Anderson, South Carolina
Once a year my small town puts on a great effort, and a most successful one at that, to create a fine destination event. Anderson has become known as a regional hot-air balloon mecca. 250,000 people will make a pilgrimage to visit us each year. What makes a particular town suitable for annual balloon festivals are several variables –favorable weather, suitable launch facilities, a good road infrastructure for chase vehicles, and a sense of hospitality for the hundreds of thousands of people that show up for such events. Especially important is that the balloonists and their crews feel wanted by the townspeople. Some towns actually don’t want them landing in their pastures, fields, or yards. Here, people will actually let their grass and hay grow up a few days before our annual festival so as to be able to mow smiley faces into it and write ‘Land Here’ below them. We just had eighty-five colorful balloons spend four days drifting over our countryside and dropping in unexpectedly to start parties. Hot air balloons are quite the catalysts for spontaneous happy events.
Most of us that live here have learned to listen carefully for the distinctive sound of a balloon’s propane burner. We are quite willing to drop whatever we are doing and join a party. I can be sitting in my closed-up house and instantly know when a balloon is near by. I also enjoy the happy circumstance of having a commercial balloon pilot living five doors down from me. Many mornings I hear Steve’s burners as I am out riding my bike at first light. Sometimes I call him from my cell phone to see ‘What’s up.’
Each year the last evening of our Labor Day balloon festival is given over to an outdoor sunset concert. We enjoy the distinct sounds of our fine community orchestra. 10,000 happy visitors will convene in our grassed amphitheater to hear a couple hours of inspirational, patriotic, and classical music as they dine. Some will eat out of a fast food paper bag. Others will set up something akin to the elaborate digs of a major tailgating. Either way, all enjoy being in a spontaneous community. I struck a middle ground and brought a Styrofoam cooler and fed a number of good friends around me.
As the sun submerges below the horizon, we listen for the familiar pieces played each year along with the special selections picked for the current year’s theme. This year the theme was Star Wars. All of the kids in Anderson County were in the amphitheater with their light sabers, pretending to be Luke Skywalker. I could only wish my childhood had been seasoned with the joyous and colorful memories that were being created before my eyes.
There is nothing like being surrounded by hundreds, if not thousands, of happy kids enjoying sunset with their friends and families while watching all their favorite images of science fantasy projected with multicolor lasers onto giant scrim sheets and clouds of theater fog. Perhaps the most important images are those of the reality that comes from shared community as the edge of night reveals the spectral wonders of Zambelli fireworks in the ebony of night.
I went home feeling very much a party of life
Friday, September 5, 2008
Monday, September 1, 2008
Midnight Flight
Anderson, South Carolina
I found myself cast into a huge vortex of life today. Our little town has put on what is known as the Midnight Flight for thirty years. These annual midnight road races are held as a benefit for the youth programs at our local YMCA. At 9, 10, and 11 PM waves of thousands of runners will sweep down a four-lane state highway, chasing down endorphin highs and the satisfaction that comes from satisfying a competitive spirit. The YMCA has become a profoundly important part of my life and simply showing up there to exercise is not enough. I need to give something back. I had never been to one of these road races in the past and agreed this year to help out as a volunteer for this event.
The event has turned into nearly a destination. I showed up about 3 PM in the middle of a sultry southern summer afternoon. I was surprised at how elaborate the preparations were for this and how many hundreds of people were involved in setting up the venues. I had expected a couple of folding tables and half a dozen people I would have already known. There were miles of roads that had been cleared and marked. Midways had been set up with kiosks to dispense everything from Avon ointments to ice cream to $110 running shoes to Dansani water, to bags of saffron rice. I never did figure out what saffron rice has to do with road racing but there it was and I did end up with several bags of it. Bandstands were set up. Timing mats with computers were set up in the roads. Digital clocks were placed. Floodlights and generators were installed in many strategic locations. Water stations were placed along six miles of roads. Thousands of sponsor packets were assembled for the registered runners. Rooms were set up to pass out timing chips to keep track of race times. The olive branch long ago yielded to the T-shirt. We had thousands of these to pass out.
I quickly realized I was going to be a small fish in a much bigger pond. Hundreds of people wearing green tee shirts all seemed to be on specific missions and I soon found one of my own, passing out runner’s bibs, sponsor packets, and safety pins to those people with last names starting with J, K, or L. I did this for four hours. So many volunteers showed up that I yield my slot to someone else so she could feel useful and like she was contributing to this explosion of life that was about to take place.
Then about 7 PM all sorts of things started showing up, as if choreographed to maximize the overall experience and intensity of the event. A magnificent sunset erupted in the western sky. Orange and crimson bands streaked across the sky as the edge of night moved towards us at 1000 miles per hour. In the remaining boundaries of day, eighty-five hot air balloons participating in our regional balloon fest chased the winds and became speckled silhouettes in the spectral layers above us. These giant colorful gumdrops dropped down in convenient open locations and dozens of happy little parties erupted at the scattered landing sites.
Then people started showing up. Lots of people. Thousands of people. Happy people. People embracing health and life. People who show up in hot air balloons, chase vehicles, and runner’s nylon are chasing life and dreams. The atmosphere became expansive and vibrant. A fine band fueled the energy of the venue with strands of old classic songs from three decades. Finally six hours after arriving it was time to get down to business.
Runners ranging in age from 6 years to nearly 90 years showed up to exercise dominion over the state highway into town. Hot noisy roads choked with heavy traffic 24/7 had been transformed into a car-free runner’s heaven. I thought of how glorious it would be to be on my bike on that empty ribbon of asphalt. Thousands of on-lookers and well wishers were sharing happy community and anticipation in the once-a-year span of four hours when the combustion engine yields supremacy to the runner’s shoe and.
Happy laughter and eagerness had the runners crowding the timing mats. I found myself recruited by the race timers to stand in front of a thousand runners and keep them four feet back from the edge of the timing mats. I suddenly had visions of the soccer stadiums in Brazil where hundreds are occasionally crushed in stampedes. No tragedies occurred this night. I was given ample time to get out of the way before the starting gun release all this pent-up energy into the night. Three times, waves of families, friends, lovers, dreamers, and competitors swiftly headed into the darkness of the night just out of reach of the arc lamps illuminating the start and finish lines. Suddenly the road emptied of its human potential.
The spectators drifted over to the finish line a few hundred yards away and waited anywhere from 4.5 minutes to 2.0 hours for their favorite athletes to re-emerge from the darkness into the brilliance of victory. Everyone who goes out and does even a short road race in the middle of the night is a winner in my book.
It was 3 AM before the last of the road race infrastructure had been dismantled and the streets re-opened to the combustion engine once again. Some of the YMCA staff had been on site for 22 hours. A lot of tired happy people slept well Friday night.
I went home feeling like I had been caught up in the stream of life. Literally I had.
I found myself cast into a huge vortex of life today. Our little town has put on what is known as the Midnight Flight for thirty years. These annual midnight road races are held as a benefit for the youth programs at our local YMCA. At 9, 10, and 11 PM waves of thousands of runners will sweep down a four-lane state highway, chasing down endorphin highs and the satisfaction that comes from satisfying a competitive spirit. The YMCA has become a profoundly important part of my life and simply showing up there to exercise is not enough. I need to give something back. I had never been to one of these road races in the past and agreed this year to help out as a volunteer for this event.
The event has turned into nearly a destination. I showed up about 3 PM in the middle of a sultry southern summer afternoon. I was surprised at how elaborate the preparations were for this and how many hundreds of people were involved in setting up the venues. I had expected a couple of folding tables and half a dozen people I would have already known. There were miles of roads that had been cleared and marked. Midways had been set up with kiosks to dispense everything from Avon ointments to ice cream to $110 running shoes to Dansani water, to bags of saffron rice. I never did figure out what saffron rice has to do with road racing but there it was and I did end up with several bags of it. Bandstands were set up. Timing mats with computers were set up in the roads. Digital clocks were placed. Floodlights and generators were installed in many strategic locations. Water stations were placed along six miles of roads. Thousands of sponsor packets were assembled for the registered runners. Rooms were set up to pass out timing chips to keep track of race times. The olive branch long ago yielded to the T-shirt. We had thousands of these to pass out.
I quickly realized I was going to be a small fish in a much bigger pond. Hundreds of people wearing green tee shirts all seemed to be on specific missions and I soon found one of my own, passing out runner’s bibs, sponsor packets, and safety pins to those people with last names starting with J, K, or L. I did this for four hours. So many volunteers showed up that I yield my slot to someone else so she could feel useful and like she was contributing to this explosion of life that was about to take place.
Then about 7 PM all sorts of things started showing up, as if choreographed to maximize the overall experience and intensity of the event. A magnificent sunset erupted in the western sky. Orange and crimson bands streaked across the sky as the edge of night moved towards us at 1000 miles per hour. In the remaining boundaries of day, eighty-five hot air balloons participating in our regional balloon fest chased the winds and became speckled silhouettes in the spectral layers above us. These giant colorful gumdrops dropped down in convenient open locations and dozens of happy little parties erupted at the scattered landing sites.
Then people started showing up. Lots of people. Thousands of people. Happy people. People embracing health and life. People who show up in hot air balloons, chase vehicles, and runner’s nylon are chasing life and dreams. The atmosphere became expansive and vibrant. A fine band fueled the energy of the venue with strands of old classic songs from three decades. Finally six hours after arriving it was time to get down to business.
Runners ranging in age from 6 years to nearly 90 years showed up to exercise dominion over the state highway into town. Hot noisy roads choked with heavy traffic 24/7 had been transformed into a car-free runner’s heaven. I thought of how glorious it would be to be on my bike on that empty ribbon of asphalt. Thousands of on-lookers and well wishers were sharing happy community and anticipation in the once-a-year span of four hours when the combustion engine yields supremacy to the runner’s shoe and.
Happy laughter and eagerness had the runners crowding the timing mats. I found myself recruited by the race timers to stand in front of a thousand runners and keep them four feet back from the edge of the timing mats. I suddenly had visions of the soccer stadiums in Brazil where hundreds are occasionally crushed in stampedes. No tragedies occurred this night. I was given ample time to get out of the way before the starting gun release all this pent-up energy into the night. Three times, waves of families, friends, lovers, dreamers, and competitors swiftly headed into the darkness of the night just out of reach of the arc lamps illuminating the start and finish lines. Suddenly the road emptied of its human potential.
The spectators drifted over to the finish line a few hundred yards away and waited anywhere from 4.5 minutes to 2.0 hours for their favorite athletes to re-emerge from the darkness into the brilliance of victory. Everyone who goes out and does even a short road race in the middle of the night is a winner in my book.
It was 3 AM before the last of the road race infrastructure had been dismantled and the streets re-opened to the combustion engine once again. Some of the YMCA staff had been on site for 22 hours. A lot of tired happy people slept well Friday night.
I went home feeling like I had been caught up in the stream of life. Literally I had.
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