Braver Than Me
The rain is pouring from twisting clouds.
We run inside, escaping drenching.
Who are we fooling? The world is drenched ~
sneezed, coughed, and hyperventilated
through our atmosphere. We hold false hope
this storm will cleanse us, drown the virus.
Privately we know it is not so.
Inside the house we turn on the news,
video clips of the war-weary
medical personnel exhausted
by this battle. I want them to cry.
I am crying, want to see their tears
falling from their eyes. They are braver
telling stories than me, listening.
I stay home, stay safe, mask-up outside,
hold my breath when people pass, hurry
home, the only refuge that feels safe.
Yet they, these healthcare workers share dark
stories of fatigue without breaking,
everyday heroes in the making,
soldiers to war praying for themselves,
and for the broken gurney-ed bodies
intubated and gasping for life.
So many more still waiting, waiting.
Ski-To-Sea Reflections
Memorial Day Weekend, in this year of the pandemic, was just not the same. No big parade in town, no crowded beer gardens. On Sunday, neither the Ski-to-Sea race nor the Historic Fairhaven Festival were held.
For forty-five years the Ski-to-Sea Race has been held, challenging teams of athletes to ski, run, bike, and paddle from the Mt. Baker Ski Area ninety-four miles down the mountain, through the county, and across Bellingham Bay. For twenty of those years, my husband and I volunteered at the runner-bicycle exchange.
Early Sunday morning we’d drive up the Mt. Baker Highway to the snow equipment sheds and spend several hours with other volunteers managing equipment, directing people, answering questions, shuttling runners and bicyclists into and out of the exchange chute.
For an intense two hours, runners of all shapes, sizes, and conditions would appear around the bend up the road, sweaty, exhausted, spurred on by friends cheering, and funnel into the exchange point to pass their medallion to their road-bike teammate. Quite suddenly the excitement would be over, the final runner through, the last bicycles streaming down the highway.
After picking up litter and packing away traffic cones and equipment, we’d climb into our car and head down the highway, cheering on the bikers with enthusiastic waves and shouts as we began to pass them just outside the small town of Glacier. Taking South Pass Road into Everson, we’d stop to watch the medallion exchange with anxious canoeists waiting by the Nooksack River.
The race continued throughout the day on down the river into Ferndale (the original finish line during the early years), and then on into Bellingham via mountain bike and across the bay by kayak to the enthusiastic finish line in Marine Park. Later in the day, we’d venture into Fairhaven to wade through the crowds of revelers, enjoy the beer garden, wander along shoulder to shoulder with thousands of others watching the race’s end, enjoying the street festival celebrating the athletes and community.
This year, the weather was sun and broken clouds, the temperature athletically pleasant. No rain, no scorching heat. But the racers, the support teams, the spectators were nowhere to be seen. The roads were empty. Like so many other things these days of the pandemic shutdown, we all stayed home wondering if there would ever be such celebrations again.
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