The 3-Day? Well first . . . But Then . . . Oh, And . . .

It is genuinely impossible to do justice to the 3-Day Walk for the Cure in a single Blog Post - or even a series. It is an experience of moments; vignettes that defy any attempt to weave them into a single storyline.

I could turn many of those moments into individual posts - or pick innumerable individual story lines to explore. But doing so would create topic fatigue for anyone who hasn’t shared the experience.

It is tantamount to telling a friend “you had to be there” as the group giggles about inside jokes. Each seemingly complete tale could be followed up with, “And THEN . . . “

So indulge me as I attempt to condense my thoughts into two blog posts and a photo diary highlighting aspects of my experience in an attempt to bring the liminal space of the Komen 3-Day to those who have not (yet) been swallowed by its insanity.

Entering the “pink bubble” is a sensory explosion - there is always something new to see, hear, smell, taste, feel . . .

From checking into a world of pink stair risers, pink logo’d staff, pink footprints, and pink lighting at the hotel - all while pink clad guests arrive squealing their excitement at reuniting with friends . . . to walking into the closing ceremony hand-in-hand with the other survivors and those living with metastatic breast cancer - surrounded by throngs of walkers raising muddied shoes in salute . . . The 3-Day Walk for the Cure was a deluge - and I’m not referring to the wet stuff falling from the sky and flooding the streets.

My last Day 1 picture at mile 13 before the battery went dead!

The sights range from the magnificence of sea lions surfing waves crashing into the California coast, to the inanity of men sporting bras filled with watermelons, to the powerful vision of a mile of sidewalk lined with images of those stolen by breast cancer.

For the majority of the journey, the ridiculous reigns supreme – whether that be bath-robed individuals with loofahs instructing passers-by in the fine art of properly washing armpits, gnomes driving a sweep van, supporters standing in the rain sporting an enormous, shared bosom, or a Care Bear providing hugs.

Whether listening intently to the powerful words of people sharing personal stories with breast cancer (the fundamental reason the event exists), being extolled by “Hookers for Hooters” to “work the corner” as great tunes blast from their speaker, catching the enthusiasm of Youth Corp cheers, being solicited by “walker stalkers” in the Marina to take part in a “3 hour cruise,” or having a member of the SDPD bike next to me in the rain for a mile or so because I told him I moved easier every time he passed thanks to the 80s rock playlist blasting from his speaker - the sounds of the 3-Day keep participants focused on the joy of the moment rather than the journey ahead or the fatigue pulling at their muscles. From performances by local youth in front of their homes playing the violin or serenading passers with enthusiastic renditions of “Pink Pony Club” to the blasting of “The Wobble” at lunch as members of the SDPD and Youth Corps led line dances, my ears were constantly on alert for the next element to incorporate into my auditory tapestry.

Among my favorite sound bites were the dulcet tones of supporters calling, “pickles and crack!” - Which triggered my senses of taste and smell to leap into action. Pickles, regardless of who offered them, granted my salivary glands the salty, electrolyte filled goodness that the body craves when expending massive amounts of energy.

But crack? This deliciousness is aptly named: homemade, salty, buttery, chocolaty crackers. This stuff on its own would induce me to commit to another 3-Day!

It was simply impossible to indulge in all of the treats available. The pit stops offered bananas, apples, chips, and, the staple of the 3-Day, Uncrustables. Various companies were present offering their products - Clean Energy bars are my official new go-to. They filled a hole in my stomach and put energy in my step on more than one occasion over the weekend.

But the real heroes of the route were “walker stalkers” and residents who welcomed this loud invasion into their communities proffering all sorts of treats. Endless supply and endless variety of candy - thank you for all the Red Vines. Cups of chili, mammograms (pink icing sandwiched between graham crackers), baggies of chips with cups of salsa, even a buffet of every type of homemade cookie imaginable with ziplock baggies walkers were encouraged to stuff completely full. If you ended up a day of walking hungry - you did it wrong.

And it didn’t stop with things to nosh, water and Gatorade were constantly available - I’m not even sure the bottle I filled with Liquid IV in the hotel each morning was necessary. Route spectators offered milk, chocolate milk, oat milk, hot chocolate, orange juice, lemonade . . . And yes, occasionally Diet Coke!

Oh - and can’t forget that the choice to remain intoxicated from start to finish was an option. Spectators established “dehydration stations” providing mimosa, Bloody Mary, beer, Buzz Ball, jello shots . . . And lots and lots of Fireball for those who chose it as a way to warm their bones in the pouring rain. I decided quickly my training did not include the elements necessary to incorporate copious amounts of alcohol into my journey . . . But a morning mimosa, a take-away peanut butter whiskey to savor after a hot shower, and a celebratory margarita along the final mile did play a role in my festivities.

And when physical comfort was needed? The Cuddle Patrol and many other furry companions (frequently sporting pink paws or mohawks) were available for snuggles, and my favorite two walker stalkers were on hand with sunny smiles and the biggest hugs in the world for thousands of their new best friends.

Please know there are exponentially more favorite moments I have failed to mention as ones I have included - I am so fortunate to have been a part of this heart-warming, obnoxious, crazy, sweet, event.

It has always been my goal to timely show my gratitude to those who have supported me on this path, but Kristine’s contribution arrived on the eve of entering the “pink bubble” and my bandwidth didn’t extend farther than my pillow at the end of the day. It was wonderful to have Kristine’s support in this endeavor as she has been my partner in crime as we raised our kids side-by-side the past 20 years. She is a friend to whom I’m not afraid to expose all of my children’s warts because she loves them as I do and will always be their staunchest advocate. Her support as I tossed my bags in the car to head to San Diego was a lovely send off.