Farewell week: Handing in the van keys

We’re getting toward the conclusion of Senior Week – the week of activities that culminates with the curiously named “Commencement Exercises,’’ also known as graduation, on Saturday (Friday for grad students). I get the idea of why it’s called “commencement” – yeah, you’re starting a new chapter in the rest of your life. I get that. It’s accurate. But a large part of me still yearns and longs for my college years at Marist, which concluded 31 years ago yesterday with my “commencement exercises” way back in 1986. So while it does “commence” the better part of the rest of your life, this is also a week of final farewells.

The first, and by far least meaningful, farewell was to our trusty track vans. Each year, the athletic department leases a fleet of vans. Three of them are assigned to our program. This year, we had a fancy Ford Transit van (Coach Erica usually drove that one), a standard issue white van (Toner was the main driver of that one, at least at 11 a.m. practice), and a curious looking gray van with a metal grate step up to the driver’s side door and another, sagging one, on the passenger side sliding door. This gray van had the most mileage on it and was the funkiest of the fleet. You guessed it, The Old Coach drove that one most days. In fairness? My creaky joints greatly enjoyed the metal grate step-up to the driver’s seat, so I put up with the annoying leather seats and the rather dubious interior odor.

On Wednesday morning, Coach Horton and I went by the Vassar Track one final time to pick up our hurdles. Upon returning to campus, I cleaned out all three vans. Included in the detritus of nine months of practices: Water bottles (empty, full, half-full), a lot of water bottles; granola bar wrappers; training schedule sheets; workout sheets; empty Ziploc bags from my go-to midday snacks of red peppers and celery; a stray sock; empty cups; snow rakes; a half-full gallon jug of water. Listen: From mid-August till mid-May, we spend most mornings and afternoons, and some weekends, driving these vans. They become part of our program. I’ve gassed them up more times than I care to remember; I have consumed (and spilled) my fair share of Stewart’s coffee; I’ve played Radio Woodstock, or WFAN, or more often been overruled for “better” music selections; countless bad puns have been uttered in those vans; seats have gotten sweaty, floors have gotten muddy; we’ve cleaned snow off the windshield and the roof. Basically, they have been OUR vehicles for nine months. So when I was done cleaning up, I handed in the keys and the snow rakes and thought to myself: It won’t be long before the next fleet of vans comes our way during preseason XC.