My bride Kiddo could beat up your bride. Not that she’d want to. Nor that I’d want her to. In fact, I’d really like it if we could all be close friends and eat some sweet potato fries and talk about how The Eastern Sea is getting ready to explode.
My bride has type one diabetes. That’s sad. But I stand with her, kind of like this mom and dad stand with their kid:
Never really found a tattoo that screams, “Put this on your body for the rest of time.” But if I did, I’d probably get something like that — like a brand that says, “I’m with you, babe. I’m not going anywhere.” I want her to thrive. I want her to see, through grace and a great spirit at work in her, she does things at 75% capacity that outpace what normal humans do at 100% capacity.
Superwoman with a limp is cooler than straight-up superwoman, IMHO.
Awhile ago, I wrote about how I’ve discovered a new kind of Campbellian hero in my bride. Why, you ask?
Because she ran her first 5k ever ever, placed sixth in her age category, and did it all while wearing two massive shackles, manacles, iron bindings that weigh her down called “low blood sugar” and “high blood sugar.” I used to run cross-country, quit, haven’t for years and here she is, kicking my tail again.
So when she said, “Some frat boys at MoSo are throwing together a color run. Can I go?”
I thought — pictures of Kiddo getting smashed in the face with color? “Sure!” Between the diabetes and the rejection letters, you could say the Schaubert house is full of masochism. But there’s prep that go into getting an android (half-human/half-bionic-insulin-pump) ready for a race.
Like… THE BAG!
THE BAG contains several sugary-proteiny things to help her get out of lows and stay out. Also extra sites in case… wait, scrap that. Don’t see any sites in there, never mind. Anyway, THE BAG is the lifeline. Hang onto that. It’ll be important later.
So we wake up before the sun himself rises from slumber — which means my mouth’s going a mile a minute and Kiddo’s moving slow… until she realizes what day it is, then she’s manic.
We pack up and when we get there, the mist is waking.
She signs up, and it turns out “frat boys throwing together a color run” meant “the night before…”
That’s probably a death release, who knows?
The girls are excited:
And I meet a half-pug/half-bulldog named… something cool, I can’t remember.
My buddy Chase would like this thing. He’s had pugs for as long as I can remember.
Anyways, I find out that the course winds through the MoSo cross country course, so I ask around and find a truck bed full of frat boys heading out. I grab my camera, jacket, the bag, and jump into the truck. There’s college girls in there flirting with college guys flirting with college girls.
I’m surfing like a redneck on the back of this truck’s wet steel and we pass a group of kids. The flirty college girls do their flirty college girl thing and do something stupid that they can smile and get out of… namely throwing a full water bottle out of a moving truck so that it hits a guy.
They’re all taking cover. Except for that one guy on the left in the red. He chases the truck, grabs the nearest banana.
(it’s in midair in that photo, the lighter circle highlights it)
And it NAILS the girl right in the teeth.
Classic flirting escalation that leads to injury and/or jail time scenario.
They take me to the yellow station and instead of stopping, they speed up. So I jump out and the guys look at me like, “Who’s this nut job photographer?”
I wanted to say, “I’m actually a writer that tends to overdo things,” but instead said, “Hey guys. What’re your names?”
They told me. “And you?” One asked.
“Lancelot.” Which, of course, always helps people explain away the he-totally-just-jumped-out-of-a-speeding-truck-bed image.
“Like the knight?”
And we go through the routine. I’m suddenly wary of their bananas, and for good reason.
And hear a gun go off. Chesteron comes to mind — Of what huge devils hid the stars yet fell at a pistol flash — and I see little white dots leaving the starting line.
And remember that I didn’t tell Kiddo or her friend where I was going.
And that I missed the start.
The frat boys console me — hey bro, check this out — by showing off their true colors.
And I start taking pictures of runners. Like crazy “It’s my birthday” girl:
And “please shoot me and my girlfriend with lots of orange” guy:
Then Kiddo and her friend shows up, and I’m super excited.
Until she’s removing her pump and saying, “You took THE BAG. Where where you?”
And, “You forgot THE BAG!”
So I sprint away from the yellow station and jump straight onto the dew-soaked steel bed of a different truck. I hit flat-footed, both feet shoot out from under me, I slam onto my tailbone, which hits more dew and I shoot down the declining bed into the back. I’m moaning, trying to grab THE BAG.
Then, two sounds.
One? Frat boys laughing at the overzealous camera guy.
Luckily, I’ve long left shame behind me. I know I look ridiculous and don’t really care anymore.
“You’re gonna miss the picture, babe!”
This is why I write posts about living in the moment rather than worrying about pictures and status updates all the time. But worrying about our memory of the event, I’d created an environment where I was destined to fail in at least one of my duties and potentially both.
So I hold up my camera over the edge with no clue as to what I’m aiming at and snap these three shots:
Even the girls were laughing at me.
I was laughing, in between the occasional “oh” and “ow.” I limp up, THE BAG in hand, and Kiddo’s long gone. Time to catch her at the next station.
So I peace out to the bros and take off toward the next. And was rewarded with the following:
Which is okay, but then this pretty girl runs up, all the flirt injected into her posture.
And if we’ve learned anything about flirty girls, it’s that they can get boys either to drive Chicago and follow their dreams or throw stuff at their faces.
This was an instance of the latter:
To show you how wonderfully epic this moment was:
Yes, she was laughing afterward:
And the other girls were ducking.
Well kiddo came through with her friend, finished, and we went out for breakfast. She apologized for snapping and I apologized for being a thick-headed fool that forgot THE BAG again. We had fun, in the end, and learned from it.
Happily after ever and all of that.
But I quickly found out that this was nothing close to an “official” color run. Not that this was bad but…
I had no idea what we were in for. I couldn’t have possibly prepared, not even with THE BAG in hand.
More to come next week…