Eagle Eye - Fall 2014

Tennessee Technological University

Fall 2014Free Per Single Copy

Brotherhood

Running FreeA hatred of running turns into the greatest freedom

One last night to celebrate life before returning to school.

Philmont AdventureBoy Scout trek:

100 miles in11 days

Battle, Not the WarHere today and gone tomorrow

2 | Eagle Eye

Contents...

Who We AreDesigners, Photojournalists

& WritersAlyssa AdkissonJared AndersonJordan BlairAllison BoshearsWhytnie ClemmerBen CravenDanielle DavisSarah DingwallDrake FenlonShane FoleyPhilip GantEmily HomanMark HortonArthur JacksonDillon JamesCaitlin JaredTravis JohnsonRachel KerrElissa LongfellowKimberly Manning

Dave McMinnRichard MosleyJordan PaceMatthew PhillipsTyler RandolphMegan SevereBrittany StovallSarah TateAnthony ThorntonAaron VickAdam WebbJessica WilsonLee WhiteheadSpencer WilliamsReanna YoungProfessors: Jon EzellBrenda WilsonRuss Witcher

2012 Best of the South Competition

Best College Magazine

2013 National SCJRunner-Up

“Magazine Overall Excellence”

Cover Photo, Cover Design, & Contents Page by SARAH DINGWALL

Copy Edited by SARAH TATE

On The CoverThe golden eagle statue atop Derryberry Hall has a sordid history. It was said to have been stolen by three students from the lawn of the burned-out Monteagle Hotel in Monteagle, Tennessee, in No-vember 1952. The hotel’s owner demanded its im-mediate return but eventually sold it to the Universi-ty for $500. It has graced the clock tower since 1961.

Pages 10-11

Brotherhood

Pages 8-9A-Z: More than a Pet

Store

Pages 12-13

Adventures in Metalworking

Pages 6-7Battle, Not

the War

Pages 4-5

PhilmontAdventure

Page 3Backstreet’s

Back, Alright!

Page 14Running

Free

Page 15

Talladega Torture

Backstreet’s Back, Story by ZACK WARFIELDLayout by SARAH DINGWALL & EMILY HOMAN

I patiently waited in the large, blackened room for the concert to begin, trying not to seem interested as my

mother screamed her lungs out. She wasn’t the only one, of course thousands of prepubescent girls and full-grown women were screaming so loudly my yells to my mother were coming out as a meek whisper. Then, the moment we had been waiting for, the already dim lights around the arena shut off, and A.J. sang, “Oh my God, we’re back again!”

The Backstreet Boys had finally made it to the stage. The deafness I thought I had felt prior was absolutely nothing compared to what was happening now. The piercing screams and shouts had combined and transformed into a single high-pitched ringing in my ears; it was almost like how they portray in movies when bombs go off and the protagonist is left partially deaf and bleeding from the ears.

The whole experience wasn’t in vain, though. I did get to listen to Shaggy, who was at the time put-ting several songs on the Billboard Top 100. He was who I had come to see even though I did own the Backstreet Boys’ CD as well.

The concert was my first, and for all intents and pur-poses was a complete stroke of luck for me. My mother’s friend had become sick, so the ticket was left to pass down to me.

“Ugh, I guess I can go see the Backstreet Boys,” I said as I tried to hide my excitement from my mother.

As macho as I tried to seem, my mom knew I did indeed own The Backstreet Boys’ CD because she had bought it for me, I was around eight years old; get off my back.

We made our way from small-town McEwen, Tenn., hitting I-40E to Nashville. This being the loss of my concert virginity, I decided to take it all in. The flicker of streetlights moving over my face almost seemed to welcome me as we sped down the road to find a park-ing spot. Luckily, we found a small lot near the Sommet Center (now the Bridgestone Arena).

We eagerly made our way to the building, thinking that because we had gotten there two hours early the line would not be too long - boy, were we wrong. The

line wrapped around the building and about a block down the road. Reluctantly, we trudged our way to the end of the ever-growing line. We passed several groups of hysterical girls and unimpressed fathers looking as if they were wishing they had drowned themselves at the nearest bar before arriving. Once the doors were opened, our wait in line quickly ended.

We arrived at the door and headed through security. My mom, being the woman who she is, had to stop and take photos of everything, including me. Finally, I persuaded her to stop and that she and I should use the

restrooms and get some food. “Food? From here? Zackery that

is way too expensive. That’s why I brought sandwiches,” I remember her saying.

Good ol’ mom to the rescue. We finally made it to our seats as

the lights were coming down for the opening show. The singer’s name was Crystal, and I don’t be-lieve she really deserves the title of a “One Hit Wonder.”

Other than her playing the piano quite well, I do not remember much of her set list.

Next to play was Shaggy, and he was the one I was most excited about. I knew what most of his songs were about, but being at the age of 8, fully grasping the con-cept of his songs was a little out of my reach.

He sang his big songs like “Angel,” “Wasn’t Me,” and “Boombastic.” The screams for him were not nearly as loud as for The Backstreet Boys if you can believe it.

While the Backstreet Boys were singing and sliding around on the stage like synchronized swimmers com-peting for the gold, my mother munched away on her sandwich happily as she hungrily stared at A.J., which I thought to be pretty dang gross.

The Backstreet Boys finished their set list and made their way off stage. My mom turned to me to thank me for coming with her, but all that emerged from her lips was the sound of Charlie Brown’s teacher. Luckily, I was able to read her lips and embraced her in a hug. She smiled that smile, and we set off into the night from whence we came.

“You know, they weren’t that bad,” I told my mom, rolling my eyes.

“Then, the moment we had been waiting for, the already dim lights around

the arena shut off, and A.J. sang, ‘Oh my God,

we’re back again!’”-Zack Warfield

Fall 2014 | 3

Alright!

PhilmontStory by BEN CRAVENPhotos by STEPHAN BUSH, DRAKE FENLON, BEN ORBAN, JIM PATTENLayout by CAITLIN JARED

Pictured are the team members of 718-Q1.4 | Eagle Eye Fall 2014 | 5

It was 5 a.m. and the cascading orange and purple sunrise was

beginning to creep over the horizon. My feet were sore and I was extremely tired, but none of it mattered in that moment. The second I stopped and saw that amazing sunrise, I knew that I was on one of the best trips of my life.

The summer between my sopho-more and junior years of high school was a special time in my life, because I had the opportunity to visit the world famous Boy Scout ranch, Philmont, in New Mexico. Scouts from all over the world come to New Mexico every sum-mer to experience the many exciting activities and vast backcountry that Philmont has to offer. My troop sent a crew there every two years, and 2007 was my turn to enjoy all of the things the older scouts in the troop were talking about.

From the time you first set foot onto the vast reservation at base camp until your crew methodically trudges back through tent city, it feels as if you are a part of a completely different world. The staff does such an amazing job of playing their part and immersing you in this new world that you hardly notice things are different. They liter-ally treat their job as if it is their entire life while at Philmont.

We started our trek with a day of gear checks, commissary trips, logistics meetings, an opening campfire and a night in the extensive grid of canvas known as tent city. This is where we got introduced to the 10-day experi-ence we were about to embark on. We were assigned a ranger who would teach us the day-to-day do’s and don’ts of New Mexican backcountry life for the first three days of our trek. We also learned, through presentations by the

“Philmont changed us that summer for the better, and we will never look back.”

-Ben Craven

staff, a bit more about what Philmont was all about. The next day, our crew set out from base camp and the fun truly began.

Every day was different from the last. They all included things like breakfast, breaking camp and hiking somewhere, but as soon as we set foot in a new camp, the show was on. One camp would have a lumberjack theme where we would go spar pole climbing or make railroad ties. Another camp would have an Old West feeling com-plete with root beer saloon and brand-ing station. We even had the pleasure of adding a donkey to our crew for a

few days. We named him Gomez.The biggest highlight of the trip

had to be Mount Baldy. It was the highest peak in all of Philmont and towered over the rest of the reservation at 12,441 feet above sea level. Our crew had a layover day in Ute Meadows, the camp at the base of the mountain. This gave us an entire day to tackle the intimidating 4,000 feet of mountain face before us and return to our camp. The day began with a hearty breakfast and a warm-up hike to the base of the mountain.

The climb was long, arduous, and before the end, the mountain face was so steep we were on our hands and knees reaching for the top. Some of us didn’t even think we would make it,

but as soon as we reached the peak and gazed at the awe inspiring 360 degree view of the ranch and surrounding states, we knew our suffering was worth it. I still remember, to this day, the feeling of wonder and togetherness our crew shared on top of that moun-tain. The hike down off the mountain was quiet as we were all busy reflecting on the spectacle we had just witnessed but could not believe.

The rest of the trek became a sort of trial for me. In the month before our trip to Philmont, my feet had outgrown my boots. Shortly after we conquered the mountain, the effects of my small boots began to show.Blisters and sores began to appear on my feet, and they were progressively hurting worse and worse. At first, it was some-thing I could ignore, and I almost had to, given that we were nowhere near civilization. However, the night before our return hike into base camp, my feet were on the verge of open-bleeding, and I wasn’t sure if I would make it.

The next morning, we woke up extremely early in an attempt to catch the sunrise from the top of Schaefers Peak. This was the morning I saw the most glorious sunrise of my life, and for that reason alone I had the determi-nation to finish out this journey on my own two feet.

When we stopped for lunch on the way down the mountain, I removed my boots to find a bloody mess which ended up increasing the pain in my feet by double. I did not care. I had just fin-ished an 11-day trek over 100 miles with my best friends in the world. Philmont changed us that summer for the better, and we will never look back.

Adventure

Tina Randolph, mother of Tyler Randolph, stands in front of the Statue of Liberty while on a ferry ride in New York City.

Battle, Not the WarStory & Photos by TYLER RANDOLPHLayout by SARAH DINGWALL

6 | Eagle Eye Fall 2014 | 7

Having been diagnosed with stage-four Melanoma skin cancer six months beforehand, my mother’s

health was rapidly fleeing from her.As my dad waited patiently to take me to school Friday

morning, I gave my mom a hug, kissed her cheek and told her I loved her, but she didn’t respond the way I anticipated.

Instead of having a smile come across her face while giving me a big mom-sized hug, like usual, dazed, she simply lifted her hand and touched my shoulder. As my father guided me to the truck, trying to comfort me with his hand rubbing my neck above my backpack, my mind was flooded and overwhelmed with questions and worries about the well-being of my mother.

As the school day progressed, I continued to think of my mom, asking myself if she would return to the joyous, ener-getic mother whom I had always known. Interrupting my third class of the day, the intercom signal rang. The secretary informed me that my father had to take my mom to the hos-pital and had arranged for a family friend to pick me up after school to take me to Nashville and meet my family there.

Since my mom had been diagnosed with cancer, good news came like a high school crush; it was here today and gone tomorrow. My countenance fell, knowing that the good news was no longer like a high school crush but a divorce; there seemed to be no hope of good news returning. It had left me. This time, permanently.

A few hours after school released, I arrived at the hospi-tal and made my way inside to see my mother.

Her hospital room was dark, the only visible light being from the sun coming through the blinds that peeked from behind the clouds.

After being greeted by my father, grandmother and un-cle, I made my way over to my moth-er’s bed, immediately grabbing her hand and praying, silently, that God would rescue her from this impossible situation.

The room was silent except for the beeping heart monitor connected to her chest. Usually, when I visited people in hospitals, the beeping was annoying to me, but today was differ-ent; it was the sound of hope, promise and desire.

Spending two nights in the Vanderbilt Cancer Center’s waiting room had interrupted my daily bathing routine. My skin felt dry and stale; my hair, oily, suffering from a bad case of bed head because of the constant twisting and turning in the slippery, unpleasant, vinyl chairs that littered the waiting room. I was in desperate need of a warm, soothing shower, not only to cleanse my body, but to revitalize my mind and emotions that had been in continuous turmoil and confusion since arriving at the hospital Friday afternoon.

Each morning, I would wake up wondering if my moth-

er had survived the night. Even though she had, things took a turn for the worse.

Hours passed as we assembled around her bed, silently pondering the good times we had with my mother.

While holding my mom’s hand, our hearts began to beat in unison; the peaceful, methodical beeping of the heart

monitor turned into the most horrify-ing, gut-wrenching, minor chord ever played. In shock, we stared at each other. Not knowing what to do, we pleaded with the doctors and nurses to fix the machine that was telling us my mother had no pulse even though the machine had performed its job perfectly. When reality sank in, blood-curling screams came from our

hearts, and tears flowed uncontrollably from our eyes.My mother, my best friend with whom I confided my

deepest secrets and most daring dreams, had taken her last breath.

As I started to regain my composure, I looked at my mother as she lay motionless with no signs of life coming from her body; I thanked God for blessing me with such a great mother. Even with His comfort, I, a 15-year-old boy, could not imagine what the following days, months and years would be like without my momma.

“I thanked God for blessing me with such a great mother.”

- Tyler Randolph

Tyler and his mom in New York City.

Tina and Mark Randolph posing with “the Statue of Liberty” in the Big Apple.

While most children spent their summers at home

slowly dying of boredom, I spent mine waist deep in the adventurous chaos of A-Z Pet & Supply. The business, which my mother owned for 20 years, was born long before I was; it undoubtedly shaped who I am as a person and my ability to adapt to a stressful situation.

The store occupied a modest por-tion of a shopping plaza in the heart of southern California, where well-to-do families are likely to spend as much on their beloved pets as they do their own children. If you walked the aisles, you would find anything and everything. Fish, snakes, dogs, cats, birds and even scorpions were just the tip of the ani-mal iceberg. Bags of premium, organic dog food sold for over $50 a pop, and they sold quickly.

If my mom knows about anything, it’s taking care of animals. Now that I am older, I realize this was the heart and soul of her small business and what kept it successful. Go to Petco and ask one of the teenage employees how to lower the pH of your exotic saltwater fish tank, and then admire the blank look on their face. This was never an issue at A-Z Pet & Supply; consumers are loyal to a business they trust.

Interesting things happened at the store. Some you would expect, and others that were an absolute shock. In 1998, a 5.1 magnitude earthquake violently shook the ground of peaceful Orange County in the middle of the night. For any normal store, this calam-ity would mean dislodged product on the floor that needed to be picked up

the next morning. However, ‘product’ in a pet store takes on a life of its own, especially if the tank it resides in is now shattered on the floor, and the snake/tarantula/lizard is free to explore the surroundings. The next 24 hours were spent in a relentless game of hide and seek. Team 1: employees, Team 2: animals.

Occasionally things happened in our little pet store that made the front page of the newspaper, and that will forever be burned into my memory. Banks, liquor stores and gas stations are all businesses that one might expect to be robbed at gunpoint. A pet

store, however, is not one of those plac-es. But it happened, and in an absolute-ly terrifying way that opened my young eyes to the evils of society.

As long as I live, I will never forget the silver colored, snubnosed revolver that stood inches away from my moth-er’s face. I will never forget the husky, bearded man whose white knuckles wrapped tightly around the black handle.

“Take out the entire drawer and put it in this bag. If you do that, every-thing will be fine,” said the gunman in

a voice entirely too calm for the situation.

My mother stared him directly in the eyes and did as he directed. It wasn’t until months lat-er that we both learned his calm demeanor came from experience. The man currently resides in a California state pris-on, enjoying food and healthcare courtesy of folks like you and me.

Eventually my ado-lescent self overcame the

fear of ever going back to the store, and life contin-ued as usual. A-Z Pet & Supply taught me a lot, not only about animals, but also life in general. I learned the value of hard work and the consuming effort it took to run your own business. I spent the summers sweeping the floor, cleaning the cages and bonding with animals I knew would soon find new homes.

All good things must someday

come to an end, and that was indeed the case for the family pet store. My parents divorced, and my mom tried to do everything by herself. It just wasn’t working, so she put the store up for sale. A nice lady from out of state pur-

chased it, and it stayed open for about a year before going out of business. Rumors were she had no clue what she was doing, and things just were not the same.

Looking back, I would not trade

my experiences there for anything. Things happen in your life for a reason, and growing up in that pet store is a perfect example of one of those des-tined things.

Story by TRAVIS JOHNSONPhoto by ELISSA LONGFELLOWLayout by KIMMY MANNING

“As long as I live I will never forget the silver snubnosed revolver that stood inches away from my mother’s face” - Travis Johnson

8 | Eagle Eye Fall 2014 | 9

A-Z: More than a Pet Store

Story & Layout by ADAM WEBBPhotos by HEIDI JEWELL

BrotherhoodCovered with sweat, beer and bruises, we waited

among the rest of the crowd, swaying back and forth like we were all auditioning for George A. Romero’s next movie. JEFF the Brotherhood was the next band to perform and the last of the night. We had just seen them a week ago, but they’re the only band that could make me get out of bed and go to this dirty basement in some guy’s house.

The venue was The “Other” Basement, not to be con-fused for the other dive across town that’s actually called the Basement. This place was some guy’s house, who lived a block from Belmont University. My friend Elias and I knew this would be the perfect place to part ways before we both went back to school after spring break.

The Other Basement was literally a basement. It was partially underground, had cinderblocks for walls and had stains on the concrete floor that I’m pretty sure were blood. The room was no bigger than a garage, with a

staircase taking up a quarter of it. The only light being emitted was from three black lights and a small bulb hanging from the ceiling over the stage area. Behind the stage was a stuffed deer head with glowing red eyes that could pierce your soul. A tire swing hung from the center beam of the ceiling, and I could not imagine someone sitting on that, let alone sitting on it in a tiny room filled with crusty kids.

The less-than-friendly décor didn’t matter once the show got going. The first band was just a blur of noise that I can’t remember anything about except that I leaned against the wall the entire set. The second band, King Tuff, was an odd concoction of surf rock and punk wrapped up in grungy snap back. They were fine, but they merely served as an appetizer for the main attrac-tion. The band everyone was there to see.

After the King Tuff set, Elias, our friend Kumatz and I sat outside watching all the older college kids drink their

sweet PBR and smoke their cigarettes, some smelling fouler than the others. The three of us sat on an old log waiting. We mostly filled the air with meaningless con-versation, hoping in the time it took for us to talk and for the other people to listen, JEFF would take the stage.

Elias and I were exhausted. We had just returned from a trip to North Carolina not five hours before this show was about to begin. All I wanted to do was stay at home and rest. But Elias assured me the show would be worth it. So far I was none too impressed. But after an hour of heaving and recovering our stamina, the three of us could hear the Orrall brothers begin to warm up their instruments, and in a rush of excitement, everyone ran inside.

For the first few sets people were filing in and out, small mosh pits tried to begin but rarely amounted to much, and the overall occupancy rounded out to about 50. Not for JEFF the Brotherhood though. More than 100 people crammed themselves into the basement and we three knew we were trading sweat with everyone within arm’s length. Once their warm-up was over the show began.

It was like horses being released on the racing track, people’s elbows were flying, half-full beer cans were hurling across the room, people were lifted above the crowd, inches from the nails holding the ceil-ing together. Elias, Kumatz and I were no different.

We pushed everyone and when they were to the point of falling over, they pushed back. JEFF was only two minutes into its first song when I could feel something lumpy underneath my shoes. I looked down to see Kumatz had fallen in the pit, and, being the friend I am, I went into the middle of the flailing elbows to save my friend.

I hoisted him by the collar shouting at the top of my lungs “You’re up!”

Making sure he wasn’t going to fall back in, I grabbed him by the arm and tossed him into a pit that was the size of the room.

JEFF’s guitar player retreated to the back wall as far as he could. The band was losing the battle for space and it was clear it was going to stay that way until its set was done.

By the time they had reached their third song every-one was heaving and kneeling over, some people had even started to lie down in the back corners. But the three of us pressed on and as JEFF began its song they were interrupted by the mosh unplugging the guitar from the amp. But being the drunk and exhausted crowd we were, we shouted the guitar part and let the drums continue the song.

By the time Jake Orrall had his amp back in order, the guitar screamed to life, and the tidal wave of people kicked into high gear.

The room was alive, lights had fallen down, the amp was cutting out, the drummer’s symbols were hanging on by their threads, but we kept at it, refusing to stop moving so long as the band kept playing.

Elias had said to me earlier he had always wanted to crowd surf, and I was determined to make his wish come true at this show. I grabbed Kumatz and we went underneath Elias and lifted him above everyone and sent him all the way around the room. Eventually he caught the rope of the tire swing and shouted and threw his fist in the air before swimming through everyone to get back to us. He gave us a big hug afterward and I could tell his night, as well as mine, had been made.

JEFF the Brotherhood fin-ished its set shortly after Elias’s conquest of the crowd. Every-one cleared the basement and went off to their next destina-tions. The three of us dragged ourselves to Elias’s car and sat there for what felt like hours.

We smelled like everyone’s sweat and drinks and unwashed clothes. But as I sat up in the

front seat and looked over to Elias and Kumatz, all I could see were exhausted smiles.

Even though we had to get back to the real world Monday, nothing was going to ruin this for us. Elias and I had just been to one JEFF show, the Atlantic Ocean and another JEFF show within seven days. We didn’t know when we would see each other next; he would stay in Nashville at Belmont and I would go back to Cookev-ille. But that night none of it mattered; we didn’t care about any of that. We were tired out of our minds, and had experienced a high that can only be defined with friendship.

JEFF the Brotherhood guitarist/singer, Jake Orrall lets the music take control of him during the band’s show at “The Other Base-ment” in Nashville.

Fall 2014 | 1110 | Eagle Eye

The rain had just begun to fall, and the droplets danced on the

old pickup’s windshield with a light pitter-patter. My friend Geoff was behind the wheel of a rusty 80’s-era blue Toyota pickup truck. I sat in the passenger seat as we listened to music through the crackling, ancient stereo. It was his first car, and he’d only been driving for about seven months.

We were chatting about something that wasn’t important. If it was im-portant, I would have remembered it. No, the crux of this memory happened about 12 seconds later.

We pulled up to a stop-light, ready to turn left. The sun shone through the rain and the sky, creating a phosphores-cent shimmer among the clouds. I’m sure a rainbow was just begin-ning to bloom somewhere not too far away. But not here. The crash is about 8 seconds away.

I remember laughing at something he said as the light turned green. I will never wish the suffering of owning one of those old pickups on anyone I know. The weight distribution of a pickup truck is disproportionately in the front of the vehicle, due to the bed of the truck not weighing much. However, in their infinite wisdom, the engineers who designed this particular Toyota had the truck run with rear-wheel-drive. This meant there wasn’t much weight on the driving wheels of the vehicle. This led the truck to struggle to maintain traction in wet conditions.

As it so happened, the new rain made the road extremely wet and slippery.

6 seconds.He started to pull out of the inter-

section, and I remember feeling a lurch

in the car. The rear wheels spun a bit as he’d given it a little too much gas. We were moving, but he didn’t seem to be in any form of control.

4 secondsHis laughter ceased almost imme-

diately. He jerked the wheel to the left in a futile attempt to regain control of the truck. As he did so, the bed of the truck slipped out to the right as we began to hydroplane. The truck slid like a sickening rollercoaster. Sudden-ly, being inside a ton of 1980’s steel and single-pane plate glass seemed like a losing proposition.

2 seconds from now I am more afraid than I have ever been in my life.

16 seconds ago we were laughing about something completely inconse-quential. It’s strange how drastically our emotions can change so quickly.

We careened directly toward a telephone pole. It must have appeared quite boring from the outside, really. We couldn’t have been going much faster than 20 miles per hour. From the inside, though, we may as well have been spinning out of control on a Formula 1 race track. We never yelled or screamed. Instead, there was an eerie silence inside the truck as neither of us knew how to stop what was coming but were not prepared to accept what was about to happen. At some point, the music had been turned off.

The silence was crunched away as the sickly, booming and unnatural sound of crushing metal and shatter-

ing glass enveloped and encased the vehicle. We had slammed passen-ger-side first into a telephone pole. Glass littered my lap and the inside of the truck. My shoulder strained against the seatbelt, and my stomach lurched heavily. My ears rang like church bells.

“....!” Geoff was speaking to me, but I couldn’t register what he was saying.

“Shane, shit, are you okay?” he yelled.

Surprisingly enough, I was physi-cally fine. Shaken up, of course, but no bodily harm was apparent.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay,” I managed to get out. “What about you?”

“I think I’m fine. Je-sus Christ...” he trailed off. I turned to my right and saw the telephone pole not seven inches behind me. The side of the truck

had wrapped itself around it slightly. I could have reached out the broken window and touched it. A few more inches forward and the telephone pole would have been directly on top of me.

We both quickly phoned our par-ents, who showed up within minutes. The police followed not far behind. Statements were collected, insurance companies were called and worried parents were calmed. I may have walked away from the accident phys-ically fine, but my mental state wasn’t so lucky.

I developed a deep fear of car acci-dents which manifested itself as being too terrified to get behind the wheel. It wasn’t until I was almost 18 years old that I first got my driver’s license. Even now, when I think about that accident, the hair on the back of my neck stands up, and I flinch away from the tele-phone pole that never comes.

Adventuresin

Metalworking

Fall 2014 | 1312 | Eagle Eye

Story by SHANE FOLEYPhoto by PHILIP GANTLayout by BRITTANY STOVALL

“Glass littered my lap and the inside of the truck. My shoulder strained against the seatbelt, and my

stomach lurched heavily.” - Shane Foley

Stop being a baby. People do this all the time. The 7-year-old boy in front of you is going to do it; so can

you. You will be glad you tried it.All of these thoughts were flying through my head as I

grabbed my helmet and paddle. I strapped on my lifejacket and listened to the instructor explain the do’s and don’ts of white water rafting.

I had never been so terrified in my life. I am usually the spontaneous one in my group of friends, but this was an exception. I had heard horror stories about white water rafting. I knew the risks.

The instructor explained that an experienced tour guide would be positioned on the back of the raft to talk us through everything. I prayed for a tour guide whose main goal was to keep everyone inside the boat.

Luck was not on my side.Our tour guide seemed

to be the rebel. His name was Tyler Dega (but we were en-couraged to call him Talladega because he liked to go fast). As soon as we met him, I knew I was in for the worst ride of my life. It did not help that everyone in my group wanted to go fast too.

“Go big or go home” was Talladega’s motto. The time had come. I took a deep breath and placed

my right foot snuggly into the tiny strap meant to keep me inside the raft. We slowly pushed the raft into the snappy waters of the Ocoee River.

Looking ahead, I saw what seemed to be a death trap. It was as though the rocks in the water had been strategically placed to create nasty currents that were waiting to take me under.

And so it began. We glided down the first few currents

with ease, and I’ll admit I was kind of enjoying myself. About five minutes into the ride, the look on Talladega’s face changed. He told us all to hold on tight and do exactly as he said. I could feel my heart begin to beat faster as the anxiety set in.

“Lean left!”“Paddle right!”“Faster, or we’re going down!”The Ocoee had won. I went flying into the treacherous

current and struggled to find air. As I was forced down the river, I could hear my friends yelling for me to swim toward them and grab their paddle.

That was a lot easier said than done.

I finally made it back into the boat, shocked and scared for my life. I felt a stinging pain in my left leg and there it was; the first sign of blood that day. By then, tears were streaming

down my face. All I wanted was to pull over and catch my breath.

But the Ocoee had no remorse. I held on for dear life, panting and doing my best to help

the group paddle. After falling out a few more times, losing both of my water shoes and scraping up a few more body parts, we had finally reached the end. I had never wanted to be on dry land as badly as I did then.

When we pulled the raft onto the shore, Talladega told me I was a real trooper and gave me the MVP award for the day. For a second, I felt like all of that misery was worth it, but only for a second.

He kept yelling “Go big or go home!” After two hours of pure torture, I definitely wanted to go home.

“Lean Left!Paddle Right!

Faster, or we’re going down!” -Tyler “Talladega” Dega

My legs hurt, but my feet hurt worse. I can hardly lift my arms to keep my body upright. I’m afraid to

turn off my music because I think my lungs may be collaps-ing, and I’m afraid of what I sound like. The road signs say I still have six miles left.

In January 2013, I was feeling self-conscious and fat. Fat from all those Christmas desserts and the ham that I was constantly having “just one more piece of.” My calorie load per day was about 4,000 and leggings were my pants of choice because nothing else fit. I was on Pinterest look-ing at all the clothes I couldn’t wear and decided to click the “Health and Fitness” tab. Usually models pop up with their pouty lips and perfect hair to make you want to punch someone, but today, it was different. I saw a tab that said “Half Marathon Training for Beginners.” I decided to give it a shot. After all, my mom always says, “I never saw a fat runner.” Can I just point out for a minute that I hated run-ning? I mean, hated. I didn’t understand how they honestly expected me to run one mile, let alone thirteen. I started my training at the local physical therapy gym with Clinton’s fin-est senior citizens. The beginning was miserable. You have sweat in your eyeballs, your feet hurt and you’re not quite sure if the people two treadmills down can hear you wheez-ing. Every run, you go a little bit farther or a little bit faster. You really question your sanity when one day, the distance on the treadmill reads ten miles.

The day came that I was scheduled to run the Covenant Health Knoxville Half Marathon. When I got there, I looked at the other 5,000 runners. One thing that shocked me was the huge spectrum of physical appearance of all the runners. Fat, skinny, short, tall, you name it, there was that type of runner with a bib on their chest. It seemed that dedication and hard work didn’t have a stereotypical look. You either wanted it or you didn’t.

The bad runners get to the back. Having a longer “ex-pected finish time” pretty much means you suck and get to the back. Long story short, I sucked so I got to the back. I looked around at my new friends that didn’t know they were my friends yet but I figured, “Hey, we’re in this together.” I felt like I was going to puke when the gun went off. The crowd shuffled toward the starting line and I could feel my-self dodging others and saw the serious runners shoot off up the first hill. That’s one huge obstacle I didn’t expect, hills.

As a novice runner, no one told me that the hills kick your ass. The worst part is not running up the hill, but run-ning down the hill as your muscles and gravity fight against you, and you try not to miss a step and end up in the ambu-lance. Small kids smile at you from the sidewalk and hold motivational signs saying “Ryan Gosling is waiting for you at the finish line.” He’s not, it’s a ploy.

Your adrenaline works for about eight miles of the race. You can see yourself at the finish line, and you feel on top of the world. The moment you think your body is shutting down, your mind starts to feel the same. Your self-esteem falls with every passing runner, and you start to doubt your-self. This is a paradigm of every runner. There will always be two minutes of your run where you question yourself. These questions test your character, and once you find the strength, you take one more drink of water and keep your feet moving.

As I rounded the final curve into Neyland Stadium and the crowd’s endless cheering hit my ears, I realized it wasn’t about the annoying hills or the pain in your back, it was about testing your character. When I wanted to walk, I thought of the endless hours on the treadmill I spent thinking about the finish line, the endless meals of Chinese I skipped and the demons I fought with one more mile.

I started to learn that the longer you run, the better you feel. Maybe not immediately, but running frees you. It makes you feel that whatever you’re going through, if you can conquer one more mile, you can conquer anything. If you can just keep your feet moving for ten more minutes, that problem that makes you sick at night suddenly seems to have a solution.

First you feel like you’re dying, then you feel reborn.

Story by ALLISON BOSHEARSPhoto by KELLY MILLS

Layout by DRAKE FENLON

RUNNING

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14 | Eagle Eye

Talladega TortureStory by JORDAN BLAIRPhoto by DAVE MCMINN

Layout by DRAKE FENLON

Fall 2014 | 15

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