Anything but humdrum

We went up to Oxford to take up a position at the mouth of the Drum Barn driveway, early, early in the morning. It was the morning of the State-to-State Half Marathon, and by popular demand OGADE (or at least those of it who were awake) was to play as the runners and walkers progressed toward Indiana and back.

And play we did. It soon became clear that we could only occasionally match the actual footfalls of the runners, for some were serious marathoners who looked straight ahead, concentrating on their own internal rhythms and shutting out all other distractions, while others moved to a different beat.

The ones who won our hearts were the many who, upon coming within range of our drumming, smiled and grinned and waved and high-fived and yelled "Thank you" and "You're the best" and a few actually shifted their pace to match our relentless thumping. And then there were the ones who were serious enough about their running that you had to look carefully as they passed, but you could see the grin or the tiny uplifted hand motion, or the V-sign with the fingers.

These were throat-lumping moments. Momentarily we beat the drums a little harder, or threw in a little extra syncopation: you couldn't keep from doing it: energy became synergy and the runners and the drummers connected ever so briefly in a meeting of spirits. Then, as the runner or the group passed, we kept our own rhythmic marathon going, for we felt that if we stopped we would somehow break the bond of rhythm, even for those who were no longer within the sound of our drums, gourds, balafon and shakeres.

Special mention must go to Pete, our intrepid leader, whose skill at tuning and playing an array of empty coffee cans is near kin to the finest Caribbean steel drum craftsmanship.