Marching band not for the faint of heart in the summer

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It’s hot this week.

Not just, “Whew, I’m feeling a bit toasty, let’s take a dip in the pool!” But more like a “Stop, drop and roll! Your shorts are igniting!” kind of heat.

And while we while away the Death Valley temperatures and Amazonian humidity in the relative comfort of our air-conditioned and fan-cooled homes, workplaces and Honda Civics, let’s take a moment to remember those not as fortunate as us.

The road construction workers who toil under blazing skies in their Sisyphean task to rebuild the ceaselessly decomposing Pennsylvania highways.

The pool and beach lifeguards, baking in their stands as they scan the waters, ever ready to end dangerous chicken fights or save a wandering toddler about to plop into the deep end.

Ride attendants at Hersheypark, protected from debilitating sunstroke by only the thinnest layer of umbrella fabric and a 32-ounce raspberry ICEE.

But above all others, let’s extend both sympathy and admiration in equal measure to the toughest competitors in the battle against boiling: The high-school marching band.

July and August are band camp months, and all across the state, teenagers will be sweating it out as the heat index hovers in the mid-90s. Cumberland Valley High School’s band camp began on Monday and will continue for two full weeks, with several 9 a.m. to 9 p.m. practices. The kids will be learning music, learning the marching patterns, and then practice, practice, practicing in preparation for the first football game in September.

Maybe you’ve never been in marching band. Maybe you think marching band is for unathletic kids, the kids who couldn’t make it as football players or cheerleaders. Maybe you think marching band is even a little “geeky.” (Or whatever word the kids are using for “geeky” these days.)

OK, buster, how about this:

On the hottest day of the year, head out to a blacktop parking lot and march around—backwards, forwards, sideways with your feet facing down field while the top half of your body is facing the audience—and now do this for several hours. Every so often, sprint. Now sprint in the other direction. Now backwards again! Now kneel!

Feeling a bit winded?

Now add a sousaphone. Or hang a gigantic drum around your neck.

Sorry, you can’t march on the cool, green football field. Too much marching on the field will ruin the cozy, soft grass for the football players.

You’ll do most of your practice on asphalt that’s hot enough to grill shish kebab. Around 2 p.m., your sneaker soles start making a sticky “thook!” sound as they melt a little with every step.

On the last day of last year’s band camp, the Cumberland Valley Marching Band performs their new show during a parent preview night. After the kids are done, the parents are invited to go down on the field and “shadow” their child during a small section of the show.

If your child is marching backwards, you march backwards. If your child does an abrupt stop, spins and changes direction, you stop, spin and change direction. If your child is marching double-time and weaving between trombones sliding and cymbals crashing, you have to weave, too.

At last year’s parent preview, I shadowed my clarinet player for about a minute on the field.

It felt like an hour.

Several times, I saw my life flash before my eyes as a flute took aim at my jugular or a trombone narrowly missed knocking me in the skull.

It was hard. Really hard. I stumbled. I sweated. I wasn’t even carrying a tuba.

When the minute was over, I bowed down before my teenage clarinetist, exhausted, and promised that if anyone ever made fun of her for playing in the marching band—called her a “geek” or “unathletic”—I’d personally deliver a knuckle sandwich.

Joining the marching band is like committing to a benevolent cult of well-tuned, ninja, Olympian Marines.

While you’re driving around in your comfy air-conditioned car this summer, why not swing by your local high school with a case of Gatorade or a few bottles of water? See the awesome for yourself. And then jump back into your car before your sneakers melt to the pavement and you get clobbered by a trombone.

This is no weather for mere mortals.