The Midnight Mile
The Midnight Mile is one of those random college things. It's organized by Yale's Habitat for Humanity group who collect donations, close the streets around campus, and map out a mile course. Crowds sporting tee-shirts, shorts and less gathered in a corner of Old Campus at 11:45. The chilly air was charged with excitement and the eye of the tiger complete with mock-jabbing, stretching, and dancing. Some had big painted Y's on their chests, some went with face paint, another couple wore tiaras, feather boas, and leotards. It was a party. Then Saybrook started chanting, whooping, and hollering behind their flag as they streamed out of L-Dub out of their clothes. Most wore underwear that wasn't underneath anything except the perfect inky sky and the cold face of the moon. The Midnight Mile's also known as the Saybrook Strip.
Counting down to midnight the cheering mob lined up behind these nude enthusists. And then the pack was off. Funneling through the slim gate, out onto High, turning upstream on Elm, through the intersection blocked off by police, past the hopping Toad's, the building bouncing with Wednesday Night dance party rhythm, we followed naked pied pipers blowing on kazoos and whoo-hooing. Veronica said it was like the running of the bulls. We flew down the center of the street with middle of the week midnight wildness. Past Toad's, passing and being passed, coursing by Stiles, I pause now on what I sprinted by then. There were figures surrounding the mouth of the Jog Walk. Naked singers stood on either side holding candles and solemnly crooning Amazing Grace as runners rushed through. It was all a blur but there were some familiar faces, Andrew Smeall. After the shock of the nude, the herd rounded down Grove, onto Wall, past the Law School, down to College, and finally coming up through Cross Campus, across the grass, all out to the finish line, the cathedral of the library rising faster in front of us and the finale: skidding semi-naked across the women's table.
Counting down to midnight the cheering mob lined up behind these nude enthusists. And then the pack was off. Funneling through the slim gate, out onto High, turning upstream on Elm, through the intersection blocked off by police, past the hopping Toad's, the building bouncing with Wednesday Night dance party rhythm, we followed naked pied pipers blowing on kazoos and whoo-hooing. Veronica said it was like the running of the bulls. We flew down the center of the street with middle of the week midnight wildness. Past Toad's, passing and being passed, coursing by Stiles, I pause now on what I sprinted by then. There were figures surrounding the mouth of the Jog Walk. Naked singers stood on either side holding candles and solemnly crooning Amazing Grace as runners rushed through. It was all a blur but there were some familiar faces, Andrew Smeall. After the shock of the nude, the herd rounded down Grove, onto Wall, past the Law School, down to College, and finally coming up through Cross Campus, across the grass, all out to the finish line, the cathedral of the library rising faster in front of us and the finale: skidding semi-naked across the women's table.
