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| WILL WALK FOR BOOBS, PART II |
| That's me on the right, with the hat on. |
| So I walked sixty miles this past weekend. Okay, it was actually 49, but since a lot of people pledged based on the mileage, we’ll say it was 60. Besides, my tent was a good 10 miles from the nearest Port-A-John two nights in a row, which more than makes up the difference. The reason I subjected my body to torture from which it has not yet recovered is boobs. I like boobs, as long as they’re not my own. They’ve provided me with acres of pleasure over the years, so I thought it was high time I gave something back. So when the opportunity arose to participate in the Avon Breast Cancer 3-Day, I had to take it, to show my firm support for the health and betterment of women everywhere. Plus I thought it’d be cool to spend the weekend with 3,000 hot chicks. On orientation day a bus takes me from DC to Hood College in Frederick, Maryland, where I stand in line for about 75 minutes to watch a 50-minute safety video, most of which is a commercial for Pallotta TeamWorks, the company that organizes the walk. I have a history of falling asleep in college classrooms, but I stay awake for this one, which is a good thing because I find out that I should drink water or I may get dehydrated. I’m glad they told me that, as I had only brought pickle juice and beer. I meet my hotel-mate for the night, a hell of a nice guy named Kyle. Kyle is 40 but looks 26, most likely because he’s from Texas, where nothing ever ages. Kyle’s devotion to boobs is different than mine, what with him being gay and all. I mention to him that if he planned on spending the weekend picking up guys, he may have chosen the wrong charity walk. The sixty other women on the bus confirm this. Our hotel, the prestigious EconoLodge of Gaithersburg, is actually on the route we’ll be walking, as evidenced by the sixty Port-A-Johns directly across the street. I suggest hiding in the Port-A-John until the rest of the walkers get there (approximately 24 hours), but the idea is shot down. We’re also near a restaurant enticingly called the Flaming Pit. I assume it’s a greasy spoon; Kyle thinks it’s a gay bar. Turns out that it’s terrible misnomer as it is neither flaming nor a pit; it is, however, the kind of place that charges $14.95 for a shrimp cocktail. Clearly the clientele of the EconoLodge of Gaithersburg is more upscale than we thought, which is unusual for a place that bolts the remote control to the nightstand. On the first day of the walk, Kyle and I are up at 4 a.m., possibly the first time either of us has seen 4 a.m. sober (If you haven’t, you’re not missing much). It’s already 70 degrees. It would get to 90, which sounds terrible until you consider that last year’s walk featured three straight 100-degree days. We were told we should be on the bus by 5 a.m., but this proves difficult because there is no bus. At 5:30 a.m. there is still no bus. At 5:40 the bus continues to persist in its absence. My hiding-in-the-Port-A-John idea begins to look even better, though by now there are likely several families of raccoons living in them. The bus finally pulls up at 5:50, and we get to the starting line at 6:15. After a touching introduction, which I didn’t really hear because I was eating six bagels and drinking pickle juice (should have paid more attention to that video), we were off. While the yelling and cheering by the many supporters who showed up was heartening, you could also see a look in their eye that said “Boy am I glad I wrote a check rather than doing this.” Some supporters were rabid, though – one guy named George appeared dozens of times, each time wearing a different college T-shirt. He even took requests on which one to wear next. I asked for UMass and he looked at me like I hit him with a bag of mule dung and ask for five bucks. No respect. There’s pit stops every two miles, and since I have a bladder the size of an infant walnut, I needed all of them. We rapidly become familiar with the good Port-A-Johns versus the bad ones. Those made by the Maryland Sanitation Company are somehow preternaturally disgusting; they seem to be stinky even before anyone has used them. Plus there’s no indicator to tell you if there’s anyone in them or not, which makes for many an em-bare-ass-ing situation. Gene’s Johns, on the other hand, are decent; green and red occupation indicator, little plastic urinal built into the side -- a solid Port-A-Potty. Don’s Johns are nicer than my apartment. They had silver chandeliers and I think they were air-conditioned. We were supposed to walk 20 miles the first day, but rumor has it we walked about 25. As a Civil War buff, I’ve seen hundreds of pictures of soldiers having their legs sawed off. I now know that this wasn’t because of bullet wounds, gangrene, or osteoporosis – it was because they didn’t feel like walking anymore. I kept looking for the table where the surgeon in the blood-splattered apron was using a hacksaw to chop off legs and throw them on a fire for other walkers to eat, but I couldn't find it. Found a nice souvenir tent, though. I pitched my tent and found the nearest Port-A-John. It was dark by this point, so having a nice B.M. wouldn’t feel like crapping in a sauna, as had been the case earlier. I’m doing my business, trying to occupy myself in any way a person sitting on a toilet without TV Guide or Maxim can, when I hear a train coming. “Huh,” I think. Then it gets closer. And closer. The Port-A-John starts to shake. The train gets louder. This is it, I think. Killed taking a sh*t, just like Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon II. Pretty cool way to go, when you think about it. I’m about to kiss my butt goodbye (despite the stench) when the engine rumbles passed, and seconds later the train has gone by. They say you soil yourself when you’re scared – well, I was in the right place for it. Turns out we were camping literally fifteen feet from a railcar line. A very popular railcar line. An every hour, on the hour rail car line. Not a good thing for people who have just walked 25 miles. I’m reminded of the line from the Blues Brothers when Jake asks Elwood how often the train runs by his apartment – “So often you won’t even notice,” says Elwood. On day two I’m up at 5:00, and my stomach somehow convinces my legs to move to where the food is (kielbasa and potatoes). The one good thing about being a male on this walk was the easily accessible shower. While the women were lined up 15 deep to get into theirs, I had no line at all. I encouraged women to just come on in and use mine, but I guess we hadn’t quite reached that level of sisterhood yet. By 6:45, we’re off again. Like me, Kyle is a rabid Simpsons fan, so we annoy the living hell out of the people around us by quoting whatever is appropriate for our situation (“Sidewalk’s for regular walkin’, not fancy walkin’”, “Here I am using my legs like a sucker”, etc.). We’re constantly told how few males are on this walk, a statement that always seems to be followed with a question about why we’re doing it. “To try and do what I can to help in the fight against this terrible disease; I’m doing it for my sisters, mother, grandmothers, and all those strong women who have had to face this tragedy,” said Kyle. “I like boobs,” was my response. George the college shirt guy is wearing a UConn shirt. That’s not a good omen. But there are hundreds of other supporters; some have signs for individual walkers, some hand out lemonade, candy or Popsicles. We tell them thank you, and all of them say “Thank you for walking,” which is something no one has ever thanked me for. Perhaps no one has ever thanked them for having boobs, which I do. As the afternoon rolls around we start to see places we recognize, including Metro stations. I’m very tempted to hop on and go home, but somehow “I Rode the Metro for Breast Cancer” doesn’t sound very good. There are no trains on our second night, but there is a Beatles cover band. Frankly, I’d have preferred the trains. A representative of Pallotta TeamWorks named Jeff is asked how he liked the trains last night – “What trains?” he asks. Jeff is suddenly about as popular as gout. The third day is surprisingly easy, most likely because we know it will be the last. We stroll onto the grounds of the Washington Monument only six hours after we left camp. There are loud cheers from crew and other walkers, and it really sinks in that I’ve accomplished something that not many people outside of marathon runners, soldiers, prisoners, and professional dog walkers have. Thousands of supporters, survivors, friends and family show up for closing ceremonies. As we take our victory walk, I look at the hundreds of cheering faces, read the dozens of signs, and I recall the weekend as a whole and can’t help but shedding a tear as I think “I’ve really got to friggin’ pee right friggin’ now.” I’m very glad I did this walk and that I was able to help in some small way. I’m doing it next year as well, and will likely be dragging coworkers and my wife with me. We’d love it if you could join us, and I’m sure your boobs, or the boobs of someone you love, would too. For more info on the walk and other Pallotta events, go to www.bethepeople.com. |
| If you have any questions about the walk, by all means email me at grendelthedog@hotmail.com. |