Going for Gold

The bruises are fading, but the pride remains. 

I am a warrior, a piece of iron, and I have won a battle with the Dark Powers of my fears. 
 

I’ve never been a thrill-seeker, but I recall only mild apprehension back in the '70's when I rode “Thunder Road,” the biggest roller coaster at Carowinds theme park.  Maybe I was more focused on impressing my then-boyfriend and current husband.  

I’m not sure when I started seeing myself as a scared little hen.  (I’d like to say “chick,” but let’s not kid ourselves.)  I can remember clearly the times when I let fear take the wheel, such as when I didn’t join my husband and sons as they climbed up the side of a pyramid at Chichen Itza in Mexico. (They’ve banned that activity now; we went there 15 years too soon, darn it.)

A few years ago I decided that I didn’t have to do everything that scares me---you won’t find me bungee jumping off the New River Gorge Bridge, for example---but my self-image insisted that I dash out of my comfort zone occasionally.

When Mr. Pettit and I started planning our trip to Utah he made it clear early on that he wished to visit the Utah Olympic Park and ride down the Olympic bobsled run.  Another opportunity to impersonate a fearless woman had presented itself.

Let the apprehension begin.

I visited the Olympic Park website and read reviews on Trip Advisor.  I found a video made by a bobsledder on YouTube.  None of this research gave me happy feelings about this activity.  The ride was called “aggressive” even by the park.  One reviewer said bobsledding left her bruised and injured her husband’s back.

The specter of the bobsled run started to diminish my excitement about the entire trip.  Who decided to make visiting all 50 states a goal anyway?  Oh, yeah, me.

The big day finally came and the orientation at the Olympic Park’s visitor center did nothing to allay my fears.  You know the drill:  “Don’t take this ride if you’ve ever had back trouble, surgery, headaches, cavities or oily skin.”  Then, “By signing this form you forever release the Utah Olympic Park from all responsibility.”  Sorry, boys, you’re out of luck if Papa and I don’t make it.

As we rode the bus to the top of the run one thing kept me from backing out: The regret I knew I’d have to live with if I did.

We received further instructions from an instructor once we arrived.  The sled can hold four people.  The driver, a professional, sits in front in the #1 position.  The #2 slot behind him provides the “least aggressive” ride, but that person must take care not to smack the driver in the head with his or her helmet.  The #3 slot provides a more “aggressive” ride, with the #4 position providing the most intense experience.  Mr. Pettit took the #4 slot without hesitation.  I worried that I’d wind up knocking the driver unconscious if I chose the #2 slot, so I went with #3. 

We were told to sit up straight and keep our shoulders hunched up to our ears to keep our heads from wobbling.  Since the #2 position was empty I could stretch my legs out or sit “criss-cross applesauce” as they say in kindergarten.  The most important thing was that I refrain from kicking the driver in the kidneys.  I’m no expert but I knew kicking the driver would be a bad thing.

The bobsleds are outfitted with something akin to roller blade wheels during the summer months, so we had to be pushed at the top of the hill.  (In winter, when the run is covered with hand-groomed ice and the sleds are equipped with skids, pushing isn’t necessary.)  As we started to pick up speed I was overcome with an urge to bolt, but bolting was out of the question. 

Mr. Pettit had given me a briefing beforehand about how to handle G forces, since we were told we’d experience 2 to 3 G’s as we rounded the curves on the run.  Stay conscious by tensing up your body starting at your feet and moving up to your head.  I didn’t recall that advice as we rounded the first curve, but tension was not a problem.

My legs were being pulled from the criss-cross position as I was pushed back into Mr. Pettit.  I started giving myself orders:  “Sit up!  Hunch your shoulders!  Bring in your legs!  Bring in your legs---did you hear me?  Don’t kick the driver!”  Gravity pushed and pulled me in every curve.  My husband told me later that he watched me closely for signs of unconsciousness as we rounded the curve---a helmeted head dropping to the side, I presume---but saw none.  Like I said, I am a piece of iron.

One surprise about the bobsled run was its tooth-drilling nature.  When I’ve watched the bobsled competitions in the Olympic Games or seen pictures online it looked very smooth, like a very long, very fast water slide.  I didn’t consider the wheels-on-dry-concrete factor.

Imagine this:  Borrow a skateboard from the kid who lives next door and attach an engine to it.  Sit down on the skateboard and take a trip down your nearest interstate. Maintain a speed of about 70 miles per hour.  Sorry, I don’t know how to duplicate the turns.

Oh, about those bruises:  I wound up with a dark bruise about 2” in diameter on each of my upper arms, presumably from banging back and forth against the sides of the sled during our minute-long descent down the mountain.  I didn’t even notice them until hours later.

Sometimes leaving your comfort zone involves getting knocked around a bit.  But that’s a small price to pay for pride.      

Fifty States

Sometimes you don’t realize you’re on a journey until after you’ve been on the road awhile.

A few years ago it dawned on Mr. Pettit and me that he had visited 49 states while I had been to 44.  Neither of us had set foot in Rhode Island; I also had not seen New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts, Maine, and Utah.  Forty-four states, forty-nine states:  All at once we had a clearly defined mission.  Fifty states---we could do this.

So, we had a grand New England adventure in fall 2010 and by the time we returned to Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley only Utah remained.  Utah, out West by her lonesome; Utah, not on the way to anywhere; Utah, a glittering diamond in the distance.

July 12, 2013: Utah, I stood on thy soil.  Fifty states.  Fait accompli.

I have to pause here and give proper thanks to the United States Air Force for helping to make the completion of this mission possible.  Every time Uncle Sam plopped us in a new home---Texas, California, Louisiana, Mississippi, Nebraska, Alabama, Colorado and North Dakota---we had the chance to visit places we might not have seen otherwise.   It’s not likely we would have followed the path of Lewis and Clark’s Corps of Discovery to the Pacific had we not landed in Minot, North Dakota.  We might have never seen the Monterey Peninsula if we hadn’t lived in Merced, California, for a season. 

Each journey has made us eager for another.   We never know when serendipity will strike, as when we stumbled across a reenactment of the Battle of Little Bighorn ("Custer's Last Stand") in Montana.  At other times we’re struck anew by the fact that books can convey information in only one dimension; words can’t capture the wild, exhilarating beauty of the Columbia River Gorge.

I am saddened when I talk to people who have little interest in seeing what lies beyond the borders of their own state.  South Carolina, the place of my childhood, is beautiful.  It has lakes, waterfalls, mountains, historic sites and a piece of the Atlantic coastline. 

It does not have:

Mountains over 14,000 feet in elevation, with bare, pointy peaks that scrape the sky

“Snow snakes”: Dry coils of snow that writhe across the Dakota roadways

The hallowed ground of Gettysburg

Endless fields of corn, a green ocean extending to the horizon

The Old North Church, which has borne silent witness to our nation’s trials and triumphs since its birth

The terrible beauty of a dust storm as it approaches the high plains

The site of John Glenn’s historic launch into orbit

I’ve mentioned in my blog biography that I feel sorry for people who have traveled to Europe but have never seen the Rocky Mountains.  As I reflect on our journey, on our fifty glimpses of this nation, I hold that opinion more strongly than ever.   I realize many of my fellow citizens can’t travel due to a variety of reasons such as health problems or financial concerns.  But if you’ve got the time and money I ask you to consider the following:

Residents of the East Coast, travel west across the Mississippi to get an idea of how big the sky can be.  Drive, if possible, so you can feel the expansiveness of the plains. 

Residents of the West Coast, travel east, all the way to the Atlantic, preferably in the fall.  You need to see those old, rounded mountains all lit up with every color imaginable, and don't forget to stop in at some of the places where our nation got its start.

Finally, talk to folks you meet along the way.  You’ll hear the music of regional accents and the richness of local stories.  The scenery isn’t the only part of America worth taking in.

America, you’re beautiful.

Playground Theology

The broken crayons have been tossed in the trash and the dried glue has been scraped from the tables.  A number of craft masterpieces have been affixed to refrigerators, while others disintegrated somewhere between the church and car doors.   Some of us are staring at piles of debris shoved into boxes and tote bags, trying to determine if we’ll ever reuse foam plane kits and coloring pages about Zimbabwe.  The last notes of the last song have died away, and the fruit punch pitchers have been scrubbed clean of their red stains.  Another Vacation Bible School has ended.

In a nation of over 300 million people I assume there are many who are not familiar with this annual ritual.  They have my sympathy.  For the uninitiated, Vacation Bible School (VBS, as we veterans call it) is a week-long program for children offered by Christian churches of various denominations.  Students ranging in age from preschool to sixth grade spend between two and three hours per night listening to Bible stories, learning songs and the accompanying sign language (an apparent requirement for modern VBS), working on craft projects, and playing outside.  At some point, a snack and fruit punch (preferably Kool-Aid) must be served.  I’m pretty sure this last item is a rule enshrined in the Old Testament and the U.S. Constitution.  Ask Google.

Why do I feel sorry for those unfamiliar with VBS?  Because it strips away our so-called sophistication with a mixture of pudding-covered smiles and time spent on a swing set.  Because it’s unbearably sweet when a four-year-old drags her mother over to you and introduces you as her teacher.  Because everyone should experience the blessed calm that follows the storm of separation anxiety.

But my favorite thing about VBS is the way it forces me to distill my faith down to its essence.  I’m no theologian, but I imagine every verse in the Bible has been analyzed by countless Smart People, with controversies to match.  But as I work with children for 10 or so hours in a five-day span I have to revisit the old, old stories and try to see them from a fresh perspective.

Because, let’s be honest, Christianity is both simple and incredibly challenging.  Here’s what my preschoolers heard last week: God is amazing and He made everything.  He loves His people and looks out for them.  In fact, God loves all of us so much that a long time ago He sent His Son Jesus to the world as a very special baby.  And one day Jesus died, but He didn’t stay dead.  He is alive, and He wants us to love God and love other people.

Another Vacation Bible School has ended.  In another year or so I’ll be ready to step onto the playground again.

I posted this column on Facebook last summer and went on to submit it to the editorial page of my local newspaper.  Prior commitments prevented me from serving as a VBS volunteer this year, but I hope to return to the playground in 2014.