Growing up here, there was always tension between Bowdoin College and some of the residents — particularly the working class who viewed the campus as home of the spoiled and privileged. As a teen in town, life among the college crowd had it’s ups and downs as well.

On one hand, as a runner, I had access to Bowdoin’s tracks. Now, that’s a positive and a negative, depending on what season you’re talking about. In springtime, the outdoor track featured a rubber surface, perfectly marked and edged with an imposing grandstand looking out over the well manicured grass infield. It was a sheer pleasure to fly down the lanes powered by quarter-inch needle spikes.

The winter, however, was a different story. We were relegated to a building called The Cage. Picture that for a moment — a building called The Cage. It was a dark, dank building featuring a 110- meter round track — that was, after they lined the round dirt patch for the outer few lanes and the lines that crossed the middle for the 55 meter dash.

The sprint ended where the circular track began and beyond that, mattresses and springs were affixed to the wall. It was like Wile E. Coyote had been hired to engineer a proper arresting gear for sprinters. The mattresses were probably labeled Acme before being pummeled into submission by thousands of human crash landings in the perpetual dust cloud of The Cage.

Other teams would show up for meets with some athletes wearing paper dust masks or with bandanas tied around their mouths and noses. We took a modicum of pride in our hovel and the dust clouds forming around us like so many Pig Pens. We took it as a badge of honor how we were constantly blowing mud from our noses and hacking brown phlegm into the water fountains. It was awful, but it was home, and since we spent so much time there, we knew its quirks and dominated every competition.

The proud Bowdoin facilities made us feel special while we were using them but that’s where it ended.

This was back in the days of fraternities and with them, all the Animal House antics that came with them. I’ll admit there was some jealousy involved — hearing how many datable BHS girls were spending weekends in the lost drunken frenzy of rich guys with kegs and cars and far more interesting lives than yours. It was hard to compete with.

It’s really become interesting how, when students now get caught being — well, kids — there’s a collective outrage from the college community and some residents. Really, when you think about it, how do accusations of cultural appropriation compare to a half dozen or so local minors passed out on college property? I had a friend who woke up one Sunday under 30 or so coats.

The other thing that crept under our skin was the sheer audacity of these boy’s clubs. One afternoon, walking home from track practice in January, my friend and I were met with a barrage of hard packed snowballs from the balcony of the MacMillan House. In none too polite terms, I loudly challenged them to come down to street level before questioning their lineage in the rudest terms possible.

We returned that evening with about three dozen eggs in a gym bag. This was before everyone owned a power washer and it’s amazing how stubbornly frozen egg will adhere to brick. It was June before they were able to remove our handiwork.

Hang out in the right groups today and you’ll still feel a certain amount of derision toward Bowdoin. It remains viewed by many as the royal court of Brunswick — the land of degrees that are more talking pieces for the country club than job preparation. They love to look at the buildings and on the rare occasion, walk the campus but deep down, whether a remnant of the past or still perceptible vibe from the grounds themselves, they’re still viewed by many as pampered outsiders.

Since then, I’ve talked with Bowdoin students. I’ve worked with Bowdoin grads and felt all the misgivings of my youth disappear at these talented, bright individuals. The preconceived notions of spoiled wealth were replaced by the faces of ambitious and almost annoyingly positive young adults. I feel bad about it, really. Well, all but the retaliation for the snowballs. I’m still a little mad about that one.

Douglas McIntire is a writer and educator in the Midcoast. If you need something egged, drop him a line at [email protected].