I'm not a bumper-sticker kind of gal, but I recently slapped one on my car that reads, "Well-behaved Women Seldom Make History."

It's a kind of pre-apology for the ruckus I might cause as I go about trying to make a difference. And it presupposes that it takes a little chutzpa to do so. It takes a little risk and sometimes, it takes a crazy idea.

About 15 years ago, Duncan Gray, the band director for Johnson C. Smith University in Charlotte, asked me to help him raise $200,000 to send the band to Spain for an international competition. Duncan and I were friends, having met when I first booked the band for major events.

I still don't know why I accepted the challenge -- even though the band has a great following, that's a lot of money to raise. I put together a committee and we set about cajoling people to donate. Six months out, we still had only $50,000 and no strong prospects. I was desperate. I knew we needed to take drastic steps to get the word out about our needs.

To get publicity, I decided we would break the Guinness Book of World Records for the longest musical march. It was a crazy idea, and not well-thought-out. When Duncan agreed, I had not only jumped off a cliff, but I had taken about 120 people with me.

The undertaking was staggering, even by Tribble Creative Group standards. The standing record was 42 miles. We set our goal at 43 -- nearly twice the length of a marathon! We mapped out a route which stretched from the J.C.S.U. campus to the southern end of South Boulevard and back. We lined up sponsors to host our official stops -- the Family Dollar on Central Avenue, the Bojangles on South Boulevard, the Foot Locker at Midtown Square. Getting police approval for the march turned out to be the most challenging undertaking; it took a personal plea to then-Mayor Richard Vinroot to make it happen. I arranged for Charlotte dignitaries to be honorary drum majors at stops along the way. Our plan was to step off at 6:00 A.M. and, if all went well, to arrive back on campus well before dark.

The rules were simple: Musical instruments had to be played continuously. Breaks of 5 minutes per hour were allowed, in addition to three 30-minute stops. In order to qualify, we had to end with 15% of the original marchers, or about 18 kids.

I would ride in the lead police car, while the band would be followed by a bus for stragglers, a van full of soft drinks and a final police car. With all the plans set, we were ready to march. Never in my wildest dreams had I envisioned what a difficult day it would turn out to be.

Early on, the physical challenge of the day overwhelmed me. Imagine walking two marathons on a hot July day, with a tuba on your back. We figured they'd be the first to go. I placed most of my hope on the piccolo players.

By our first break at 10:30 in the morning, the band was already dead tired. We stopped at the Family Dollar parking lot for about 30 minutes. Not a soul was around, save a few family members rooting us on and a few media representatives. Our spirits were already deflating, with miles and miles to go.

The next stop was mid-afternoon at Bojangles. By the time we got there, we had turned into quite a sensation -- it seemed several radio and television stations were reporting our progress live. As we stumbled into the parking lot, nearly 100 people were there to cheer us on. It provided us with the will and energy to carry on.

By 8:00 P.M., I realized we were in trouble. We were just then pulling up to Midtown Square for our last official break, with 8 miles still ahead. We were going slow and losing band members right and left. Darkness was nearing and we realized we'd have to finish out the last miles on campus rather than in the dark streets of Charlotte. As we marched into the mall, even the hundreds of fans couldn't rouse our spirits.

I sat in the food court, watching the exhausted, dejected students and wished I had never come up with this ridiculous idea. We were down to about 25 marchers now and I began to worry about their health and safety. I'm sure the kids were thinking that I was a crazy lady.

The cheers from earlier stops were gone. The chatter between band members had quieted to a hush. Even the passing shoppers stopped talking, as if their energy had been drained by our presence.

Then, from the middle of this silence came a lone voice. "We shall overcome..." And another joined in. "We shall overcome..." And another, and another, until even the shoppers were singing this song of triumph set amidst such despair. My tears and those of others became the fuel for the continuing march.

We rallied and headed toward Beatties Ford Road and the safety of campus. As the road curved around near the college, chills ran up my spine. There, along the roadside in the mile leading to the school, thousands of people lined the streets with signs and banners cheering us on! Students, neighbors and family members clogged the sidewalks as we circled the campus another 20 times to make our mileage.

We were down to our last 18 marchers by then. One girl was so tired, her mother and best friend practically carried her along. Frightened for her health, I begged her to quit. "I can't Ms. Tribble, she said, "I'm one of the 18."

By now, one of the officers was broadcasting encouraging words from his car. The rest of the band members who had been riding in the bus got out and joined the 18 marchers for the last couple of miles.

When we crossed that finish line, the band members were near collapse. But instead of falling to their knees, they stood at attention and waited. As was tradition, the drum major blew his whistle, the drummers delivered a rousing cadence and the band members snapped their heels and shouted in full regard, J - C - S - U!

I had never been so proud of a moment in all my life.

That event didn't change the world. But it changed some lives, including mine. Those students didn't know what strength and commitment was until they marched across that finish line. I remember, when recounting what that day had meant to me at their senior banquet the following year, seeing tears in the eyes of the ones who had been there; who were willing to defy the odds, take a risk and believe in an idea.

This story has two sad endings and one unforgettable one.  First, we only raised $120,000; not enough for the Spain trip. Second, a band in Ireland marched 45 miles the following month, so we didn't get in the Guinness Book of World Records.  Instead of a trip and international notoriety, they got new uniforms and the story of a lifetime.