Angel
and I made the final turn and saw 2 columns of American flags that led us to
the finish. A wounded Boston Marathon
bombing survivor with a white-ish cowboy hat and red sweatshirt that had the
name “Carlos” embroidered on it was greeting everyone with a brilliant smile. Complete strangers continued to cheer us on
just like they had been doing all day for other complete strangers. We turned around to walk backwards across the
finish as I made a “thumbs up” signal with both hands and used my thumbs to
point to my back side, frantically pumping my arms. Ribbons with the names of fallen heroes were
on our packs, or rucks. That day was for
the fallen and those in need so we thought it was most appropriate for all the media
photographers to snap pictures of our ribbons instead of two participants.
As we grabbed a beer and sat down to
rest to take the moment in, I did what I do best… I people watched. I saw a woman on her knees. She was looking at the ribbons on the back of
her pack, which was laying on the ground in front of her. She had a solemn look on her face, eyes
bloodshot from exhaustion and appeared to be deep in thought. She then slumped over the pack and embraced
it as if the ribbons were a loved one standing in front of her whom she hadn’t
seen in a long, long time. Tears rolled
down her sun-beaten face as she squeezed her pack more. I had to lower my shades to cover my own
eyes. I realized what those ribbons
meant to her. She lost someone close. She knew the names on her pack. I could see that her heart was broken, but
certainly not defeated. It could never
be defeated. She just marched 26.2 miles
with weight on her back. She didn’t do
it for attention. She didn’t do it with
ease. There was pain involved. When she felt like quitting, she thought of
those ribbons. She rucked because those
names couldn’t and she will forever use them to push her forward when life
seems to weigh her down. That way the
names on those ribbons, who sacrificed all, will never be forgotten and will
forever be used to motivate, to inspire, to push us to do good for our communities...
our people… our way of life.
Now flash back to the
beginning. The starting line was a buzz
as the sun came up. Our team leader, a
Marine from 2-8 named Dave Pierce, was passing out t-shirts and hoodies with “Team
Wounded Walk” on them. We all had different weight to carry in our packs. Dave carried the most, 61 lbs, because he is
what I like to call, a man. I was duct
taping the known hotspots on my feet while Angel was securing the Army flag
Dave gave him on his ruck sack. There
were 600 people moving around. Some
nervous, some scared, some excited and then there were types like us. We were calm and friendly in welcoming each
other. We knew the day was going to
bring some pain and of course we joked about it, but we didn’t care. We just wanted to have the honor of carrying
the ribbons for the world to see what people have sacrificed for the growth and
protection of their communities and their country. There was a moment of silence, a beautifully
sang National Anthem and a proper send off from organizers. We began the course which kept us between
Concord and Lexington, Massachusetts… the very grounds where the Revolution was
sparked by the “shot heard ‘round the world.”
Immediately from the start we
crossed over a bridge with Minute Men reenactors standing at attention with
their muskets held in front of them as we passed between. A Minute Man monument looked down at us and
it looked like a local JROTC high school group was high crawling through some
muck on a hill. I have no idea why
except maybe to participate in the event in another manner since it was sold
out. We made our way into the quaint
town of Concord, enjoyed the buildings and chatted up police officers stopping
traffic for us.
“They
can wait all damn day for you guys!” one officer bellowed.
That
put a smile on our faces as we thanked him and shook his hand. There were a lot of officers along the way…
protecting us. After a mile and a half, we
ventured off road to the grated trail, Battle Road. It was the trail Paul Revere rode and was
captured. We saw many monuments. There were stones with British flags spiked
in the ground beside them and the stones themselves were engraved with words
stating that British troops were buried nearby… because ‘MERICA. We passed structures where people watched the
British march to confront colonials in April, 1775. The further into Minute Man National Park we
went, the more people we saw on both sides of the trail supporting us with
cheers, food, fluids, high fives, “thank you’s!” and more smiles.
As
time went on we saw an increasing number of red coats! Then we saw colonials loading canons! Apparently there was a reenactment that day
and we would be moving right in the middle of it. I laughed as the canons boomed. I thought, “I wonder if a bunch of colonials
just got attacked by modern day war veterans that don’t react well to
explosions.” No worries though as peace
was kept between the 18th century bad-asses and the modern day
bad-asses. Angel would turn down the Bluetooth
speaker of his that I packed when passing reenactments, because we agreed
hearing Wu-Tang Clan or Three Days Grace would have been traumatic for people
with an 18th century mindset.
We
randomly passed members of our team and we encouraged each other. The sky was clear and an occasional breeze
was welcomed. The American flag Dave
gave me the honor of carrying got caught up in quite a few trees, but she held
strong as always. We stopped at
port-o-potties and cursed ourselves for not bringing wet-wipes in times of
need. Holy chaffing. We taped toenails that were in danger of
falling off. We made sure everyone was
doing ok that looked like they needed a hand.
Boy
scouts and girl scouts came out to see us.
Old folks would give a stoic head nod.
Families came out just to hand us random things, like those red, white
and blue popsicles.
“I don’t care what it looks like,
it’s cold and I’m taking it,” Angel said.
“Hell yeah, it’s a freedom ‘sicle!”
I laughed back.
A
little while later…
“I can’t eat this,” as he tossed
the rest in a volunteer’s trash bag.
“Who’s passing out popsicles?” the
woman asked.
“They’re freedom ‘sicles!” I hollered
as we kept moving. “I don’t think she appreciated my joke,” I quietly said to
Angel as he laughed at me.
Time
seemed to slow down and miles seemed to get longer. We made a goal to finish in under 9 hours as
we approached a spot we had planned to take a rest at after skipping the last
resting point. We were uncertain when
the clock officially started and we had a worst case scenario time where we had
to keep going in order to complete the mission.
We agreed to “charlie mike” and laugh the rest of the way to keep our
minds straight.
“Remember when that person walked
by with the American flag and it hit you right in the head?” I asked Angel.
“Yeah?”
“Freedom slap!”
Laughing
got us through the last part of the course on the hard ball surface. Then we saw Dave, who carried more weight
than anyone and finished over an hour before us, walking the trail backwards to
check on the rest of his team. Damnit
Dave, you’re our team’s hero today! We
crossed the same bridge with the Minute Man statue as Dave kept going back for
our team mates. I people watched and
enjoyed great company at the finish. A
man I went to basic with and deployed twice with, Patrick O’Brien, drove over
an hour to meet me. We drove to an Irish
pub, Waxy O’Connor’s. On the way, the
last thing I saw was Dave, taking a pack from one of hour team mates and he carried
it for her as they finished together. I
was proud to be a part of this team with these exact people. O’Brien bought Angel and I a shot of Jameson
as we caught up on the past 6 years we hadn’t seen each other. I hadn’t seen Angel in about 10 years. We all picked up conversation like we’d been
together the whole time.
Before
missions overseas, where you had to reject the fear of death in order to
protect your men, I would jokingly shout, “It’s good day to die!” and men would
rally behind each other. Now I look
around at how lucky I am to be here when so many others aren’t. Now I say, “It’s a great day to be alive.” Every day I do. Now I must live. I must live to honor every
name on those ribbons. Some people look
at all the ribbons and talk about sadness.
If you knew those names, then you very well are sad at times. Marine General, George Flynn, told me after I
lost someone close at a young age that, “It’s like a hole in your heart that
can never be filled.” He’s right, but I choose
to look at the names on those ribbons a little differently. I see pride in my generation and we’re not
done yet. I hope the next generation
will be so brave. Our generation has
been dealt a great deal and so many were willing to give it all for the rest of
us. The entire day of the Tough Ruck for
Team Wounded Walk and my thoughts surrounding that day… it just doesn’t get more ‘MERICA
than that. Charlie Mike!
