Rock Star

I've said it before: I know what it's like to be a rock star. But the way I know rock stardom has to be - just has to be - so much better than the real thing.

For anyone who hasn't experienced the Breast Cancer 3-Day, it defies description. I like to call it Girltopia (though that's an inaccurate label, as there are plenty of men who participate as well). Maybe it's a matter of the sheer exhaustion that each walker and crew member is left with at the end of the day - exhaustion that remains at the beginning of the next day and permeates each person throughout the event until there is nothing left but simple humanity. Maybe it's the spirit united with thousands more in a common goal. Maybe it's people, having an opportunity to be their very finest selves, rising to the occasion with a force and energy that's palpable and more real than reality itself. Maybe it's magic.

Whatever it is, it keeps people walking, working, and giving of themselves far past the point where we expect folks to call it a day in their "normal" lives. Whatever it is, it boosts the spirit and feeds the soul. Whatever it is, I'm addicted to it.

For the past two years, I've participated in this event as part of the Route Safety Team, which is sort of like a motorcycle gang in pink. Instead of street terrorism, our M.O. is street smarts, street safety, street love. We stand at our stations, often hours at a time, and tend to the safety of the walkers as they cross busy intersections and wend their way through sometimes confusing route signage. When not on station, we patrol the route, looking for safety issues, walkers who need help, and offering motivation to people who are just trying to put one foot in front of the other for 20 miles each day. We give hugs. We tell walkers how far it is to the next rest stop or how close they are to camp and a hot shower. We give high fives. We tell jokes. We wear silly hats, tutus, kilts, short-shorts, and other goofy things, all in the name of giving the walkers a little inspiration to keep on going. We sing. We dance. Above all, we protect the safety and security of the walkers so they have one less thing to worry about in the midst of their blisters, their full bladders, their muscle cramps, and their friction burns. We ride out at sunrise and ride in well after sunset. We direct traffic, call ambulances and "sweep vans," find places that pose safety concerns and monitor them, and offer kind words, motivational speeches, healing human touch, and surreptitious stretching at red lights.

For this, we get rock star status. It's incredible really, to get so much in return for doing what comes naturally. We ride out of camp in the morning, and the walkers cheer. We ride into camp at night and the walkers cheer. We walk into clsing ceremonies, and the walkers cheer, cry, throw roses, run to hug us, and thank us profusely, heartwrenchingly, and with great conviction and passion. Why? I'm not sure. But I think it's because they know we are there... when they've passed one of us, they know another one of us will be just a block or two away, ready to smile, offer congratulations or a mile count, and assure them that they can keep going. And at the end, they're proud and incredulous at their own accomplishment, and overcome with emotion to see those friendly faces in a less arduous and painful circumstance.

That's how I felt when I was a walker, anyway.

So, "real" rock stars of the world, you got nothin' on me. You've got people throwing articles of clothing at you? Well, I watched a walker give a pair of clean, dry socks that she knew she'd need later to a walker who needed them now. You've got adoring fans who cheer your every move? I've got adoring fans who hug me even though I'm sweaty and smell bad, give me pins and small treasures that they made with their own hands, and thank me with tears in their eyes for standing in a series of intersections and telling them when it's safe to cross. You've got women who primp for hours to try to get a chance to throw themselves at you? I've got women who aren't afraid to come as they are and throw themselves into my arms because I know where a flushing toilet is. You dress yourself in black leather and tout yourself as the pinnacle of masculinity? I know for a fact that real men wear pink. You live in a palatial mansion because people will pay hundreds of dollars apiece to adore you in concert? I live, for four days per year, in a world where people fundraise for months in order to participate in an event that will change the lives of millions, that will wrack their bodies past pain, and that will go less noticed than your latest People Magazine cover, all for the satisfaction of saving lives - lives of people that they probably won't ever meet.

Sorry, Rock Star. I out-rock star you. I trump you with the force of 5800 spirits united in passion for eradicating the disease that took their mothers, grandmothers, sisters, wives, and friends - fathers, brothers, and husbands, too - before their time. I trump you with the vision of hundreds of "3-Day bustles" (fanny packs) trudging up a 30% grade at approximately mile 35. I trump you with my gratitude and my humility. I got rock star all over your sorry ass!!

And I love it.

The hardest part of the 3-Day isn't the hard work, the long days, the physical pain, or the heartbreaking reality of why we do it. The hardest part of the 3-Day is coming back to "real life."