman who raised over $20K, the people who have walked since the very beginning. The first night culminated with tears of relief and crazy applause when they announced that we would not have to take our tents down the next morning before setting out on our 22 mile route. Go figure.
Day Two/Saturday: No sleep at night. It’s amazing how at 2 in the morning, you can hear every little sound from every person in the camp as if they were right next to you. Sometime after four, I posted this update on Facebook:
can't sleep, surrounded by snores, tent zippers, squeaky air mattresses, and the grind & chug of big heavy trucks...missing the crickets, coyotes, peepers...that lovely rural din.
We had set the alarm, but hardly needed it; when the camp began to stir at a little before 5, there was no way anyone could sleep through all the hushed commotion: the zippy zipper sounds, the slap of flip flops against the turf, those annoying little black pellets made of some unearthly material springing up to bounce against calves and ankles, the whispered voices, the creak of bones, the slam of the porta pottie doors. Crew members, last to go to sleep, first to get up, were up at 4, getting breakfast ready for us, setting up the medical tent, getting the stations all set: beverages, self help for blisters, shower trucks and washing sinks. We were so happy we didn’t have to pack up. It was enough to prepare mentally for the day that promised a challenging 22 mile route through some of the prettier towns in the area: Waltham, Woburn, Lexington. Though it had rained a bit in the night, the sun was up and out, and we breakfasted, restocked our fanny packs, refilled our water bottles, and took our places at the start, where the sheer anticipation of walking in the sun (sun!) gave us an all-over shimmering energy that made for an especially happy start.They had been talking up the big hill we would have to climb at the start of Saturday’s route, but we didn’t fear the hill. We’d trained on hills. The hill is nothing, we spat. Gill is all hills. I was eager for the hill. Bring on the hill! The first day’s route seemed a bit flat, boring. Better for the muscles if there is some variety. So, of course, the Boobies, used to the high cliffs of the Galapagos Islands, powered up and smacked the hill, meeting at the top to walk across the overpass together, cars honking underneath. We walked through some great neighborhoods, where folks greeted us with enthusiasm. There were the occasional display of pink balloons, signs in windows and on lawns, a few elderly waving from their doors, and one of the finer moments: someone blasting We are the Champions from the windows of their ranch house, which reverberated with some kind of spine tingling energy that the other houses, sitting quietly and comfortably, lacked. The crowds on Saturday were really amazing, and on a little corner of Lexington, I crossed the street to see the unmistakable ambling gait of my father, followed by my step-mother Martha, and brother Will, and rushed to enjoy a visit that would provide a much-needed boost that fueled my afternoon with the warmth and love that only family can provide.
Throughout the Walk, at various cheering sections, people gathered to pay their respects, cheer us on, offer frozen grapes on bamboo skewers, ice pops, York peppermint patties (candy is dandy, after all), a few cooling spritzes of water from their spray bottles. The organizers told us the 3-Day is not a diet, and given the excess of sugar, er, food, en route (that felt a bit like a bizarre, rather sublime form of trick or treating), they were clearly right. Children held bowls of lollipops, watermelon slices, cold bottles of water out for us to take; we quickly learned that it was always best to help ourselves to whatever it was the kids were offering, lest be responsible for letting them down, and it was a whole lot more fun to leave them with big airy smiles on their faces rather than watching their little crestfallen faces pinch and fall in disappointment.
Aside from a few favorite hand-outs, it was the Gu energy gel, the electrolyte shot blocks, the pit stop bananas, and our pre-packed gorp that fueled our adrenaline and ensured success. And even better than the glucose was the high amplitude and abundance of positive reinforcement, the Great Job, Ladies!, the Way to Go!s, the Thank you for Walking!s that made every step a little easier. And so much of it came from the many men who had festooned themselves for the occasion, positioned themselves at, seemingly, every corner, and clapped and high-fived and hugged us on. They seemed to delight in the opportunities for dressing up and vamping, and were there everyday, from start to finish, showcasing their talents: the Pink Angels in their pink (what else?) wings and Cleopatra suit, the three older men who adorned their shoes with pink tassels and had nothing but good cheer to spread, the crew member who danced in his kilt as he passed out snacks at the pit stops. And there were others, the older woman in the wig who held her thanks from a survivor sign at nearly every stop, the people who brought boom boxes out onto the sidewalks to blast Walk this Way and other inspirational tunes, the girls in pink who followed us in their car, honking wildly, the crewbies in their decorated sweep vans, music blaring. And there were the ever-present Men with Heart, a team of walkers who carried backpacks stuffed with things they dispensed freely and frequently to other (female) walkers in need: pink bandanas, band aids, tampons (!), encouragement. By the end of the Walk, it was clear just how much these people had meant to us and just how big a role they had played in seeing us through.
Saturday night at camp was its usual festive self, with dancers performing under the big top, a dance party slated to begin after dinner, and legions of walkers, starting to feel the miles, turning camp into a war zone. The medical tent set up a triage system of care, and soon there were scads of people on crutches, clutching bags of ice, grimacing in pain. The Boobies were doing okay, taking good care of ourselves and each other, but the hustle and bustle of the crew was much appreciated, because we wouldn’t have had the energy to do much for ourselves. We were a bit weary, and were not lacking for misadventures: when my mother went to grab the clothespin that was holding the tarp in place at the very top of the tent, the tent collapsed under her (minimal) weight, and she went flying, the tent ripped, and hilarity ensued. And there was something pretty funny about washing up at the little outdoor sinks, too. There were three sinks on each side of each station, with a strip of mirror at the top, so that when you looked in the mirror, you saw your face atop the body of the person on the other side. This new kind of Exquisite Corpse game was a bit disconcerting at first, but by the second night, it only added to the giddiness that had already started to build.
Sunday/Day Three: The morning dawned bright. I was grateful for the Tylenol PM I had taken the night before; all those wild sounds faded into the background, and I was able to sleep until about 4:30. It’s always nice to see the sun come up, it’s something I don’t see enough. For the last day, we wore, with pride, our I love Boobies! Team shirts, packed up our tents and our duffles, hauled them to the gear trucks, where they were tossed up and stacked, ate breakfast, and again, grabbed a spot under the brightly colored (pink! Everything pink!) banners where the cheering Youth Corps had already lined up to send us off on our final leg. There were considerably fewer people walking on the third day, and at every pit stop there were more who filled the sweep vans that would take them to the finish line. The route on this day was beautiful, taking us through Belmont into Cambridge, where we had to tiptoe down Brattle Street, a neighborhood that was less than happy at hosting us. In Cambridge Square, we walked by throngs of people who had no idea what was going on. By this point, I had picked up the Courage banner, which I carried over my shoulder. On the second day, I had carried Celebrations for a stint. Both seemed apt. Cancer Sucks was a popular sign and t-shirt slogan, and it was clear that on this, the third day, teams dressed in matching outfits, evoking their spirit, and infusing the stops with a kind of rollicking carnival atmosphere. With fewer walkers, the line of people stretched out, and as we made our way through Central Square and the MIT campus, across the Mass Ave bridge, and down Commonwealth Avenue, it was hard to tell walker from tourist, and at some points, I had to focus carefully so as to not follow one of the little groups of camera-toting tourists off the course. On Boston Common, a costumed guide led bunches of tourists around all the historical sites, and I couldn’t help but thinking how cool it would be to have themed 3-Days: an American History tour for the Boston 3-Day, with pit-stops at Paul Revere's house, the Old North Church, the USS Constitution. There is talk that they will make this year’s route permanent; if so, I hope they mark it with a long pink trail of hope.
It was a good day to get to know our fellow walkers: I found myself walking alone at various times, and so started conversations with a bunch of different people, some of whom I had met on the first day, and kept running into here and there: there was Marie, a young woman walking for her aunt; Joan, who was walking her fourth 3-Day; Marilyn, walking with her 20-year old daughter; and at the end, Ann, who walked the final three with me at a fast clip that made me feel every sinew and fiber of my being. Every now and then, at the pit stops, the Boobies would find each other, make sure everyone was doing okay. At lunch, there was a trio of women dressed in nude unitards and thongs, wearing black curly wigs and mustaches. Borat! It felt great to walk through Boston, through the Theater District and Downtown Crossing, into South Boston, and along the Harbor Walk, a boardwalk of sorts that runs along a (fairly beautiful--who knew?!) beach in Southie and Dorchester. The wind kicked in, providing a cooling breeze for the final leg of the Walk. The cheering grew more feverish…just a little bit more…and then, suddenly, we entered a stadium, and somehow, letting the crowd pull us in, made it to the finish area. I was acutely aware of how good I felt, and how proud I was, and how eager I was to see my family. But that would have to wait; I wanted to go back for the rest of my amazing team, and especially, find my mom, and walk the finish with her. So proud of her.
At the Closing Ceremonies on Sunday, where thousands had gathered to welcome us to the finish, dispense hugs and Gatorade, and celebrate this sprightly, wonderful, fervent slice of living, I saw on the faces of many the anguish of loss and pain, and the deep appreciation for what we were doing. Many held signs thanking us, or memorializing a loved one lost to breast cancer. And I remember thinking: These are the faces of breast cancer, these are the reasons why we walk, and this is why I am here today--here walking, feeling strong, cancer-free, even a little bit invincible, thanks to all those countless walkers who came before me, giving selflessly of themselves to raise money and awareness, to fuel the good graces of Susan G. Komen and the National Philanthropic Trust, and raise the more than 1.3 billion dollars that they’ve given to the breast cancer cause. My gratitude was and is overwhelming.
This--this display of people helping each other out, checking on each other, encouraging and cheering each other on, this non-race, this particular, spectacular kind of triumph--felt to me to be the exact opposite of the every man for himself system of hard-driving, take-no-prisoners kind of capitalism that our culture has allowed to suck the life blood out of our better selves. But here, on the 3-Day, our better selves were out in full force, and the Walk seemed a symbol of the natural, innate goodness of people: the generosity, the kindness, the loving, caring nature, the tenacity that pulled us all through.
After the last walker had made it in (and this, a group of partiers who, it seemed, made it a habit to visit one of the local bars before crossing the finish), victory shirts distributed, Gatorade spilled down our fronts, families reunited, the organizers once again took charge. With magical skill reminiscent of the way Disney World handles such massive crowds, the organizers split the walkers into two groups, sending the survivors, wearing our pink victory shirts, to the back, in rows of six, while the rest of the walkers, in white, took the lead. Ursula, Angie and Damon joined the walkers, while I found Jeanne in the back with the Survivors. The stream of walkers in white stretched out forever; as it moved into the waiting crowds, the applause grew thunderous, and the MC continued to whip the crowd into a frenzy. The amazing crew, who worked so hard to take such good care of us entered the arena next, and then, with much fanfare and apparent anticipation, the survivors in pink entered last, splitting in two groups to encircle the platform, where we stood surrounded by circles of crew, walkers, family members, grateful well-wishers.
I walked with much pride as part of this group, pink rows, hands raised in triumph. We were all ages, in all stages of recovery, and there was a radiance about the group that was truly powerful. In front of me was a woman who had been diagnosed when she was 30. Another wore a t-shirt emblazoned with her own proclamation: 25 years cancer-free! Some wore bandanas over their bald heads; these were women who had just finished chemo. Others were still in the throes, in between rounds. There were a few men in the group of survivors who had managed to get through their own bouts with metastatic breast cancer. And my fellow Blue Footed Boobie and friend Jeanne walked next to me, and on the other side of her, a woman who had taken my picture for me in downtown earlier that day. During the Walk, you really have no idea who is a survivor and who is not. Now all adorned in pink, we were all together, united in experience and surrounded by love, and it was so hard to keep it together as we walked in to take our places around the circular stage, where a group of survivors would stand before raising the flag…
This is when I took in the crowds. I remember a blur of faces, some smiling, most contorted and streaked with tears; there were people mouthing the words “thank you” so they could be heard through the din of applause and music, and there were those standing quietly stricken, families split apart by the disease, loved ones left behind. I passed a man standing alone with two small daughters, and when he said thank you to me, he started to cry, and I reached out and gave him a big hug, and that was the end of trying to keep it together for me. Keeping it together, I’ve decided, is far overrated. As the final flag, declaring A World Without Breast Cancer, was raised to commemorate the end of the 3-day and the ultimate goal of the Walk, I couldn’t help think of those two little girls. We were there for them above all else. There for ourselves, and for each other, yes, but especially for all those girls growing up in an environment rank with toxicity and uncertainty, for giving them hope that maybe one day we will live in a world without breast cancer.
The Blue Footed Boobies walked for Boobies everywhere; for ourselves, for our mothers, our aunts, our sisters, and especially, for our sons and daughters.
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