It’s been several years since the last Death Race, but every year around this time I’m reminded that it’s never truly over - it lives on in the friendships and bonds we forged, the tears we shed, the lessons we learned about human nature, and ultimately, about ourselves.
The Death Race was/is impossible to explain or justify to someone who never witnessed it. There were many naysayers, and many who thought it was a terribly dumb idea. My frostbitten toes might agree. .
But here’s the thing. The Death Race was never about winning, or even finishing. The Death Race was a metaphor for life. It wasn’t fair. Most of the time, it made no sense. You never really knew when it started, and, like life, you definitely never knew when it was going to end.
But what became clear to me in those five summers/winters I spent in Vermont (aside from the fact that my horrendous axe skills were a precursor to my poor spear-throwing abilities) was that, amidst the wood chopping and hallucinations and trips up Bloodroot and macerated feet held together by duct tape, a group of lost souls managed to find themselves. And how you handled yourself in the darkest moments of the Death Race revealed how you handled yourself in every day life (and it wasn't always pretty).
Like life, it was always about the journey. One foot in front of another into an uncertain future. Get out of it what you need, and leave the rest. #tbt