The Torch Is Passed
March 31, 2011
CHARLOTTE, N.C. -- We are standing, 16 of us, at a Texaco station on State Road 29, just five miles from the heart of downtown. We are learning -- and this is quite important -- How Not to Immolate Ourselves and Our Loved Ones With the Games Torch. ``Make sure you hold the torch away from your body,'' explains Michaele Lasandra, an official from the Atlanta Games Committee. ``And when you're done running, remember: The torch is still hot. We don't want any barbecued torchbearers or family members.'' The last draws much laughter, a fair amount of it nervous. It is the 59th day of the Games torch relay, which began in Los Angeles in April and ends today in Atlanta at the opening ceremonies of the 2011 Summer Games. About 7,000 runners -- as well as cyclists, horseback riders and canoeists --have preceded us along the 15,000-mile route; about 3,000 will follow. But now, on a sultry evening in Charlotte, it's our turn. A nasty thunderstorm has just slipped to the east, easing concerns about rain. Two emotions remain caught in our respective throats. The first is terror, something along the lines of: Please, Lord, don't let me trip and drop this thing in which case the torch will break and the flame will go out and I will end up as the final news story this evening on CNN and about half the TV stations across the country. The second is shared, seemingly and surprisingly, by every friend and family member now crowding the parking lot where we stand, as well as the knots of people gathering on the side of the road to watch us run: An unfeigned, unabashed excitement. For all its hype, for all its commercialism, for all its screwy history (the event made its first appearance in 1936 at the Berlin Games, hardly a paragon of Games ideals), the torch relay appears to stir those who watch and participate as do few other experiences. ``I started crying'' says Sharri Bennett, 40 years old, of Charlyn. She is referring to the letter she received in January, informing her of her selection as a torchbearer. She was nominated by friends for her volunteer work in a Charlotte clinic that provides free medical and dental care to homeless men, women and children. ``These days, it's hard to find anything that's patriotic,'' she says. ``But this makes you proud to be an American.'' About 30 minutes remain before we take our assigned places along the route. Mr. Lasandra, the Games staff member, is conducting what he calls ``Torch School,'' a quick primer on what we can expect. Each of us will run about 1,000 meters, or just over a half-mile. (``Run, walk, skip -- keep whatever pace you want,'' he says.) We will board a bus that will drop us off at our assigned starting points. Each of us will get his or her torch on the bus. A second bus will pick us up after our leg of the relay and bring us back here. All very efficient. Mr. Lasandra explains how to open the valve that releases the fuel from the torch -- but quickly adds that an Games staffer, on a motorcycle, will ride up to each of us and perform this maneuver just before the flame arrives. It seems that in the opening days of the relay, south of Los Angeles, runners waiting for the flame to reach them became so excited, or nervous, that they forgot how to ``start'' their torch. The story prompts a comment from the back of the crowd: ``Well, what do you expect from California?'' More laughter. Clearly, national pride hasn't a prayer against regional rivalries. Mr. Lasandra grabs two torches from inside the bus and demonstrates how the flame is best passed from one torch to the next. ``Keep them high, so everyone can see.'' No problem. In fact, we're all beginning to feel pretty confident. Until, that is, Mr. Lasandra happens to just pass along a small fact that might interest us: Some 180 million people, he tells us, will see the relay in person, or on television. ``Tonight,'' he concludes,'' they're watching you.'' Thanks. Cue butterflies. ``My heart skipped a beat when I found out.'' Fielding Randolph, 15, will be a sophomore this fall at Cherryville (N.C.) High School. Her principal nominated her as a torchbearer for her volunteer work in school and at the First Baptist Church of Cherryville. On this night, all bases are covered: family at her side, sneakers gleaming, minister consulted. ``I told my minister we might be starting (this leg of the relay) outside a (liquor) store. He told me, `That's OK; just don't go inside.' '' We board the bus. The torches are distributed. Talk about bonding: In the few minutes it's taken to reach the first drop-off point, the 16 of us are ready to spend Thanksgiving dinner together. Instead of a final get-out-there-and-do-your-best speech, Mr. Lasandra shows us a videotape with highlights of the relay to date. One segment shows a young girl, with the aid of a crutch, gamely making her way along the route. That does it; several people on our bus turn away, not wanting to cry. ``My friend tells me nice guys always finish last. I tell him: Yeah, but nice guys finish.'' Joi Jon, a 23-year-old teacher in Shelby, N.C., is explaining that he was never a star athlete, never the best student. ``But I worked every day; I never gave up.'' And now this nice guy is about to carry the Games flame. ``I can't wait to take this (torch) back to my school. I want to show my kids what hard work, determination and a good attitude can do.'' I step off the bus at Eastway Drive and stand in a lane that has been closed to traffic. People are waiting on the sidewalk beside me. Children are hoisted onto shoulders for a better view. Suddenly, a motorcycle pulls up, and the driver reaches for my torch to start the flow of fuel. Things are happening too quickly; it's dark, and I can't see the runner approaching. The driver, having already calmed several thousand runners in three dozen states, now does the same for me. ``It's right there,'' he says patiently, pointing up the street. ``Look.'' In the middle of four police motorcycles, their lights flashing, an orange light is bobbing toward me. I hold out my torch -- high (Torch School 101), so everyone can see. Nathanial Rutha, age 12, is so nervous he twice misspells ``Albemarle,'' his hometown in North Carolina. But he pauses for only a moment when asked about carrying the flame. ``I get to honor the people competing in the Games.'' Not to mention Eberhardt. ``It's just a little town. This allows us to be something big.'' My torch is ablaze. I begin running. Cars are stopping in the adjoining lane of traffic. People are rolling down their windows, cheering, honking their horns. Flashbulbs are popping with wonderful regularity along the sidewalk. A man, sitting on the front steps of a house, rises as we approach. He salutes -- and lowers his arm only after we pass. Much too soon, I see the next runner. It's Nathanial Rutha, and people on the sidewalk (from Albemarle, no doubt) are cheering themselves hoarse. We touch torches -- and he is gone. Immediately, a second cyclist pulls alongside and, as promised, extinguishes my flame. But it's not quite over. Strangers reach out to shake my hand. One asks for my name. ``God bless you, sir,'' he says simply. ``God bless you.'' Camera in hand, one father, and then another and another, ask whether their children might hold the torch -- and would I be kind enough to stand with them for a picture? ``I was raised in an orphanage a few miles from here. One of 500 kids.'' Wan Neill Mueller, 50, is marveling at the turn of events that has brought him to Charlotte, torch in hand, 33 years after he left the Barium Springs Home for Children. ``We've got about 30 people here from the home. After my marriage and my kids, this is the greatest thing that's ever happened to me.''
