Volunteering...a just for fun article

Was browsing thru some of the websites Sandy recommended and found this article from a volunteer at the K-Town Tri.
enjoy.......

THE BATTLE OF PRINCESS AND KING
Fraser Petrick
Susan and I volunteered to help out with the K-Town Triathlon. Let me
re-phrase that : Susan volunteered; I was voluntold.
Our jobs were going to be traffic control. (Should be a snap, I thought:
I?d done Yard Duty as a teacher for 35 years.) Susan was stationed at Ontario
and Princess, kitty-corner from the S&R. This was near the beginning of the
biking section of the event. She would get to see the action and cheer on the
riders. From time to time she might have to ask a spectator to wait for a
minute before crossing the street, or to redirect a Holiday Inn patron to an
alternate exit.
Of course, I was assigned the intersection from hell, the Khyber Pass of
Kingston, the OK Corral, the Alamo, the last gasp of the Light Brigade :
Princess and King. I girded my loins with a British ?Mustn?t complain?, and
took up my position. I had two barricades and my lawn chair. The organizers
had given me a spiffy blue T-Shirt and one of those fluorescent vests that
highway construction workers wear. Give me a uniform and a barricade and I
soon had ?Do You Hear the People Sing?? from Les Miserables going through
my head. My task was to direct people to alternate routes to the Holiday Inn,
the Wolfe Island Ferry and the Causeway.
Seeing as it was 7:30 in the morning when I began my duty, traffic was
very light. So, during that quiet spell I practised adopting authoritative
postures, finally settling on an Alabama State Trooper pose. With my paunch
and aviator sunglasses it seemed only natural. Ain?t nobody gonna mess with
Bubba.
I guess my natural air of authority and my I-don?t-suffer-fools demeanor
carried me through my four hour stint. Most drivers were cooperative and
flexible as they had to make detours towards their planned destinations.
Some were confused and needed the gentle touch. Two or three were
peeved, and as they drove away, I knew they were no longer my problem.
Only one driver was out and out unpleasant. I coped with his nautical
language by imagining that he was a chronic grouch in any situation and by
muttering under my breath something rude.
My favourite were the pedestrians who waited at the curb thinking they
had to have my permission to cross. With an air of magnanimity I would wave
them through, making lame jokes about ?Mother, may I?? or ?Simon Says?,
such bonhommie retorts earning a charitable grin and mutterings about being
out in the sun too long.
I reserved special affection for the little old lady in her Corolla, who, in
spite of two barricades, my lawn chair and me in my spiffy blue T-Shirt,
fluorescent orange vest, State Trooper paunch and Aviator sunglasses,
waving authoritatively and then hysterically, was focused on getting through to
point ?B?.
Being professional, I would not directly ridicule the oblivious-to-theirenvironment
drivers who would stop in the geometric centre of the
Princess/King intersection to inquire directions to Tim Horton?s, all the while,
hundreds of other cars are brought to a grinding halt during the consultation.
Being patriotic, I always suggested ?Canadian Maple?.
Several times, out-of-towners would ask for directions or
recommendations regarding Kingston?s tourist attractions. A very nice
European family asked if I could recommend a near-by restaurant for
breakfast. My jocularity and subtlety of humour was perhaps, I admit, not
helpful to our German visitors when I recommended a nearby establishment
with the warning that their wine list was a little pedestrian, but since they were,
wink-wink, pedestrians, that should be no problem. My new German friend
suggested they were thinking more along the lines of Egg McMuffin.
Glowing with civic pride at doing my bit for Kingston tourism, I fantasized
a scenario:
An English family would approach me with, ?I say, could you possibly
direct us to the big lobster sculpture in Shediac??
?Well, hang a left at Queen; right on Division, and all the way out to the
401. Head east. When you hit New Brunswick, turn right. You can?t miss it.?
?Thanks awfully. You Canadians, I must say, are terribly friendly.?
My other fantasy involved a green, $135,000 (after taxes) Jaguar XKR,
(420 horsepower ; zero to sixty in four point five; walnut dashboard and four
cup holders). It came by my ?Checkpoint Charlie? at least three times,
probably searching for Wolfe Island. I fantasized that I would jump out beside
it on its next pass, force the driver, a retired tax accountant, to stop; I?d flash
my badge, yell ?Police business! I need your car!? Haul the bewildered taxman
out on to the street, jump in and speed off, smoking the tires. Oddly, Kingston
would immediately resemble San Francisco, as I launched into pursuit of two
swarthy drug dealers in a Dodge Viper (no cup holders, would you believe it!)
And whereas the Dodge could probably lose me in a straight-away, we who
saw Bullit in 1968, know that the bad guys? car would ground out on the hills
and corners?
Meanwhile, back on duty, I became aware of my evolving technique at
traffic control. Hour #1, I was polite, cheerful, helpful and ever so sympathetic.
Hour #2, I became more business-like with modified cheerfulness. My
directions were briefer, more to the point, with rare mentions of ?What a
beautiful day!? Hour #3 I became a little giddy, and, I must confess, giving
creative directions to Pittsburgh Township. During the last hour, fatigue, heat,
and the vagaries of befuddled drivers having got me, I slipped into my crabby
teacher mode. Suddenly, this model of Kingstonian hospitality was holding
forth with ?You can?t find the Causeway? Cry me a river, buddy!? or ?If I told
you once, I told you a hundred times, you can?t get there from here!? or ?Drive
it or park it, Lady!?
I?m not proud of my loss of professionalism; and I hesitate to reveal that,
during that last hour, I could hear Susan, a block away, down on Ontario
Street, changing her ?Have a nice day.? to ?MOVE IT!?. Mind you, she was not
on duty alone, like me, the little Dutch boy with his finger in the dike holding
back the North Sea. She had Carolyn the Cop with her. She had the long arm
of the law, and a gun if needs be, to back her up. (When comparing notes
later, Susan said she was very impressed with Carolyn : infinite patience with
dolts, consistently polite with the wayward,? all displayed with an I?m-not-tobe-
trifled-with air of authority. So, while Susan, in her fourth hour of asking
people to not stop to scratch their itches in the middle of Ontario street, in the
middle of a bike race, is beginning to adapt her language; her compatriot from
the Police Department remained in control throughout.
We?ll volunteer again next year for the K-Town Triathlon. But not for
traffic control. I want to hand out paper cups of water to the runners ? even
though I don?t really like most of them. Particularly the skinny, size 28 hipped,
high cheek boned, super fit, super cool, not-a-fat-cell-in-sight guys with their
wrap-around sunglasses and having the nerve to look good in spandex.
There?ll I be at my water station, with some super-cool spandex dude
reaching for a proffered cup of water. At the last second, I?ll snatch it away
saying, ?Not for you, pal. This one?s for me. Handing out cups of water is
exhausting, you know !?