Ober and Out

Dear Besties,

I hate running. I always have. Unless there’s a pint of ice cream or a plate of cookies less than 50 feet in front of me, I’m not so much as fast shuffling. I chalk my dislike of running up to the fact that I have flippers for feet and jogging has always been a chore. The only way I was able to participate in college athletics was by taking a lot of banned substances.

But despite my personal hatred of running, or perhaps because of it, I really like the marathon. I think I love the idea those people are suffering so I don’t have to . They’re choosing to put their bodies and their emotions on display for all to see, bloody nipples, outer monologues and all. It’s like live reality television.

In years past, I’ve chosen to spectate the Vermont City Marathon from the safety of my bike saddle. Pig Pen, aka the GF, and I would ride along side of runners we knew and shout things at them like “Looking good!” and “You’ve got puke on your running shorts!” I’m pretty sure they really appreciated our support. This year, I decided I would follow the marathon atop my bicycle again, only this time I would try to serve as a bike marshal. But since the bike marshal is the most coveted volunteer posish, I had to be crafty about it. So of course, I said I wanted to do it for a story.

I figured I would follow the bike marshals as they lead out the elite male, female and wheelchair athletes and then I would hang with them for a while, videotaping the scene. That worked for about a millisecond until it starting raining and then I had to put my precious disposable camera away. I didn’t want the cardboard to dissolve. So much for that awesome idea.

I was heading up the Beltline when I realized that this little plan of mine had fallen into the crapper, so I was about to pedal home when I saw one of the other bike marshals pulled off to the side of the road. Apparently, he had a flat tire. And he was embarrassingly unprepared for this. He had no spare tube, no pump, no nothing. But he was wearing a pair of sweet Spandex bike shorts and a Bell helmet circa 1989. I know I shouldn’t make fun of the dude, but come on. You should be prepared. Like me. And I wasn’t even a freaking Boy Scout. I was only ever a Brownie “helper” and I wasn’t even that great at it. I was a pretty awesome Indian Princess, though. I collected the shit out of that wampum.

Anyway, so this dude wasn’t prepared and I was. But unfortunately the extra tubes I was carrying wouldn’t fit on his wheel. We tried to pump up the tire, but that didn’t work. So instead I just took his “Official Biker” sign from his handlebars and sped off after his charge, leaving him stranded on the side of the road. Cuz I’m nice like that.

His charge it turned out was the last wheelchair racer. The marshals follow the first and last runners and the first and last wheelchair athletes. I caught up with the last wheeled participant halfway up the Beltline. He was in a standard push chair, not a racing wheelchair like all the other wheeled participants. His name was Danny Perry and he’s a VCM regular.

This is a photo of bad-assiness. (Photo by Emily Nelson, Burlington Free Press)

I couldn’t believe he was pushing his way up the lonely, sodden hill in a regular wheelchair. Granted, that’s what he does every day, but he probably doesn’t push himself up the Beltline or Battery Street all that often if he can help it. Obviously, heading up the Beltline, Danny was getting passed by every single runner. And just about every single person who ran by him said something like “Good job, man!,” “Yeah, buddy! Push it!,” “You’re awesome, dude! Keep it up!” Some of them even felt the need to touch him while he was pushing. Danny didn’t acknowledge any of them. I wondered what he was thinking. Maybe he was thinking “Don’t touch me, you schmaltzy cornballs.” Maybe he was thinking “All your treacly cheers are screwing up my cadence, you douchenozzles.” Or maybe he wasn’t thinking anything at all. Perhaps he was zenned out and too focused on making it to the next mile that he wasn’t listening to the platitudes and praise.

The fact that Danny could get up those huge hills didn’t surprise me since he’s likely been a chair user for some time. But what was sort of astounding for me was that he wasn’t wearing gloves or any sort of sporty tech gear. He was just wearing worn out sneakers, cargo shorts and a cotton T-shirt like he accidentally ended up in the race on his way to the grocery store. And the fact that he wasn’t using a race chair was pretty unbelievable. All of his fellow wheeled competitors had handcycles with gears and brakes. Danny had no gears and no brakes.

This is a photo of an attitude that’s better than yours. (Photo by Ryan Mercer, Burlington Free Press)

I felt so badly for him that he had no gloves and nothing with which to dry off his rims. But clearly, that was a choice he made. Still, I couldn’t help but ask him if he needed a towel. Yes, I had one in my go-go-gadget bag. Of course, I asked him this as he was muscling up the hill. He politely declined/pretty much ignored me. About 10 minutes later I asked him again. This was his response- “I’m not sure how much use it would be.” Right. Well then. See if I offer you my towel again, sir!

But really, why should he want my help? Clearly, he had things under control. And clearly, by the state of things on my bike, I did not. At various times during the four hours I followed Danny, I had three biking mishaps. I wore out the rear brakes completely, the gears were jumping practically off the chain and the handlebars basically fell off. I was the one with issues, not Danny.

I’ll stop short of calling Danny’s completion of the marathon in that push-chair inspiring. No one who is differently-abled wants to be inspiring to “able-bodied” people. I will say that is was pretty amazing watching him bob and weave through crowds of runners. It was equally awesome watching him lay the brakes on going down some of the bigger hills. He’d grab the rims and skid to one side, then the other all the way down the hill. His left foot would drag on the pavement to slow his momentum and at times it looked as if he was about to tip over. The two little wheels in the front would chatter on the pavement as he made his way down. And man, this guy could corner like flipping Tony Stewart or some other “automotive athlete.”

I can’t say Danny particularly liked me riding behind him. But it’s not like I was riding up his fanny or anything. I kept a healthy distance, except on North Ave. when I felt it was my moral obligation to prevent oncoming traffic from plowing into him. Then I rode next to him. As he pushed, he turned to me and asked “Um, do you, like, have to ride with me or something? Is that, like, a rule?” And I was all like, “Uh, yeah dude. Now shut your clap-trap and concentrate on the race.” Ok, I didn’t say that, since I didn’t really know what the rules were. But I figured my following him couldn’t hurt. And biking 26.2 miles in four hours and 10 minutes in the rain seemed like great fun. I think I’ll do it again next year.