3-Day, day 3

The cab drops us off at Belmont Plateau, the beginning of the 3rd day. Apparently, sleeping in and our extra-long cab ride has made us late, so we start off trailing the pack. Which wouldn't be so bad except for L's insistence on passing everyone. Which has probably in some way resulted in 3 of 4 of us wearing knee braces on this day. We properly bitched at her.



But it's a beautiful sunny day, a great day to finish the walk.

Again, we go through the hilly terrain west of Philly, stopping for free Starbucks. There are signs on the route that exclaim "Save Second Base!" Which, frankly, I didn't understand at first, I admit it.



We're getting a little achy and irritable now, but agree to step up the pace through the rest stops so we can get closer to the front of the pack. I estimate we finished every day in the top 300, maybe fewer, of about 2200 walkers. It's not a race, but we didn't want to be last either.

When we have about 5 miles to go, the mood lightens considerably. Just a little more than an hour to go. It's getting exciting. We're going to finish and we won't need the sweep van! Plus we wanted to finish in time for the Eagles game and suck down a few cocktails.

I tried very hard NOT to be affected by the significance of this event. We all tried to remain humble, as if this were just a walk in the park. But one guy got to me, though. One guy, he was standing by himself. He held up a sign that said thanks, you're walking for my wife. With pictures of the wife and kid. Now, I don't know if his wife was also walking, or if she's a survivor, if she's sick, or if she's dead.

I looked at him, I smiled, I kept moving. I wanted to stop and ask him but felt the need to push on, just to barely keep from bawling.



At Villanova there's a zillion people waiting for our arrival. The picture doesn't really show the huge scope of the walk's end. The 3-Day volunteers, families and friends are cheering and hooting and hollering as we walk through the line. Spectators and strangers hold their hands out to high-five. For the minute, perhaps, that it took to get through the line...this must be what it feels like to be a rock star.

And yet, the first instinct is to just keep it humble. Awww, it was nuthin'. And it is, really, compared to what cancer survivors and their families go through.

We get our shirts. There are those of us who want to perhaps kinda hang around and soak up some sun, relax a little, relish the experience of the last 3 days. Then there are those of us who just want to be done, get going, hop a train back to the city, and indulge in some football and friendship and some well-deserved cocktails. We debate, and we decide to go.



We end the day with a huge bar tab, room service burgers and salads, and the jacuzzi. The next day L wears a complimentary paper bathing suit because she decides the old one she brought wasn't embarrassing enough, so she tossed it the night before. The thing holds water like a swimmie diaper, making her poof up in the jacuzzi. M treats us later to massages and shea butter wraps. Heavenly!



Our nearly 5-day adventure finally comes to an end. We go to breakfast and get one final cab ride to the train to NJ.

All told, we raised more than $15,000, and it cost us (well, some more than others) many hundreds of dollars in gear and cocktails and hotel stays and cab rides.

But we already know this is probably a one-shot thing for us, and the next time someone gets some cockamamie idea to do something crazy like walk 60 miles for breast cancer research or bike 100 miles for some other disease or participate in some other good deed...we'll..we'll think about it.

Thanks, girls. That wasn't so bad, was it?