I awoke at dawn to the faint whispers of Poseidon luring me to his domain. I quickly slipped into my bathing suit and made my way down the wooded path to the shores of the Hellespont. Apollo, in his golden chariot, was just emerging from beneath the horizon, scattering his rays of gold, salmon, and violet upon the earth. As I swam out towards Apollo’s light, I thought of Henry Schliemann’s early morning swims during his excavations at Troy. Today I would make my own excavations. In the distance I could see the monument erected to the Australian, British, French, and New Zealand, and Turkish soldiers who had lost their lives at the Battle of Gallipoli in World War I. Only a few miles down the shore was Troy, where Akhaian and Trojan soldiers had perished in the historic battle for Menelaos’ precious Helen. Here I was, bathing in the clear blue waters once reddened by the blood of so many soldiers. The waters of the Aegean had cleansed and purified them in their last rites before death. Now these waters cleansed me.
Later that morning, I mounted the Arete West chariot (a Volkswagen van) along with nine other members who had been selected for this adventure. We drove to Troy, silently anticipating the climax of our nine months of preparation. All of us had read and studied the Iliad together; now our imaginations were whirling with visions of Helen, Hektor, Odysseus, Akhilleus, Paris, Agaménon, and the gods of Mount Olympus. When we arrived, instead of driving directly to the site, our chariot sped over a dirt road through the farmlands on the outskirts of Troy. These farmlands, once the battlefields of Troy, no longer witness the powerful loins of the famed warriors, but rather the withered Turkish farmers, leisurely leading their cows to graze. From these fields, we could see the remains of a once flourishing city, and here, according to Greek tradition, we would pay tribute to a Trojan hero – not Hektor – but Max Truex, a USC Trojan.
Our philosopher-coach had enlightened us with his stories of Max Truex’s epic life. He was a 5’5’’ blonde cherub whom “Athêna had blessed with speed.” He became the national high school mile champion and the number one runner on the USC team. Our coach had been his teammate. Max went on to compete in the 1960 Olympic Games in Rome, finishing sixth in the 10,000 meter race – the first American to place since 1920. While Max was victorious in this race, he was soon to meet a different kind of competitor. He was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease ten years ago; this battle was a long and formidable marathon. His determination to run equaled his determination to live, but this time, he was not able to overcome his undefeatable opponent. In February, he ran his last mile. On these battlegrounds, we brought this Trojan home.
We celebrated his homecoming with traditional Greek funeral games. Our track team raced along the dirt road where the Akhaians and Trojans had once battled for Helen. As I ran, I was infused with Max’s spirit, which gave me strength. We chose a site beneath an olive tree for his funeral mound and placed an Arete West ’91 t-shirt upon it. Each one of us collected stones and placed them upon the shirt, gradually building Max’s funeral pyre. We maidens gathered red poppies and arranged them on our hero’s mound while Mozart’s “Requiem” played from our chariot’s stereo, and we read Hékubê’s and Helen’s eulogies for Hektor from the Iliad. We wept for our Hektor and prayed that Apollo and Aphroditê would protect this Trojan’s mound as they had once protected Hektor’s body from “the ravages of stray dogs and the heat.”
Now when I run, I do not pray to the grey-eyed goddess, but rather to the 5’5’’ blonde cherub. From his epic marathon, I can see that life’s race is not about winning but simply running. And when people inquire about my adventure and ask, “Have you traveled through Troy?” I simply say, “No, Troy has traveled through me.”