Remember relay races from Field Day? Carthage Elementary employed cardboard paper towel rolls and stray lengths of metal and PVC pipe for batons. It was the seventies, and burning trash in barrels and littering was vogue, yet there we were, recycling before recycling was cool.

Waiting in that relay line, sweaty and fueled on bag lunches and Fanta, I was attentive and poised for action. When the baton connected with my palm, I pumped arms and legs, angling around corners of cement block markers toward the outstretched hands of teammates. I landed said stick with a thud and bent at the waist heaving breath, rooting hard for my partners as they crossed the great divide of dirt and grass.

Field Day also included human wheelbarrow, tow sack broad jumping, and three-legged events. The grand finale was the entire grade, split in half, gripping a fraying brown rope, and tugging with all our might. Victory came in tug-of-war when the opposing side, unable to hold position, was dragged across sand and gravel. There’s a combat related word in the game’s name for a reason.

While I loved it all, the relay was my favorite. Something about competing in the structure of the individual contributor for the greater good of a team, with the clear passing of a tangible object that indicates, “your turn,” was my jam from the start.

Years passed from school to adulthood. My own children had different kinds of Field Day experiences. They complained about the heat and sporty activities. They found the prospect of scrapes, bruises, and bug bites unappetizing. They begged to play hooky, alleging to be in dire need of mental health and self-care days. Geez, you give birth to people, and this is how they repay you.

Sigh.

In my late thirties, long distance running and I found each other, which led me to rediscover relays. Boy howdy, it’s fun. Reminiscent of my old Field Days, formal relay events offer mapped out legs, more miles than sound reasonable, water and aid stations, and like-minded (and footed,) companions.

As my runner friend’s husband, Chris, once summarized, “Let’s get this straight. Y’all are going to rent two conversion vans, drive six hours to the mountains, run from 5:00 AM Friday until 5:00 PM Saturday. You’re going to leapfrog through the night, handing off a baton at exchange zones for thirty-six hours of running, over 200 miles, then drive back home. And you pay to do this?”

Yep.

Makes me curious about Chris’ personal experience with Field Day, but I’m not one to pry. I’m betting he was more of a tug of war guy.

There’s a healthy helping of lessons I could play with that parallel the theme of relay running. The most notable takeaways are the straightforward ones. Prepare. Train. Do the work. When it’s your turn, carry well. Pass strong. Be accountable. Stay engaged. Even when it’s hard, keep going. Advance the course. Finish fierce. Celebrate big.

***

Outside of my running sneakers, I liken the relay metaphor to how things work well in my sphere of living. When I pass the baton, I expect others to advance the objective. I don’t know how to handle those who stonewall communication or don’t relay to the next leg. I’m not sure what to do when people make commitments and don’t keep them. I don’t like the smell of fumes left in the air after gaslit text threads. But that’s my angle of the story; it’s my POV.

As the Universe often turns, above metaphoric example happened this past year. That’s why I can name what works and doesn’t with extra crispy clarity. The wound is still fresh and healing. It’s taken me a couple of months to conclude that as the plaintiff character, I have right and wrongs in my testimony, as I’m sure does she, the defendant. The reality is that we should have never been on the same relay team in the first place. We were not a good fit and as the song lyrics suggest, I didn’t get flowers, but I got a “dozen red flags.” Yet I attempted to persevere – beyond what made good sense. It’s over now.

The silver lining is my newfound attention on strong beginnings and a detour that I didn’t see coming but have found to be better than the route first mapped out –  one that I am delighting in. I’m not for everyone, nor is everyone for me, and maybe, just maybe, dreams can be chased down and caught in a space where hope is not abandoned, and the right people team together.

***

This morning, I ran solo. As I headed east the sun made its way along the edge of the horizon. The waning crescent moon stood watch as the sun crept into position. My lips stretched across my face into a smile toward the ever present, dependable exchange of day and night shift, the sun and moon, each doing their part, passing the baton throughout time. Count on it.