A few weeks ago, I signed up as a volunteer for a 20K/8K trail race in the Estrella Mountains. I did this for a few reasons:
1. Like most volunteers, I really wanted to prove my worthiness and…well…actually show up for something most people would skip.
2. It seemed like a good way to check out a trail race before doing one, instead of blindly registering for a race with no idea what I’m getting into. (Spoiler! This turns out to be ironic.)
3. In exchange for helping hand out race numbers and water, I got a free t-shirt.
Now, in Palinesque fashion, I can see the Estrella Mountains from my house. In similarly Palinesque fashion, what I thought I knew about this race was what I thought I knew about this race was not quite accurate.
While I can see the mountains from my house, the entrance to the race trail is on the north side of the range, which is a good 50-minute drive from home. Also, like most races, the trail run started early to beat the heat, and anyway – the point is, I had to wake up at 3:30 AM on a Sunday to get there in time to volunteer.
I found the park, I drove around in the dark for a while on what might have been a road, I passed what was definitely a meth lab twice, and finally I found the starting area. Said hello, introduced myself, set up some tables, drank some coffee, and FINALLY – got my damn t-shirt and started handing out race numbers at the registration table. The sun was rising, the mountains were beautiful, I had a free shirt. Ta-dah!
Until a pregnant woman in leggings and a tank top said, “Are you Jennifer? Do they need you here?”
“I am, and yes. I’m handing out numbers.” Very important.
“Oh, I can do that. They need you over there.”
I walked over to a truck – the pickup truck from Tremors, I think – and a woman with a clipboard said, “Jennifer! Great! You’re with J--, and you’ve got Station G! There’s your stuff. D-- will come get you soon.”
My stuff = a pile of water coolers, boxes of supplies, a first aid kit, a tarp, Gatorade, and a table. J-- was the size of a pixie and seemed nice. D-- was every grizzled Arizona veteran you’ve ever seen, in a Yukon Denali with a light bar, CB radio, walkie-talkies and a tow hitch. He drove us five miles into the mountains and dropped us there. Because that’s where Station G went.
So we set up Aid Station G. As we tallied our box of supplies and filled cups with water for runners, a bee started buzzing around the Gatorade. J-- mentioned, “That bee better keep away from me – I’m allergic.” I asked where her epi pen was and she laughed and said it was in her bag. The runners started coming through and we cheered them on and clapped and gave them liquids and were very helpful. If you stumbled across us without knowing a race was on, we probably seemed like deranged, lost cheerleaders.
The sun warmed up and another bee started hovering over the water. A bit later, we realized that almost every cup we went to hand a runner had a bee in it. We turned around and realized we were standing in the middle of a swarm. Of bees. In the middle of nowhere.
By this time, about 4 dozen bees were everywhere – on the coolers, in the cups, around our bags, snacking on the sticky Gatorade residue. The last few runners who came through took one look at the table and decided that dehydration in the desert was a more appealing option. After they were gone, we realized we had a truckload of stuff to pack up, and all of it was in a cloud of what were most likely Africanized honeybees.
I started to tell J-- that this is where being a volunteer paid off – once D-- and his truck got back, he and his Coyote friends could figure out what the hell to do. As I turned around to say this, I saw J-- – all 98 lbs of her – stride into a buzzing cloud with an epi-pen in her back pocket, grab a cup full of Gatorade and angry bees, and toss it in the garbage. “This is going to suck!” she yelled over her shoulder, and started clearing off the table, darting in and out of the bee swarm.
So now I feel like a total twat, the bees are PISSED, and they were already everywhere but now they're everywhere PLUS IN THE GARBAGE BAG. With no other option, I too start darting at the table, but all I manage to do is anger the bees even more. I think I drew a few off as they chased me down the trail once or twice. Now they're around our ankles, too, because each cup of Gatorade we toss becomes a new source of wonderment for them, so it's bees to the left, bees to the right, bees up bees down WHAT THE FUCK. I JUST WANTED A T-SHIRT AND SOME STREET CRED. God Himself doesn’t know where D-- and his truck are, I can’t put on sunscreen because BEES,
...and that’s when we discovered the hill of fire ants.
Anyway. J-- the shaming super-hero cleared off the table, D-- and his grizzled friends came back, and we drove through the mountains back to base in a truck full of bees, sweat, and a table that kept hitting us in the head.
I also got two free Power Bars.
