Cold but dry, diehard spectators stood by and watched through the cinched peepholes of their primary-colored rain slickers. In similar colors, but not quite as dry, we piloted through the muddy grass rivers of Delaware's sopping DuPont plot. I would not have changed places for anything.
Awaiting post-race podium pictures, a nice gentleman doused my eyes with Saline solution (at my request) and hot air blew around inside the white tent, lacquering mud to my arms and legs. That night, after an Indian dinner with a friend, Tara and I made real tea that came from real India (she just got back from Delhi) and drank it inside her real Philadelphia apartment. It was Diwali Day, which is an official holiday in India and Guyana known as the Festival of Lights, so we were celebrating the best we could. The package of tea, when held in hands with eyes closed, gave off a glowing energy, something very light. I drank it in apprecaition and peace. The night was important conversation with Tara, sleepful relaxation, and reading. All the while rain poured on outside, from above, and all around us. I drifted into dream, comforted by the sound.
Wissahickon was faster and the mud sucked you into the ground, which is where I landed several times more than I would have liked to. There was a little blood, a lot of mud, and just the right amount of cowbell. I lost a few spaces as compared to yesterday, but that is the name of the game, and I was content with the morning's romp around in wind, cold, and horse poop. Plus, during warmup I ventured down an unpaved road and encountered old barns made of stone and wood, and a few roaming peacocks. The emerald green of the males' coat was enchanting and for some reason reminded me to relax and just take in the experience as it comes and as I make it. Thanks, birds.
