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You know those things you do that you instantly regret? This was one of those. I am no stranger to the ill-advised exploit (just see my last blog post for proof), but somehow that gnawing knot of trepidation in my gut never stops me. This particular incident requires a little bit of context. I have been folk dancing since 5th grade, and I’m just about to graduate from college, so that would be…12 years now (God, I’m old). I’ve danced in many different traditions, mainly Irish, English, and Appalachian, but I also know a couple Danish dances, which are some of my favorites, and at one point I knew an Australian folk dance, which was really different and a lot of fun. Anyway, when my family moved to Berea my freshman year of high school, it opened up a huge new door for me. I had been dancing as a hobby in previous years, but the expansive folk community in Berea allowed me to deepen my involvement. After a couple years in my new dance group to get my feet under me, I went to my first CCDS. CCDS stands for Christmas Country Dance School. It’s a program run by Berea College, housed in their gymnasium, with the first dance on December 26th and the final dance on New Year’s Eve. The week in between is a whirlwind of classes, workshops, and evening dances. Your first classes start at 9, and you’re on your feet until the evening dance ends at 11 that night (unless you go to one of the after-parties, which often last until 1 or 2 in the morning, and are often themselves followed by after-after parties). It’s a blast. From my very first day, I was welcomed into the CCDS family and the deeply-steeped tradition found there. One such tradition is the New Year’s race. After every New Year’s Dance, just after we have danced to welcome the coming months, the young men and women go up to the indoor track and race around it. It’s a whole lot of fun, and the sense of friendly competition only reinforces the familial bonds formed during the rest of the week. This last CCDS was no different. We went up and raced around, cheering and hooting each other on (I came in 2nd place in my tier), and afterwards a friend of mine challenged me to a different kind of race: the crabwalk. In retrospect, I really should have said no. There’s no reason I should have said yes, but my foolhardy brain was determined to squeeze in as much time with Elliot before we had to part ways. And besides, when we crabwalked in elementary school it wasn’t that bad. I kinda enjoyed scuttling across the old gym floor, actually. So I unabashedly and full-heartedly agreed to the race. Someone counted down: 3…2…1…go! and we were off. The first stretch was great. We sped down the track, Elliot quickly taking a small lead as his arms and legs maniacally propelled him ever forwards. I was taking a more measured approach, cognizant of the length of the track, and soon his frantic flailing slowed and I caught up. Then we got to the first curve and the pain started. It starts in your legs. Constantly pulling yourself forward really puts a strain on your thighs, and by the time I entered the first bend I felt the first flickers of flame in my quads. By the time I finished, my legs were on fire. And I was barely halfway there. The second straight wasn’t better. I was far in the lead at this point, and Elliot actually collapsed to take a rest halfway down. And towards the end of the second straight, I realized something curious about crabwalking—if you do it long enough, the pain actually migrates. My legs went numb and my arms and shoulders and back and chest—basically my entire upper body—began to ache as I entered the final curve. I was struuuuuugling, but eventually I caught a glimpse of the finish line, and at my crossing a roar of encouragement erupted from the crowd around me. I just lay on the floor and didn’t get up until a good five minutes later. My everything hurt too much to move. The indoor track at Seabury Gym is 1/9 of a mile, which doesn’t seem like that much when you say it like that. But your average elementary school gymnasium is only 56 feet long. And 1/9 of a mile is 589 feet. I crabwalked for 10 ½ elementary school gymnasiums.
And this is how we learn.
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