In October 2002, I naively signed up for a three-day/60-mile breast cancer walk in Atlanta. I raised the $2300 every walker was asked to give. I walked 15-mile treks from my house in New Albany up Moser Knobs Road to Floyds Knobs to train. I bought all the necessary amenities walkers were told to bring (travel size bottles of shampoo, mole-skin bandaging for blisters, sleeping bag).
And then I nearly gave-up after the first 20-miles.
Three-miles into the walk, rain started coming down like BB-gun bullets on the back of my head and neck. Walkers were given rain slicks to brave the weather, but the Hefty-bag ponchos did little to help. Everything was wet, my socks, my shoes, my clothes, and my hair.
Finally, after nearly 15 miles, the rain stopped. I walked into camp along with 3,000-plus walkers feeling wet, tired, and lonely. It was an insufferable first day. To keep myself from crying, I found my tent and begin setting up my tiny block of camp.
Everybody seemed in such good spirits compared to me. By the time I sat down with my grade-school-cafeteria plate of spaghetti, I had tried to call my husband three different times without an answer. He was staying at a nearby hotel. I imagined him lying in a comfy bed holding a remote control while eating yummy vending-machine snacks. I was miserable.
Every walker who signed up as a solo was given a tent partner. When I set up my tent, only my stuff had been dropped off, leaving me to assume that I had the tent to myself. I was wrong.
After dinner, I met my tent-mate. She was a nanny who lived in Atlanta and the family she nannied for had shown up to wish her luck. When I walked up to the tent, she and the mom were standing outside the tent talking while two children jumped from one sleeping bag (my sleeping bag) to the other. The tarp underneath the tent-the one that was supposed to keep me dry while I slept-was ransacked, leaving one big puddle.
And that was my official breaking point.
“I can’t do this. I can’t sleep here. My feet are covered in blisters. Our tent is full of water. I’m starving. I want to quit,” I sobbed to my husband when he finally answered his phone.
“You can’t quit. If I come get you tonight, you’ll regret it,” he told me. And then he made a deal with me, he would meet me at camp at the end of the second day’s walk and if I wanted to quit then I could.
I was out with the first batch of walkers at 6:00 a.m. sharp the second day. There were no raindrops the second day and I ended up making pals along the walk. One was a veteran walker who confirmed that you didn’t have to spend the nights at camp. While some walkers considered this cheating, it worked for me.
The second day was way more tolerable. I got to enjoy a steak dinner and a hotel-room shower that night. By the last day of the walk, I was completely renewed in mind and spirit.
For all the breast cancer victims and survivors, a 60-mile walk spread out over three-days is by all means a walk in the park. The irony that I couldn’t make it through the first day is not lost on me. I’ve thought often of doing that walk again, even though I almost quit the first time. It was a 60-mile walk; it wasn’t supposed to be easy.
I know someone who will be doing the same walk in Chicago this August. Julia Lega is walking for her mom who died of breast cancer at age 36. Julia was only 2-years old when she lost her mom to the dreadful disease.
I’m not walking this year, but I am going to donate to the cause and pledge $100 towards Julia’s $2300-fundraising goal. If you would like donate to Julia’s walk, go online to www.The3Day.org and click the Donate link at the top of the page. Select “Search for a Participant” and type in Julia and Lega in the boxes provided.
I’m quite sure that donating the money to Julia this year will be a lot easier than doing the walk myself. I just hope that Julia has a better first day than I did.
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GESENHUES: A walk in the park
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