In the Pink

The Race: The inaugural Queen of the Hill Women's Triathlon, Mullica Hill, NJ
The Distances: 1/4 mile swim, 10 mile bike, 5k run
Best quote from an official: "You ladies all know how to swim, right?"

You might think that this being their first time organizing a race and all, the ladies of the Mullica Hill tri club might keep it simple. Stick to the basics. And you'd be so wrong.

A couple minutes after the trumpet player serenaded us at the swim start with the Rocky theme, three planes soared over the lake in a military salute. The post-race party included a tower of mini pink-frosted cupcakes, topped with candy high heels, purses and other edible decorations.* At the award ceremony, the winner was provided with a robe and tiara, and a special throne to sit in while she was showered with victory champagne. Second and third place ("the Queen's Court") received flowers and sashes. Just like Miss America!

In between all that fun, of course, there was a race.

I rolled my bike into transition and through a sea of hot-pink singlets--the Mullica Hill Women's Tri Club, many of whom would be contesting their first-ever triathlon. I was immediately buoyed by their energy and enthusiasm--and by the realization that not a soul here would care that my handlebar wrap was secured with duct tape.

I assure you, Mr. Gilman, that I took a personal
interest in respecting my comrades.

The swim venue, Lake Gilman, was a feat of endurance in and of itself. "This used to be a forest," an elderly gentleman volunteer told me. "Miles Gilman chopped down all the trees by hand." Sadly, the lake's creator is no longer living, but he left his word behind for us to enjoy.

I also took a personal interest in the mirror beside
the Porta Potty.

You may now feel free to address me as Courtesan.

The bike and run took place on the type of scenic farm roads that Jersey is should be known for.

All in all, it was a successful day. The sun shone brightly. Money was raised for ovarian cancer. A bunch of women accomplished something they'd never done before. And when the last athlete finished, there were still some cupcakes left.**

*You just don't get that at a co-ed tri.
**A phenomenon also unique to women's tris.

Science Proves I'm Not a Freak

On May 14, 1607, a group of 104 men and boys landed on an island in Virginia’s Tidewater region, to establish a new British colony. By January, no more than 40 settlers remained. Many colonists had died of disease. Turns out they’d built their fort on a mosquito-ridden swamp.

Each fall, thousands of people continue to colonize this swamp. They are called college freshman, and some time ago, I was one of them. Of course, swamp living has come a long way since the 17th century, for we now have modern conveniences such as mosquito repellent and snow cones. And air conditioning, should your university choose to provide it.

Mine didn’t.

My freshman roommate and I were bemoaning this fact on one particularly stifling August night, as we attempted to go to sleep in our extra-long twin beds. Unfortunately, the only thing in our 10x11 cell that wasn’t sweating, burning, melting or wilting was the frosty six-pack of soda* in our mini-fridge.

And that, my friends, was the night I first tried (sleeping with) Coke. 

With the help of a few strategically placed cans, we were soon both off to dreamland. But when we shared our amazing brilliance with our hall mates the next morning, the universal reaction was something along the lines of  “You guys are weird.”

A decade later, however, some scientists at the University of Pittsburgh have discovered that we were on to something. It seems that when insomnia patients were given a special cooling cap set to 57 degrees, they slept more restoratively.

The results are preliminary (i.e. not peer-reviewed) and the cap is not yet on the market, but in the meantime, my colleagues over at Rodale.com have come up with some more practical ways to cool your head.

Still, never underestimate the power of a cold Coke in the armpit.

*No, seriously, it was.

Skirtical Mass

I’ve never been one for biking in a skirt. 

Actually that’s not true. I ride in skirts when the situation requires it, such as when I have a sudden and uncontrollable need for a 3 p.m. mocha . But I've never gone out of my way to purposely ride in one, or purchased a skirt specifically for biking. They look perfectly cute on other women, it's just not my thing. Shorts are more comfortable; also, I came of age at a time when Sir Mix a Lot was telling us that his "anaconda don't want none unless you've got buns, hun"* and wedding-goers everywhere were “Doin’ Da Butt”—“all night long.” Backsides were for shaking, not for draping.

My feelings changed, however, once I found out that skirt-pedaling might be a naughty (and therefore fun) activity: An NYPD officer allegedly threatened to ticket 31-year-old Dutch tourist Jasmijn Rijcken for doing just that. (Somewhere, someplace, the suffragettes who fought for our right to ride to the polls in pants are very confused.)

So the next time I ride in Manhattan, I might have to sport my mini in solidarity. And if I could be there tomorrow, I’d join the Short Skirt Celebration Ride.

*Plus a lot of other things we didn’t need to know about him.

A Dose of Perspective...and Funnel Cake

Okay, so I can't speak from experience on either count. But I'm reasonably certain that while being (incorrectly) deemed ineligible to run in the NCAA championships would be frustrating, and even heartbreaking, it is not, in fact, comparable to being "put on death row wrongfully."

(And I'm definitely glad I didn't have to give race interviews in the era of Web 2.0, or whatever number we're up to these days. It could have been far worse, of course--if you didn't catch the news back in February, just Google "Justin Bieber" and "Rolling Stone".)

Honestly though, college athletes and follicularly gifted pop stars aren't the only ones who could use a reality check once in awhile. Remember the last time you bonked?

Whether you'd been rolling with the fast group, or--ahem--simply set out without having any clue how long that route you'd mapped in your head really was, the result was probably the same: By the time you made it home, you'd plunged way, way down the rabbit hole.

You weren't thinking about how lucky you were that a bonk was the worst of your problems. Instead, you may have asked yourself, "Will I ever feel my legs again? Why is that bush talking to me?" Will anything ever again be right in the world?

There's only one thing to do in those circumstances (besides tell the forsythia to shut it): Bring in the jalebi.

Jalebi, which is said to have originated in Iran and is also known as Middle Eastern funnel cake, is a carbtastic treat that consists of deep-fried dough coated in sugar syrup. Unlike American funnel cake, its texture is more crunchy than doughy--sort of like eating sweetened onion rings, but without the onion. (That's a good thing.)

Today's bonk was remedied by Aria Mediterranean Cuisine in Swarthmore, PA.

And there you have it: Crisis averted. And while we're on the subject of fried foods, Happy National Doughnut Day! 

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.