There's a map for that

The advent of Garmins and TomToms has made the art of map-reading all but obsolete. Some might even argue—cough, Miss Teen South Carolina, cough—that the art of map-having is equally outmoded.

Much to the chagrin of cross-country runners across the…um…map, young America’s inability to comprehend basic cartographic concepts has led to countless moments of public embarrassment and disappointment.

In high school, we always arrived at cross country meets absurdly early, which gave us plenty of time to walk the course as a team and review confusing twists and turns. (It also gave me extra time to scope out the bathroom situation and look for “secret” toilets so I wouldn’t have to wait in line every time I had to go, which back then was about 25 times in the hour leading up to the start of the race.)

As we navigated each bend and curve, I always found myself making mental notes about various landmarks. Like: OK, remember to make a left at the big aspen tree with the yellow leaves. Or: Hang a hard right at the red tool shed.

Pretty soon, though, all of my directional breadcrumbs started to melt together. Wait a second—I would think—was it left or right after the stinky mud puddle?

Trying hard not to let my mounting panic show through, I would ask one of my coaches, as nonchalantly as possible, if I could borrow a copy of the course map—you know, just to go over everything one last time.

Then I would usually disappear to one of my previously-scouted secret bathrooms, where I would stare at the map for several minutes in a desperate attempt to make sense of the jumbled smattering of lines and arrows.








But alas, I knew it was to no avail. I could memorize the turn sequence all I wanted, knowing full well that in the heat of battle, all would be forgotten. Sometimes I even acronymed the dang thing. For example: (L)iberals (L)ove (R)epublican (L)eaders. But even my catchy-though-factually-inaccurate memory-joggers (ha!) were flushed from my brain as my leg muscles hogged the blood supply.

At the larger races, I could get away with following people the whole way, which took some of the pressure off. Plus, those courses tended to be fairly well-marked.

But at the smaller venues, the course markings consisted of a few directionally ambiguous arrows haphazardly spray painted on the ground. And during my last couple years of high school, there was always a good chance that I would be in the lead—which is how I earned the nickname “Wrong-Way Andrus.” (From my own father, no less.)

It is also how I ended up losing a divisional title to one of my biggest high-school rivals. Out of all my racing heartbreaks, that’s the one I still haven’t quite gotten over. It’s like a cross-country-themed version of the music video for U2’s “Stuck in a Moment.”

Anyway, I’m not exactly sure what the moral of the story is. Pay attention in geography class? Stuff a Garmin in your sports bra? Stop listening to U2 (which you really shouldn’t have been doing in the first place)?

I don’t know. Maybe I should ask Miss Teen South Carolina.