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.
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