We all scream

Sunday morning, six hours after I finally fell into bed—omitting even a perfunctory curse in the direction of airports and the air transit system generally—I hauled myself back up, grabbed a coffee, and jumped the Metro heading downtown. DC's typical September weather is cool and beautiful, but on the day that IE was going to do the Nation's Triathlon, it was 90 degrees and hideously damp. Not ideal triathling weather.

I emerged from the stygian depths of Metro Center and found my way south toward the Mall in time to hear someone else walking toward Constitution say, "Hey, isn't that Fenty?" We waved vaguely in the direction of the mayor-shaped blur. A few weeks ago he took a bad spill when his bike wheel got caught in a road groove that took a sudden turn he couldn't follow. (IE noted that he missed his chance for eternal fame by not shrieking, "Ditch set me up!") He looked good cruising along toward the finish line, though, so apparently any perfidious declivities had been surmounted.

I set about the job of hunting down the rest of the Scream Team, who had arrived somewhat more promptly to see off the swimmers. We finally met up, realized that we had probably missed seeing IE blast past on the bike, and settled in on the curb to cheer for the runners and anyone in a Team in Training jersey.

Y'all, we cheered a lot. It turns out that even on the hot humid slimy days of DC's overlong summer, yelling encouragement to gutsy triathlers is a thrill. We tried not to sound like demented gym teachers, especially since some of the runners looked like death might come as a relief, and focused keeping the yelling happy. All the TNT people got "Go Team!" which we had been told was the officially approved cheer. Other people got variations on the Chicago "alright alright alright," hollers of "you got it, you got it, finish just like that!" or, for the guy in the rockin' SuperGrover singlet, "GO TEAM GROVER!" If we could see numbers, we called out those too. IE, wearing her Cubs hat, reported getting calls of, "Yo, Chi-town, this your year?" ("Hell yeah!") There was also epic cowbell, courtesy of Papa IE. In exchange, we got thumbs-up, weary grins, fist pumps, and a few prized—albeit clammy—high-fives. We gave some of the biggest cheers to the people who were walking when they got to us, heard the noise, and broke back into jogs. It must've felt like a squintillion degrees to the people on that course; we'd have been cheering even if they'd crawled. Totally great.

So eventually we did see IE, made sure she heard us screaming like mad things, and then we gave up our spot, ducked up 15th, and found a space along the rail leading toward the finish, where if possible the people-watching was even better. One runner swooped up his three-year-old and set her on his shoulders for a sprint over the line; another guy's daughter ran out in pink Crocs to keep her dad company in the last 100 yards. And then we saw IE, moving steadily, so we set up as mighty a hullaballoo as our shredded voices would allow, and you guys, she hauled ass that last 300 feet, grinning all the way. We went maybe a little nuts, it was so fantastic.

The aftermath was all Powerade and family hugs and surprise friends who had come in to cheer, and maybe a little bit of crying (okay, and perhaps juuust a bit of ogling of the more sleekly toned finishers, because you don't often see people that fit wearing so little in downtown DC). Everyone who crossed the line was feted as a champ even as they were being shuffled to various lines to check in, get bottles of water and slices of free pizza, and moved out of the way so that yet more finishers could move in.

Next year, same bat time, and I hope to hear everyone there.