Once upon a cold and drafty day in January, the worn bus pulled up to THAT place--that place which will never be forgotten, that will live on for eternity in my psyche long after IT has returned to its Master in the underworld, that place that they call...the BARN.
I had never been THERE before, but the stories, oh, the stories, I had heard, hissing down the halls with the sound of jagged teeth furrowing into grass, from the lips of those blessed enough to survive, were such that froze the ear and frostbit the mind with terror.
"IT is," they say, "a place of evil. A place where the spirits of those frozen to death come to give the living a taste of the death they gorge themselves upon. A place where those who had been humiliated upon that tainted, tempestuous track return to wreak their vengeance. IT is...accursed."
"Who," I asked," who and why would want to go there, to run in such an odious atmosphere?"
"Ah, you do not know, or understand," my brave comrades reply," We are warriors, in our way, and the only place to give or receive the challenges of battle are in this one place. And whenever and wherever our valiant generals (coaches, you call them) send forth the call to arms, there are none of the swift of feet, or strong of arm, or high of jump, that would fail to respond."
Such were the bold words that inspired me to join them and face the demonic Barn.
So now we return to the first paragraph, to my first encounter with The Barn. IT is a cunning creation, capable of planning attacks and thwarting ITs opponents in seemingly innocent ways. In my lonely case, the vehicle in which I was traveling ran out of gas. Of course, the unenlightened who traveled with me blamed this upon the inconsiderate people who had used the vessel the previous night, but I saw past the obvious and understood what, in truth, this was. It was an attack, one of many that IT was planning to pull. IT knew we were coming and feared us with the fear of small children and little yappy dogs. But unlike yappy dogs or small children, The Barn is a vicious, low, and a ruthless tactician, devising dreadful ways to deal devastating damage upon us all.
The battle raged throughout the day with neither side gaining ground. The bullets of cold and land mines of shaky track took their toll, with many freezing to death or falling earthward in midrace to choke on The Barn's most ubiquitous weapon--dust. Not even indigestion and stomach cramps are beyond this monster. The defense fought back with heaters, blankets, brooms, Mylanta, and sheer speed, but the line of battle remained in a deadlock.
I did what I could, fighting my way to the finishline without mishap, but also without aiding the straining arm of Good. But after I had expended all of my effort and concentration upon this task, this sacred charge, I could not help but think, "What a waste of time it is to fight an inanimate object."
Such heresy, I knew, would not be tolerated, and so I simply gathered my things and left. But I would be back. After all, the barn is still the only home of indoor track in Alabama.