French Creek Race

I’ve volunteered in one way or another for the last four years at the French Creek Mt. bike race.

In the past I’ve had the luxury of providing a lot of time and energy toward the race.

This year, not so much.

When I rolled in at seven this morning I saw Yoder and asked where he needed help.

“You can be a parking nazi.” He said.

“No thanks” was my reply. I wasn’t feeling up to the responsibility of helping to park all those cars like sardines so we could get as many as possible into a tight little field and not get anyone stuck.

I went inside to see what else there was. Mark (head honcho) put me on the registration table and the pre-reg table at that. All I had to do was make sure those that pre-registered signed their event waivers and hand out race numbers to those that didn’t have them. Sweet! This is simple.

Eh, not so much. Apparently my matter-of-fact style of asking whether people were pre-reg’d or not wasn’t the face the boss’s had in mind to first greet people with at their race.

Out to the parking lot. I got a flag. I stood and pointed.

Then I watched the storm move in.

Then I got wet.

Meanwhile Jen’s texting me about her morning with Abigail, no breakfast and no coffee (decaf) yet.

Almost a quickly as the rain started, it quit.

Then I got a buddy.

Then I chatted with the camp steward all hopped up on prescription meds (that’s the rumor) about rain, mud and what she thought was low air pressure in her park provided Gator.

Told countless people, “No we don’t have a team tent area parking,” (Who does?) and no I don’t know where your team is currently parked.

We filled the lot, then moved to another.

No clue how it all went. I’m so out of touch with what was once everything for me. I felt like a foreigner in the land of fit legged folk.

Soon it was 3pm and time to head home and see how many fingers Abigail could get in her mouth.

Only 3? She can do them all (advantages of no teeth), but was happy with just three.

And tha’ts all that matters.

– b