Sociology and Running Shoes

A celebratory fist pump.

As a child, I spent my waking hours with my plastic-framed glasses submerged in a book. While other kids went to soccer practice and dance class, I went to ancient Rome, medieval England, and Narnia. The arrangement worked for me: athletic activities required coordination that I lacked, and contests of speed were a humbling and distasteful exercise.

So I dreaded Track Day, when my entire school traveled to the Dryden High School track for the one-mile run. This event was conceived as an opportunity for school-wide encouragement as students sweated their way toward fitness goals. The night before, I would run laps around my house in hopes that a last-minute workout would compensate for weeks of inactivity. On Track Day, I would sit in the bleachers as the fast kids ran, waiting for the last heats reserved for the slower children. The unpleasant task of running—interspersed with much walking and being lapping by faster peers—was made easier only by the prospect of getting it over with and eating take-out Chinese food afterward. (My mom understood the art of positive external motivation.)

That twelve-year-old self would have gawked as I walked into the David L. Lawrence Convention Center two weeks ago to collect my bib for my second 5K run. After participating in Pittsburgh’s 2011 Great Race, my perspective on running shifted. The beauty of races is that they are fueled by personal goal making. Otherwise, why would people pay money to wake up early, run in a circle, and get bananas at the finish line? When I see others achieve their goals, I resolve, “Yes, I can run a little harder and a little farther – and I will.”

The race itself unfolds like a game. As a child, I enjoyed Frogger, a computer game starring a bold green frog that faces endless peril in his pursuit of victory. On one level, our hero throws himself into oncoming traffic, dodging cars, trucks, and buses that threaten to crush him into pulp. Races unfold in similar fashion: people-dodging is equally if not more exciting. As I approach runners, I must assess their speed. Are they going faster or slower than I? Will it be easy to pass them, or will I have to maneuver around them?

All runners must beware of the pack: the group of slow-moving people with matching t-shirts who walk five abreast and carry on a conversation as they stroll. If going around the group is impossible, I may choose to slip between them, hoping that I won’t bash into someone in the process—this maneuver produces mixed success. After making contact, the key is to say, “Sorry!” and hustle forward in order to disappear into the crowd. This evasive maneuver should help the offending runner to avoid labels such as “that rude person that almost made me trip.”

Most people run while wired to their iPod for motivation as well as distraction. For those who prefer a stripped-down approach to running, may I present the whole of sweating, panting humanity on the course as a fascinating subject for examination. As each new person bobs into view, I analyze wardrobe choice, running style, age, and relative fitness. When people run in pants or long-sleeved shirts, I question their sanity and their ability to anticipate the weather conditions. Some attire is flamboyant, like a teenager wearing a cape featuring Steelers and Penguins branding or the woman wearing two fluorescent strings into her enormous braids.

When I tire of examining their attire, I begin to assess their gait. For those who plod, are they slowing to a walk, or do they have the determined stride of someone who will not quit? Others have a strong stride and fit physique, which causes me to wonder, “How come I’m passing you?” The most fascinating running stride is “the gazelle.” For every step these runners take, they bounce just as high in the air. This trait appears most commonly in female runners, or perhaps it’s more noticeable because their ponytails whip up and down.

The relative age of runners is more fascinating still. Some people use a 5K as a family activity, bringing their young children to participate in the race. During my race, I watched a young girl breeze past me after the two-mile marker—quite humbling. The number of older participants in each race surprises me as well. Whenever I spot a gray-haired runner, I am determined that I will become one of those cool people who are fit at 70.

Toward the end of this race, I remember that it was not a game and that I’d rather not be running. My lungs don’t seem to gather all of the air that I need. Sprinting at the end seems ridiculous, even though people around me tap into an unseen energy source and power ahead. Bounding toward the finish sounds like a great idea in theory, but not in practice. Crossing the finish line feels anticlimactic, but the long cool-down is intensely gratifying.

Do people care about the 5K in light of marathons, half-marathons, and relays? No. But I do, because I improved by 1:03, sliding under the 30-minute marker. And my next goal is the 10K, twice the distance that I have ever run. But I can do it, because bookworms can be stubborn, and there is more people watching to do.

Tales as Old as Time

When I heard that my brother had landed the role of Cogsworth in his high school performance of Beauty and the Beast, I vowed that I would go home to watch him perform, barring emergency surgery or death.

Happily I avoided both catastrophic conditions, and thanks to a generous friend, traveled home to New York for the performance. My family and I walked into the auditorium on Friday night, already warm from the crowds of locals who came to watch their children, nephews, and neighbors perform.

The stage works its own breed of magic on the audience. We willingly enter an alternate reality, aided by the use of costumes and makeup. We choose to believe that soccer players can become clocks and musicians can become beasts; no transformation is impossible. And that is the beauty of theater.

As the curtain pulled back, we saw the quaint French town swarming with villagers: jugglers, people arguing over wares, and Belle strolling with her book. As they danced to “Belle,” I remembered countless rehearsals from my high school years. Whether practicing for Oklahoma! or Hello, Dolly!, some things never changed. The director who cried, “Smile!” The choreographer who yelled, “Point your toes! Turn around. No, the other way!” The choir director who urged us to sing in whispers and then crescendo to a cacophony of sound.

Theater people – I would call myself a seasoned novice, though it seems contradictory – judge the quickness of the set changes and the effectiveness of the lighting, in addition to the acting quality. In that completely impartial manner of sisters, my eyes followed my brother during his every appearance on stage. He was one of the best actors in the cast, but I knew that already, thanks to many family dinners wherein my brother acted, sang, and used accents as part of table conversation.

His clock was glorious. Scrollwork covered the enormous wooden casing, which enclosed a pendulum that swung in time to his agitated movements. Beneath his clock, Ian wore a handsome broad coat covered with gold filigree. I watched his departures from stage closely, wondering if he would get wedged in the set. On one occasion, he had to wiggle his way off stage, and I could not help chuckling.

During the show, my six-foot-tall brother grew increasingly mechanized: a clock cap replaced his wig, and his back sprouted a giant turnkey. The transformation with the other objects was equally uncanny: a metal cap replaced Lumere’s wig, and the feather duster grew a strap. And so the stage magic grew stronger as I stopped analyzing the show’s mechanics and started worrying about the curse. Would these vibrant figures be snuffed out if the Beast did not succeed?

As Belle and the Beast bickered about dinner and the forbidden West Wing, I wondered, “Can it work?” Though familiar with the story, it seemed too incredible to think that they could fall in love, let alone admit it and lift the curse. When Gaston stabbed the Beast and he crumpled to the ground, I watched in horror. What if he died this time before Belle said, “I love you?”

And it reminded me of a still older story of a king in disguise who visits his people in a faraway country. He says, “I love you,” without hesitation, but they can’t understand it, their hearts disfigured by a curse; so they maul the king and mock him as he dies. I catch my breath each time as the body comes down from the cross and is spread on a stone slab for flesh to decay and bones to yellow with age. Though the story is buried in my heart, I still wonder, “Is there any hope left?” Each time I wait with dread until I read, “Now on the first day of the week…” and then I remember that some things are stronger than death.

In the play, the fallen Beast rises into the air by cables, spinning as the cape covers his face and slowly lowering him as a man without ragged mane or animal paws. In that ancient story, it is God who becomes a man to be killed like a lamb, who then rises as a triumphant king who breaks curses in grave clothes.

Thus the show is a shadow of the older story (from which all stories spring), for its magic is real. No backstage wizardry can compare with death-defying power:

31 Hours

I felt the adrenaline surge of momentary panic.

My friends were boarding the 11 p.m. bus for New York City, while I stood in the standby zone. Thanks to a carelessly recorded reservation number, I might be left under the convention center’s arch as the bus pulled away. But a hero emerged from the bus: my friend with iPhone in hand to retrieve the proper numbers for me. And so we were off! [story continues beneath slideshow]

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Sleep and I were not on good terms for the ride. But my grogginess faded as dawn revealed the buildings of New York. We were swept along by a growing swell of traffic through the Lincoln Tunnel and deposited in front of Starbucks, a chain pervasive as kudzu in the city. We mapped our plan for Manhattan conquest on lined notebook paper and hit the streets.

Never before had I traveled without maps of any kind. The iPhone changes everything. Rather than consulting a map and arguing over the best route, we had only to type in our destination, wait for calibration, and walk. As the sun rose over the city, we ventured through the empty café tables in Bryant Park and past the Empire State Building, Grand Central Station, and the Chrysler Building.

Dare I admit that we spent more time in the American Girl Place than in those celebrated pieces of architecture? But I don’t have to apologize for nostalgia, as I’m the proud owner of a Felicity doll. The American Girl Place is the realization of a little girl’s dreams: diorama cases filled with dolls and their outfits and accessories, the matching outfits for girl and doll, the saloon where attendants groom dolls to perfection. Once the American Girl collection contained three dolls, later increasing to five. Then the line exploded, manufacturing dolls with every possible hair type, eye color, and life story in the all-American effort to be relevant to everyone. Jaded feelings aside, I enjoyed flipping through the catalogue to catch up on the latest dolls and their looks.

Forsythia and magnolia blossoms captured my attention in Central Park. Other visitors to the park were soaking in the sunshine of early spring. While watching people perform yoga stretches on the grass, my friends and I drew conclusions about city life. In New York City, you are not invisible, nor are you anything too special. You are a piece of glass in a kaleidoscope, adding a little more color and life to the mix, yet indistinguishable except at a close distance. There were people speaking non-English languages, natives jogging, sleekly dressed metropolitans, homeless. If only there were more time to sit and watch.

After several more stops, we waved to Lady Liberty from the Staten Island Ferry and marveled at the crisscrossed cables of the Brooklyn Bridge, whose span we crossed at sunset. We decided that our defining meal in the city would be Katz’s Delicatessen, thanks to the recommendation of Urbanspoon and a relative. After roaming the streets of New York for 12 hours, we found the deli on the Lower East Side as inviting as a warm fireplace on a damp night. We took our tickets from the door attendants and pressed toward the counter in the crush of fellow sandwich pilgrims. The wood-paneled walls exploded with color, photos, and kitsch. The menu advertised knishes, matzo ball soup, and their famous sandwiches, which ranged in price from $12 to $16.75. More astonishing than the price was the fact that I was actually going to the counter prepared to pay it.

The men behind the counter sawed off chunks of pastrami as he prepared sandwiches for the people in front of us. He sneaked pieces as well, cheek bulging as he enjoyed the tender meat. We ordered the Reuben, snatching up the slivers of succulent corned beef that he provided. He tossed the sauerkraut and cheese in the microwave without ceremony and set them steaming on rye bread, a welcome mat for layers of corned beef. The completed sandwich sat on our plate in glory, spilling from its rye covers and promising a messy yet satisfying meal to come. Thickly cut French fries with Heinz ketchup—a welcome taste of home—provided a delicious accompaniment. We left the restaurant with full bellies and a sense of self-satisfaction.

After the previous night’s experiences, we were excited to go to the hostel and sleep in a bed. A blissful rest yet brief, for our final destination was the Brooklyn Tabernacle for the early service. You know it’s a good sign when you walk through the doors and four people say, “Welcome.” Parishioners showered hugs and warm greetings on us. We felt connected to the greater church as we sang with people of many different ethnicities, bound by the same faith.

After church, we ventured back to Manhattan to find lunch and the Megabus stop. The former was easy, the latter more difficult. Our last moments in New York City consisted of running madly to the bus with Chinese take-out containers in hand. Nothing like a dramatic exit to seal a trip in the memory.

And so the trip ended just as it began: momentary panic followed by relief—my signature traveling style.

Kitchen Theater

Each theater has a prima donna. Each night, he or she fulfills the audience’s expectations by delivering soaring vocals, polished dancing, or powerful acting. The crowd responds with a standing ovation to these performers, who have secured their reputation for greatness. But when star players fall ill or celebrated actors leave the company, the understudies and other players in the wings may shine.

A similar drama takes place in my kitchen. Certain ingredients enjoy preferential treatment when I cook or bake. The head of broccoli often commands top billing as my favorite vegetable. Pungent blue cheese or goat cheese star in my salads along with walnuts and apples, and dried cranberries go in everything from hot oatmeal to muffins. But when I exhaust these easy-access ingredients, a new cast of stars emerge from my cupboard.

For my birthday party in October, I purchased a bottle of Red Velvet Cupcake wine. The security guard at the North Side liquor store said it was one of the best reds he’d tasted. Though incredulous, I decided to trust his recommendation and bought the wine along with a sweet moscato for contrast. At my party, the Red Velvet served as a worthy accompaniment to slices of Oakmonter cake, a layer of cheesecake stacked with a layer of chocolate cake finished with vanilla frosting and chocolate shards. Yet most of my guests shunned the dry red wine in favor of the moscato, like a smooth jazz singer whose spotlight is stolen by a perky pop-star. After the festivities ended, the stylish bottle went into the cupboard to wait next to canned goods, party mix, and a jar of capers. Whenever I opened the cupboard, I felt pity for this neglected bottle, worth far more than 59-cent cans of diced tomatoes and kidney beans surrounding it. I often wondered, “Should I pull out the wine and finish it off?” But the occasion never seemed right.

Today, desperation drove me to the bottle. With a barren refrigerator and pantry shelf, I needed inspiration. Then I remembered one of my crumpled newspaper clippings from Thanksgiving, a recipe calling for cranberries, sugar, and dry red wine. Perfect timing.

I splashed the Red Velvet and sugar into a saucepan. The sugar sank gladly into the wine bath, the pink color seeping into its crystals. I reduced the heat on the bubbling mixture, allowing it to thicken to a heady syrup. The cranberries leapt from their bag (they were also kept in wait for three months) and shook off their ice crystals as they bounced in the pan. As the temperature rose, they wriggled in the pan, their skins stretching until they finally split. So I turned down the heat and grabbed a spoon. The cranberries coated my tongue with tangy sweetness as they burst in my mouth. The dish reminded me of a minimalist production of Shakespeare. Simple yet compelling—and worthy of a repeat performance.

Sweet potatoes also mellow in my pantry. Because they are raw talent, they require extra preparation for their dinnertime debut. Consequently I pass them over in favor of ingredients that provide instant gratification. Yet a recent craving for curry forced me to overcome my hesitations. I ushered the sweet potatoes from the pantry wings, preparing them for the culinary stage with a quick rinse and peeling. As the sweet potatoes boiled, I cooked bits of carrots and celery in a saucepan until tender. I lacked a key player – the ever-popular aromatic onion – but its absence allowed other ingredients like coconut milk, curry powder, and garam masala to deliver a knockout performance. And what is garam masala? An intriguing blend of spices like coriander, cumin, chili, mace, fennel, and dried mango powder. (Sometimes I pull out the spice from my cupboard just to smell it.) I indulged a feeling of self-satisfaction as I watched the vegetables bob in the curry sauce. Like a director who appreciates every joke and appreciates in his actors’ performance, I acknowledged all ingredients as I took bites of my steaming creation. Delicious.

As any actor knows, no show is possible without the backstage crew. Though often unrecognized, these quiet heroes deserve accolades. Enter the lone bottle of vodka, which has celebrated its 10-month anniversary in our apartment. Unlike the Red Velvet that waited eagerly to be noticed, the vodka sits in the dark next to the popcorn without any expectations. It knows that it has no individual merit, other than as a powerful addition to a mixed drink; still its other attributes cannot be overlooked.

One evening, I was preparing pizza dough during a movie night at my apartment. As my guests watched “Enemy at the Gate” in the living room, I stared at my dough. No rolling-pin. “What can I do?” I said. An innovative friend reached for the bottle of vodka, wiped it with a rag, and started rolling it across the dough. Crisis averted! The Boxcar Children would have been proud. When I made stromboli for friends, I experienced a similar moment of panic before remembering our trusty vodka bottle.  With this tool in hand, I could roll out the dough and load it with sauce, cheese, veggies, and sausage. Selfishly, I took credit for the meal’s success, though I knew I owed everything to the makeshift rolling-pin.

How can I thank these unsung actors in my kitchen? Some day when my roommate is out, I may open the cupboard and begin to applaud. Our landlord may be puzzled as he hears cries of “Bravo! Bravo!” coming from the floor below, but I will risk the label of delusional in order to acknowledge these pantry heroes.

And then we’ll take a bow together.

On the Shore

Sand scatters across my shell. I’m lying on the shore, at the high water mark where the scrub and dunes begin. A spiral of driftwood lays next to me, a split mussel shell with burnished black surface, chipped fragments of a sand dollar. Stuck in the sand, my body grows harder and more brittle as the sun roasts me. I cannot see the water because the dunes hide it from me. Sometimes I forget that it is there. I can’t go back to the water because I can’t move — perhaps I don’t want to.

In the night, I hear the waves and remember how it used to be when the water carried me from beach to beach. I used to love swirling through its waters, tossed up by one wave and borne downward by another. Shells, wood, sea glass rolled through the water with me. Though dull on the beach, everything was transformed by the waves. The water coated everything with iridescence, as splendid as the scales of an angel fish.

But sometimes the waves tossed me on ugly beaches where people stepped on me. No one noticed me; the footfalls hurt. So when the water gathered me again, I floated grimly to another beach where I used all my momentum to spin out of its reach and to hide here in the shade, where I’m dry, safe, stable.

But I’m not beautiful. Sand has scratched me, mud streaks around my edges, and my pink color is faded. When people find shells like me, they grind them up and spread them on sidewalks and driveways. With one crunch, I will be obliterated.

Is that all I will become? Bits and pieces? In my fear, I call to the water. It’s so large, touching places I’ve never heard of; its depths are beyond knowing. I’m only a shell. But what else can I do?

On my fourth try, the words finally come out.

“Help,” I croak. “I’m lost.”

Through the sound of the ocean spray, I hear a low rumble. “Come.”

“It’s been so long.”

“I know.”

“I want to come back, but I forgot how to. Besides, the sand is too high. I can’t see you.”

“Wait.”

A week passes. And then the wind starts to blow. The dunes stream sand across the beach and the shrubs shake: a storm is coming. The water sounds louder. What if it comes to grab me? I won’t be able to escape. Why did I ask for rescue? I can’t see whether the waves are rising. Maybe it won’t come after all – I’m relieved and disappointed at the thought.

And then a trickle seeps into my hole. Refreshing, cool, tangy. It brushes away a few kernels of sand. More water streams into the hole, and I start to rise to the top. Now we are moving down the beach, and I see the driftwood roll with me. It almost dances with excitement; the water is bringing everything to life again.

Then I remember that I have no control over where I am going. What if the water sends me to another beach where I am stepped on? So many feet! What if I get trapped between the stones on a wharf? It’s going to hurt. What if I have to lie on the sand next to beautiful spiral shells? How embarrassing. What if I’m lost in the water’s depths? What if I drown?

I’m not ready for this. I start to dig into the sand.

“Why are you resisting? What are you afraid of?”

“Change and pain,” I say. “What if I can’t do it?”

“Let me carry you.”

So I let go of the sand. We flow past the detritus from old storms, and I land on the damp sand of the shore. Before, the dunes separated me from the sight of the water. Not now.

The blue green ocean wraps around the horizon, drawing everything into itself. I watch the endless blue-green waters dip and ripple without breaking the surface. A salty breeze rises from the water and wafts over the beach as the eternal waves flow from the deep. My fear threatens to return, but awe is taking its place again.

I laugh at my foolishness. Why did I run away? A ripple runs up the beach, brushing me with coolness. I want to ask more questions, but it’s too hard to resist the invitation of the waves. Their pull is increasing, and my hesitation is crumbling. I see a rolling wave form out in the water with peak of foam. It’s coming for me. It flattens out, but it’s going to crest again just before the shore.

It’s breaking on the shore line now. The waves are spreading out, sending flashes of sunlight into the sky. The brightness almost blinds me. The foam comes up, and lifts me. I’m so light! And it carries me past the remaining inches of sand, back to the water, back to where I belong.

Change is Constant

Change hits some people like a semi-truck.

Wham!

Flat like a pancake.

But change also comes gradually, like an elephant ambling through a forest. You hear the rustling of branches and crunching on leaves as the beast approaches. When it emerges from the trees, you stare upward at this majestic, absurd thing that will alter the course of your life.

As early as July, I heard the rustling of change, signaling the conclusion of my fellowship at the Mission. While preparing for this transition in the fall, I started to search for work and found a promising job with local museums. The museums were located in a cultural hub: beautiful architecture, college campuses, an international student population, delightful ethnic eateries, and a large library — could the location be any better? As I walked to my second interview for the position, I thought about the possibility of moving from rescue mission to museum. What a bizarre twist that would be!

Then I drove to the Mission for my final day of work. I felt out-of-place in my black suit with white pin stripes. After weeks of questions from staff and clients, everyone knew that it was my last day. I felt the need to make every interaction count. So when one client challenged me to solve a difficult algebra problem, I happily accepted.  I stood in the front dining hall next to the cans of peas, carrots, and potatoes, scribbling away in a notebook as clients looked on. It wasn’t about the math, but about another opportunity to laugh and joke with people whom I cared deeply about.

At 6 p.m., I locked the office, walked down the stairs, and listened to the echoes of my steps, which had a sudden ring of finality. My throat started to feel tight, so I walked faster. After saying a quick goodbye, I pushed open the door and plunged into the rain. At my car, I saw something tucked beneath my windshield wiper: a videocassette of Little Mermaid II: Back to the Sea. Appropriate. I felt like I was cutting ties from a beloved mooring and pushing out into unfamiliar waters.

While waiting for work, I anticipated a period of time to experience my romanticized version of unemployment: sleeping late, wearing pajamas till noon, perfecting recipes, writing my memoirs. But on day two of unemployment, change struck like a semi-truck:  I received the museum job.

With a start date two weeks away, I jumped into my car to visit friends and family. So much for PJs and lounging around! I bounced between New York and Pennsylvania: enjoying a wine and art tour on Cayuga Lake; sampling fresh cider, cheese, and donuts at Hollenbecks; visiting a church outside of Johnstown; eating ice cream at Penn State’s Creamery. I felt a curious sense of unbelonging, divorced from the comforts of my routine. As I wounding through the glowing hills of central Pennsylvania on my second road trip, I thanked God for his constancy in the middle of flux.

The transition was marked by moments of the bizarre as well. One evening, I muddled through the rain in search of Franklin, Pa., a small town near Seneca Hills Bible Camp. After an hour of driving past unmarked intersections and open fields, I questioned my sanity and my map-reading skills. So I sat in the parking lot of Country Fair in Oil City at 10 p.m., journaling on my MapQuest directions as townies pulled up in their pick-up trucks and blared “Party Rock.” A strange spot for a selah, but it worked.

I returned to Pittsburgh two days before work began, and I have since celebrated my two-month anniversary at the museums. The differences between old and new job continue to intrigue me. Instead of looking into an alleyway from my second floor office window at the Mission, I work in a basement office whose white walls I am striving to fill with artwork and photos. Instead of a PA system that blares, “Attention in the house!”, a telephone ring is the background music in the museums.  No men come into my office to ask grammar questions for their class assignments, which prepare them for GED or associate’s degrees.  No homeless people walk through the front door to ask for food, for a toothbrush, or for a spot on the shelter list for the evening. Instead I explain caregiver policies, take payment information, and write copy for renewal notices. No one in the office talks about recovery or relapse, but we discuss email open rates, acquisition mailings, and marketing hooks. Welcome to white-collar America, I suppose.

Yet museum work has rewards too. When I walk into the museums, I look at the young children in strollers or holding their parents’ hands, dragging them toward the dinosaur exhibition.  I remember the boy who lisped with excitement when he saw the trains at the science center; he rose onto his toes and arched his back as if he were taking flight. And I love speaking with members on the phone, such as the 91-year old woman who loves the museums or the 58-year old woman with two young foster children whom she and her husband hope to adopt. These people have stories to tell as well.

Between the museums and the Mission, one thing has not changed: the joy in a job comes from serving people, whether challenging a former addict to grow in his faith or helping grandparents to buy a membership as a gift to their family. It’s always about the people.

Now that I am settling into the job, I suspect that change is brewing elsewhere. But I don’t dread it. I want to be able to adapt as changes come, like Playdough in a child’s eager hands or clay under a potter’s fingers.

Welcome, change. I’ve been waiting for you.

Living It Up at the Tractor Pull

In the smoke-filled arena, a gleaming body shudders, straining with Herculean effort to haul the monstrous weight on its back. Groaning with the effort, the beast lurches forward, leaving trenches in its wake as the crowd shouts its approval.

Sounds like a scene from the Roman Coliseum, right? That’s where you’d be wrong.

Welcome to redneck arena: a western Pennsylvania truck pull.

First, we must distinguish between hicks and rednecks; they are not synonymous. Hicks enjoy square dances, county fairs, and raising cattle for 4-H shows. In contrast, rednecks are characterized by firearms, jacked-up pick-up trucks, and cut-offs.  This oft-mocked subculture has a strange fascination for city and town dwellers. Few would resist the opportunity to observe this population and their rituals in person.

When I heard about the truck pull in Big Knob, Pa., I knew my time had come.

This cultural oasis rested in the hills northeast of Pittsburgh.  Sprawled over farm land, the parking lots overflowed with pick-up trucks and old beaters. In the fairgrounds, the midway glowed with fluorescent signs. A spinning wheel whirled its riders high into the air, the multicolored lights blurring against the twilight. Fair-goers succumbed to the tempting smells of hot dogs, fried dough, and other grease-laden fare sold at booths. Local churches manned these booths, serving heart attacks with a smile. And would a trip to the fair be complete without a brief detour to the livestock barns, where cranky horses snort with annoyance at the crowds? In the pavilion, the pigs paraded before the judges, showing their rotund forms to best advantage.

But the real action was behind the old wooden bleachers at the far end. A crowd stood outside the chain link fence like kids looking into a candy shop. Beyond the fence lay the track: a redneck’s pathway to county fair laurels. Fans shelled out seven bucks for bleacher seats closer to the action. The bleachers were bathed in a cigarette-smoke halo, tinged yellow by the bleacher lights.  People filled the stands like it was Friday night football in Texas. Throughout the crowd, clusters of young men modeled the redneck aesthetic: camouflage caps, cut-off shirts, serious boots.

Truck pulls are usually the prelude to tractor pulls, which have a greater wow factor. In the Big Knob competition, the 4-wheel drive competition was split into three categories: Super Stock 4X4 Trucks; 6,200 lb. Open Street 4X4 Trucks; and Open Stock Semis.  Drivers had emblazoned their vehicle with titles like Killer Bee, Maniac Mayor, and Southern Pride. Certain trucks had a giant Chevy symbol dangling from their front fender, a convention known as the Chevy bow tie. Some trucks were jacked, and some had special vents on their hood. Still others had weights lashed to their front. All were noisy: the noisier the better. Some drivers had replaced their muffler with a straight tail pipe, which enables their engine to turn over faster (thus greater horsepower) and to produce a greater noise. The latter is of greater or equal importance to the former.

Now, you must understand: people travel for hours to participate in a truck pull, despite the small cash prizes. These cash prizes do not adequately compensate drivers for travel expenses and maintenance costs. Like yachts, these trucks are a money hole with one important difference: you can’t take a souped-up truck on the lake for a relaxing afternoon of wine and hors de oeuvres.

Just like an Olympic contest, tractor pulls carry their own degree of pageantry. Trucks wait in a lot opposite the bleachers, scoping out the competition as their rivals blaze past them. When a truck entered the dirt track, it would back up to a flat-bed with a large weight on it known as the “Decision Maker,” which it would haul down the length of the straight track.  When the signalman waved his flag, the racer would rev his engine, fighting to overcome inertia. As its tires bit into the track, the vehicle would lurch forward to the cheers of the crowd. With engine screaming, the truck would motor down the track as the weight slid forward. The weight pushed the truck’s nose farther into the earth until its wheels would spin and the driver would concede defeat. Finally, officials would measure the distance as two compactors smoothed the course.

When each new vehicle entered the course, the announcer built up the drama, making prizefighters out of pimped-out pick-ups. He alternated between the loyalties of Ford and Chevy fans: “Let’s hear it for the bow tie brigade!” “Give it up, Ford fans!” Later he prompted the crowd’s sympathy for the sole female driver, who stalled her truck twice in the first competition of her career.

His job was easier in the semi division, where belching smoke and thundering engines demand attention, if not respect. The semis are the sumo wrestlers of the truck pull, jiggling their bulk as they dominate the competition.

When the semi Haunted Heartbeat entered the course, it cast a striking figure with its purple paint job and squiggly green decals. Plumes of smoke arched from its stacks and stained the air black. It surged forward and tore up 347 feet of track, leaping into the air before the weight grounded it. The truck left deep trenches in its wake, as well as a roaring crowd. No other competitor could match the record.

After the Haunted Heartbeat’s resounding victory, the truck pull ended without fanfare. The fans flowed out of the bleachers, preparing for the greater thrills of the tractor pull the next day. The defeated vehicles slunk away from the track only to sit in traffic as hordes of pedestrians flowed around them. Curious fans stared at the truck Git ‘R Done, a tough competitor who failed to win a title. The driver leaned back in the seat, all cockiness gone. No longer a titan, Get ‘R Done was a colorful truck with a ridiculous sounding name. A passerby called out, “Sorry, Git ‘R Done.” And the truck slipped away in the darkness to lick his wounds.

Pride heals quickly. Give it a week and he’ll be raring to go with engine roaring, ready for another chance at glory in the redneck arena.