Just before closing ceremonies on Sunday a reporter from the Seattle Times stopped me to ask some questions about the Breast Cancer 3-Day. I had all my talking points. I gave her the nuts and bolts. I told her how many walkers there were (2350) and how many crew members (360) and how much money was raised (more than $6.4 million dollars). She had a number of questions. I expected all of them. Except one. She stumped me on one.
“Why are you involved with this?” she said.
I was standing there on Memorial Field in downtown Seattle. Thousands of friends and family were packed into the stands. We were moments from beginning closing ceremonies – the ceremony to mark the end of this city’s event. In just a few minutes, all the walkers and crew would enter the stadium after walking and walking and walking, camping out under the stars and peeing in port-a-potties.
The walk is divided into 3 days, walkers travel an average of 20 miles a day. That means by the end of day 3 they have walked 60 miles. Every walker I talk to says that last mile is probably the best – and hardest - mile of their lives. You can understand why it would be hard … after 59 miles, and in spite of months of training and prep, their feet are most often covered in blisters. Their muscles are screaming. Their knees feel like bone on bone and regardless of the liberal use of sunscreen and hats, they are most often raw and pink. So yes, of course, you’d think that last mile would be hard. You’d expect them to drag … to limp … to grumble and groan. You’d expect them to say that last mile is a killer and they just want it to be over. It’s not surprising to hear the last mile of 60 miles is hard. What is surprising is to hear why.
“I don’t want it to be over.”
That’s what they say. They say they don’t want it to be finished. They weep. Not cry. Not snivel. Weep. As walkers cross the finish line they are filled with joy and pride and most often, sorrow … because there is a reason they’ve walked and often that reason – a mother, a sister, a best friend – isn’t here to congratulate them. Walkers finish at different times. You can imagine, 20 miles has a way of separating people. The 2350 walkers in Seattle, for example, took anywhere from 5 to 10 hours to finish the last day. So some come to the end of their walk early and some late. The first group of walkers – the gazelles – cross the finish line early and as they do, they are cheered on by crew members.
YOU DID IT!
CONGRATULATIONS!
WOOOOOO HOOOOOOOOO!
They most often cheer along – those first 200 walkers or so. They put their arms in the air. They give high-5s to the crew that greets them. They enter the holding area where all walkers will gather and then venture together into closing ceremonies and get their Victory Shirt. Then they grab a snack. They drink some Gatorade. They might even find their gear or families. And then they come back to the finish line. One by one they come back and they line the last few yards to the finish line. And they begin to form what we know as The Gauntlet.
As Sunday stretches on and more and more walkers finish, The Gauntlet grows. Pretty soon, it stretches 50 yards or more so that the last walkers – the limpers, the ones who are leaning on their friends, the 100s of dedicated individuals who determined to ignore everything that hurts – take the final steps of their journey being propelled by the cheers of their fellow walkers.
YOU’RE HERE!
YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL!
DON’T STOP! ALMOST THERE! DON’T YOU STOP NOW!
I’m crying just now thinking about it.
Once all the walkers have finished, they are brought into the closing ceremonies. Family and friends cheer them on. The walkers cheer back. They carry roses. They carry signs. They carry each other. They are brought in in groups. First the walkers come in – smiling ear to ear. They cheer for themselves. They hug each other. They wave to me – up on the stage and I wave back. I congratulate them. I tell them how amazing they are. And they all shout, we know!
Then the crew is brought in. The crew has done more for these walkers in the past 3 days than anyone can fathom. They’ve marked the route, they’ve picked up trash, they’ve hydrated, lanced blisters, massaged feet, served spaghetti, handed out towels, and – of course – cheered until they were hoarse. When the crew entered the sound is deafening.
And last, the survivors come in. Most of the walkers in the 3-Day are not breast cancer survivors – they are walking for someone who is a survivor or who they hope will be a survivor. A small percentage of walkers, however, are survivors. And you better believe they are heroes. They usually enter closing ceremonies holding hands. The crowd of walkers falls silent as they walk in and then they burst into cheers. Some of the survivors have 10 years or more under their belt. Some of them are still bald from chemo. And last Sunday one survivor walked into closing holding a sweet little baby and a sign that read “I went through surgery and 6 rounds of chemo with this baby in my tummy.” The survivors cry. And the crew cries. And the walkers cry.
And of course, from up on stage, I cry.
Closing ceremonies doesn’t take too long. We let the walkers know how much money they raised. We tell them once more how amazing they are. We give them the chance to experience the world the way it should be. We reinforce the mission. We restate the vision and remind them we will never give up.
And then we say goodbye.
Now they want to get out of there. They want to find their families. They want to go home, take a bath, put their feet up, flush the toilet 8 or 9 times in a row just on principal alone. They want to go home.
I want to linger.
When closing is done, I hang around. I wander over to the side of the stage and I watch. I watch these men and women – all dressed alike now in their victory shirts – say goodbye to each other. I watch them take pictures. I look on as they hook up with their families and I see them pick up their kids and hug and kiss their spouses.
And I just sit there and think of how lucky I am.
Last year I couldn’t walk around the block without help. Last year I couldn’t DRIVE 60 miles without stopping to puke. Last year at this time I couldn’t travel without a mask, didn’t have hair, slept only in 15 minute increments and wondered if I would ever EVER feel good again.
This year … this year I’m walking in every event. I’m laughing until my sides ache at the nightly camp shows. I’m smiling at thousands. I’m comforting others and listening to THEIR stories and holding them up when they cry. This year I have hair. And every weekend I get to see men and women do the seemingly impossible and at the end of the day I’m exhausted – because I should be.
It wasn’t that I didn’t have an answer for that reporter. It wasn’t that I couldn’t think of something to say. It was that I have too many reasons – too much to say. Why do I do this?
Because I can.
