A day in the life of a Cry Baby Hill Guard

SUNDAY, A.M.

6:22: Hit snooze.

6:32: Hit snooze.

6:42: Hit snooze.

6:52: Accidentally turn alarm off.

7:15: Shit! My stupid alarm didn’t work! Dammit! Stand up and try to get bearings. Head pounding. Mouth is the scene of a crime. 

7:16: Conclude a feral cat broke into bedroom while I slept and used my mouth as a feline port-a-john. There is no other explanation
for this taste. 

7:18: Remember I shut down Soundpony a few hours ago. And forgot to drink water … since Thursday. This explains the current mouth troubles and jaundice-like skin coloring. Further investigation into location of trespassing cat in my room has been called off. 

7:25: Shower and soap. 

7:28: Jump back into shower to wash off soap after realizing I put the soap on after the shower part. 

7:35: Squeeze Red Bull down esophagus like Popeye slamming spinach. 

7:40: Walk out door with helmet, whistle, bullhorn, two costume changes, four-pack of Red Bull, sunglasses (costume and practical), two kinds of sunscreen (for when I lose one of them), a half-full water bottle, bathing suit, phone, billboard, Soundpony flag, goggles.

7:41: Hop on scooter. 

7:42: Run back inside because I forgot keys, Advil, breakfast, and the Soundpony flag. Wait. The flag is on the scooter. Where are my keys? Wait. In my hand. Dammit. 

7:45: Hop on scooter for Cry Baby Hill. 

7:50: Arrive on Cry Baby Hill. Spot a lot of the same people I just saw at Soundpony a few hours ago stumbling around the hill. Giggle. Everyone looks like death. 

7:58: Ensure Cry Baby Hill is clear of people and the street has been painted with stripes and “Mind the Gap” everywhere. 

7:59: Tulsa Tough executive director Malcolm McCollam drives up in golf cart, looks at us, laughs, and rolls right on by. 

8:00: Races start. Bullhorn sirens and whistles accompany the first racers as they come up the hill. Only 15-20 people are witnesses. It’s peaceful and beautiful. If you were there for your first time and knew nothing about it, you would think it was just the sweetest little bike race. Cry Baby Hill lies to you. 

8:05: Neighbors start coming out. Laughter and anticipation fill the air. 

8:10: Someone tells me I look terrible. I offer no argument. 

8:20: That same someone hands me a giant coffee, “You need this.”

8:30: I sit halfway down the hill against a tree. I try to wake up. 

8:35: Some racer rides by covered in sweat. “That’s weird. It’s not hot enough to be that sweaty and pale right now.” Oh well. I go back to my coffee. What else needs to happen?

8:35: That same racer who just rode by awkwardly falls off his bike at the top of the hill. He’s limp. I think, “That didn’t look right.”

8:35: The racer is still down, not moving. People are starting to move towards him. Oh shit. I trot up the hill. 

8:36: By the time I reach him, a Tulsa Police Department officer is beginning CPR. 

8:38: The racer’s eyes are open but vacant. His coloring is blue. He is not breathing. His heart has stopped. 

8:42: We pour water on the TPD officer to cool him while he continues chest compressions. EMSA pulls up in their golf cart. Tulsa Fire is coming up the downhill side of Cry Baby Hill. All I can think is, If he dies, this is over. Cry Baby Hill is cancelled.

8:43: EMSA zaps him with a defibrillator. “CLEAR!” zzzzt. “CLEAR!” zzzzt. 

8:44: The racer’s friends arrive. They are screaming at him to live. I’m crying. We are all crying and yelling. “LIVE!” “FIGHT!”

8:49: They get a pulse. He starts coughing. He lives. 

8:55: The racer is stabilized and transported down the hill. 

9:00: Holy shit. Did that just really happen?

9:05: Holy shit. 

9:10: Holy shit. 

9:20: Race is back on. In fact, it never stopped. They just kept racing by us, unaware of what was happening.

9:30: I find the TPD officer who started CPR. I take a picture of him and post it to the Cry Baby Hill Facebook Page. It goes viral. 

10:00: Friends and families of racers—the initial inhabitants of Cry Baby Hill—are yelling encouragement and enjoying mimosa brunches. 

10:30: A comically huge wall of speakers—the Megawattage 5000 PA system—is almost set up. 

10:45: The sound guy is ready and asks when he should turn on the speakers. The refs look at each other. “Now?” 

10:50: EARTH SHATTERING BASS—BOOM! BOOOOOM! BOOM! BOOOOOM! BOOM!

10:51: We are dying laughing—it is so loud. 

10:52: There is an older woman, from the condos at the top of CBH, running at me. “The speakers are so loud,” she yells with a curled finger pointed at me, “my dishes are … SHAKING!” “Geez, I am sorry,” I say. “But I am not in charge here.” Cry Baby Hill lies to you. 

11:00: The growing crowd is restless. The first band starts. The crowd’s nervous energy is channeled into shaking what the good lord gave them. 

11:05: Cry Baby Hill refs are now actively patrolling the racecourse. When white people dance, they lose all concept of where they are and wander into the street. “Mind the gap!”

SUNDAY, P.M.

Noon: With the bands blaring, a new influx of people stake their claim directly in front of the speakers. They are less interested in racing than partying. “Mind the gap!”

12:15: GT Security (of Cain’s Ballroom fame) rolls up. “Where do you want us?” We point at the bulge of people crowding the speakers.  “Keep those people out of the race.” A shift in duties: the majority of CBH refs and security will now spend most of our energy keeping the booty-shaking partiers off the course. “Mind the gap!”

1:00: The crowd continues to swell. The music’s tempo increases. Slowly, people are losing their minds. “Mind the gap!”

1:15: CBH refs now issue regular warnings to the crowd with every lap the racers make. “Get out of the way! Here they come!” We blow whistles. We use sirens. People’s attention spans are getting shorter. We still have five more hours of this. 

1:30: The refs are now drinking. We accept our fate. We may as well have fun while it all falls apart. 

1:45: The crowd, sensing our acceptance of the situation, feeds us Jell-O shots and drinks. We gladly accept their offerings. 

2:00: The three-headed triumvirate of DJ monster Cry Baby Hill is unleashing the music they have been eagerly curating for months. They start big and the crowd responds immediately. The area in front of the DJ booth is now an official bouncing problem. 

2:30: I yell at someone for breaking a bottle of tequila on the course. They are in the spirit world and don’t hear me. I tell their friends to get them out of here as the crowd helps me clean the course of glass. 

2:31: Someone in the crowd grabs me and pulls me out of the way at the last second, saving me from getting smeared. I was so busy cleaning the course I forgot about the race. 

3:00: The refs are now regularly grabbing people and pulling them off the course. A few people want to fight because they are intoxicated and we touched them but they are overwhelmed by the crowd or security before they can take a swing. I grab a woman and pull her out of harm’s way. She wants to make out. “No, thank you. Please move. I love you, too.” 

3:15: Someone passes out from the heat. It takes us ten minutes to get them help because we can’t find them. It is too crowded. It is hot and humid and insane on top of the hill. 

3:30: The music and crowd have become one giant, sweaty, jubilant, jumping organism. It’s exhausting. 

4:00: I am badly dehydrated. I am definitely buzzed. I can’t hear very well. My voice is shot. 

5:00: The last race begins but I don’t really know when until it’s blasting up the hill, nearly on top of us. We have reached peak Cry Baby Hill fervor. It is beyond our control. Most of security is actively pushing against the crowd in front of the DJ booth. People are barn dancing in the street. There are bodies EVERYWHERE. We have to get all these people behind the line in less than 30 seconds every single lap.
It is now officially insane. 

5:15: Racers are getting dropped from the main group and the crowd doesn’t realize it and wanders in front of them, making it impossible to pass. We give the dropped racers beer. We give them hugs. We give them water. They love us. We love them. Everyone loves each other. It is the best time to be alive. 

5:30: I am now part of the crowd. It is lawless. I have no idea how it is still working. The crowd gets out of the way just in time. I don’t know how it’s still working but it is. 

6:15: That’s it. Tulsa Tough is over. The last race is complete. Cry Baby Hill still has a few more song-and-dances left in her. She has quit her crying as we put her to bed for another year. I cannot speak. I am covered in glitter and smiles and dancing on top of a truck. 

6:30: We hand out bags to help clean up. Most people pitch in and the vast majority of the trash is picked up in ten minutes. 

6:45: I am a bit teary-eyed. I love it so much and it’s over and I already miss it. I talk to people and try to put together what I missed. 

7:00: “Let’s head to Soundpony,” I say. 

“I want to dance some more.” 

Author’s Note:
I dedicate this to my mom, Carol, who passed away on May 24. She loved Cry Baby Hill: the race, the people, the music and the fun. She will be there this year, too. She wouldn’t dare miss it. 

See you on the hill, mom. Love you.

For more from Andy, read his future headlines of 2016.