Be Nice Out There

The leaves are on the trees and Magnum bars are on special at the Giant, which can mean only one thing: Triathlon season is upon us. Whether you’re signed up for your first tri this summer or your fiftieth, here are some etiquette tips to help the season go smoothly.

For tri-vets:

1. We all know that certain types of races cater to riders who don’t know how to use hand signals, and have trouble telling their right from their left (as in, stay to the right, pass to the left). It is perfectly okay not to want to race with those people— contrary to what the nuns may have told you, self-preservation is not a sin. However, it is NOT okay to sign up for the First-Timers’ Follies Triathlon and then complain about the presence of such riders. That’s like showing up at Jack-in-the-Box and throwing a tantrum because they don’t have filet mignon.

2. Women are taking up triathlon in record numbers these days (go us!) and the number of all-female races is also rapidly growing. If the whole girl-power thing isn’t for you, that’s cool, but please don’t sign up for a race with the words “diamond” or “diva” in the name and then act shocked when you show up to find  people laughing and hugging and waving glittery unicorn posters—you know, having fun. (Yes, that bubblegum-pink registration page should have been a tip-off.)

3. If you must express your displeasure about either of the above situations, it’s in your best interest not to do so in the Potty Queen line. Believe it or not, there’s probably someone faster than you within earshot. And mean people are more fun to beat than nice people.

4. Don’t take more than your share at the post-race buffet-- those yet to finish need to eat, too. In fact, they may need more food than you, because they were out there longer. Many races will let you come back through the line later if there’s leftover grub.

For beginners:

1. Before you set up your gear in transition, make sure you’re clear on the number of bikes your race allows on each rack. If you put your bike on a rack that’s already full, you risk getting everyone on that rack disqualified with you. (Awkward!)

2. Stay. To. The. Right. Ninety percent of the ill will between experienced and new triathletes could be avoided if people followed this one simple rule on the bike and run courses. For one thing, it’s safer: Don’t assume just because someone has great legs or a fancy ride that he also possesses the handling skills to weave around you. Plus, if the referee sees you in someone’s way, you could get a time penalty for blocking.

3. The vast majority of people who offer you advice mean well, even if the delivery leaves something to be desired. If I tell you that your helmet’s on backwards, I promise I’m not trying to embarrass you. It’s just that the little girl in your arms is adorable, and I’m pretty sure she wants you to be around to see her grow up.   

For everyone:

1. While your rack-mates in transition are indeed your competition, they are not the enemy. Smile and say hi.  Besides, you may end up having to borrow someone else’s pump.

2.  It is generally in poor taste to complain when a tri becomes a du—especially when someone died on the course the previous week. Remember that the race director doesn’t want to deal with your whining any more than you want to run an extra 5K – if the swim is canceled there’s a good reason.

3. Depending on the weather conditions, volunteering can be as physically demanding as racing—and you don’t get a medal or the benefit of an endorphin rush. Make sure to thank those who gave their time so you could enjoy the big day.

Saved by the Shorts

Over the years I've encountered no small number of athletes who are reluctant to race because they're afraid their results will be embarrassingly slow. I have to say that's never been one of my worries -- because I usually succeed in humiliating myself long before I've crossed the finish line. Such was the case at my local training 5k this past Wednesday.

Everything was going according to plan: I'd parked a mile away from the race venue, dropped my car key into my shorts pocket, jogged along a beautiful wooded rec path to the registration table, visited the Porta-Potti, and begun to loosen up. I was leaning into a hamstring stretch, my right foot resting on a cement wall, when I realized that I couldn't feel my key digging into my hip bone.  I quickly hopped down and reached into my pocket. Empty.

My thoughts over the next moments can best be summed up as: OMG/lockedout/letmeretracemysteps/EWEWEWEWNOOOOOOO!

As I walked back toward the toilets, I tried to decide which would be worse--finding the key inside, or not finding it, and knowing I had over a mile of ground to cover. I was soon distracted, however, by an uncomfortable sensation between my legs. I was being poked, and not in a fun Facebookish way.

The good/bad news was, my key wasn't floating in raw sewage. It was sitting safely in the crotch of my shorts liner.

Hoping to take care of this situation as discreetly as possible, I scanned the wholesome scene in front of me: Puppies and toddlers pranced joyfully among the clover. New moms with impossibly ripped biceps presided over jogging strollers. Elderly couples shuffled through their evening constitutional. Most importantly, the nearest privacy foliage was a good 75 yards away.

I quickly realized that there is no socially acceptable way for a woman to access the inside of her running shorts in public.* Reaching down the front was an obvious don't. A stealth faux wedgie pick might go largely unnoticed...until the key was dislodged of course, upon which the following conversation would no doubt take place:

"Daddy, why does that lady keep things in her underwear?"
"Sweetie, I told you it's not nice to...hey, look, a puppy!"

Naturally, I was convinced all eyes were upon me as I gingerly waddled back into the Porta-Potti that I'd exited all of 60 seconds ago. Upon emerging, I double-knotted the key onto my shoelace--which, yes, is what I should have done in the first place. There's a reason race directors don't instruct you to stash timing chips in your shorts.**

I'd like to think that this will be my last bonehead move for a while. And now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go duct-tape some handlebar wrap.

*Actually, guys, it's not really cool when you do it either.
**In fact, there are probably several reasons.

Tina Fey Wants You to Wear Your Bike Helmet

Ever since Mean Girls came out, I've been a huge fan of Tina Fey. In addition to giving us Liz Lemon and Fake Sarah Palin, she's proven that kids from Delaware County, PA can become famous when they grow up--without suing Donald Duck or  marrying a Dixie Chick.

If you've browsed through any magazines lately, you may have noticed that Ms. Fey appears on the cover of a lot of them. This is because she's promoting her new book, Bossypants*, and it does not disappoint. In between the tales of working with people who pee in jars and eating lunch at Roy Rogers**, there's this gem, from a chapter about her honeymoon cruise:

"We will ride our bikes around the island with a guide to a special secluded beach where we can swim and have rum swizzles...sounds pretty good, right?*** That's what I thought too. I wouldn't shut up about it. For weeks before we left I bragged about how I had chosen the best excursion. It was fitness and fun combined!"

Soon, however, there's trouble in paradise:

"A quick check of our itinerary reveals the heartbreaking truth. The bike trip was yesterday. In my excitement, I memorized it wrong. I cry. I cry like a three year old who just wants to take her toy cash register into the bathtub."

I have no idea whether Fey considers herself a cyclist, but clearly, the lady's got potential.

Bossypants is full of good advice: make statements, not questions; don't eat diet foods in meetings. But the most important lesson of all might come from Gregory, who belonged to the Chicago-area YMCA where Fey worked after college. Here's his life story:

"'I used to be an accountant. I had a lovely wife and family. I had a big house. One day I had to go to the store, but my wife had the car. I took my bike, but I didn't wear a helmet. I got hit by a truck. I suffered a head injury. I still have difficulty walking. I lost everything. My wife left me. I lost my job. So when you ride your bike, think of me and always wear a helmet.'"

Fey goes on to explain that the accident had robbed Gregory of his short-term memory, so he would tell that story every time he met someone. Sometimes three times a day. To the same person.

There are a lot of people in this world who will tell you to wear a bike helmet--police officers; bearded bike advocates in Day-Glo vests; your mother. But if you didn't listen to them, maybe you'll listen to Gregory.

*Otherwise known as "that book with the hairy man-arms on the cover."
**I know--I thought they'd all gone out of business too. But the curly fry lives. It LIVES!
***It most certainly does.