Costumes

Racers,

I feel the need to address the concept of costume. Many, including my own, at times, border on being nondescript. In the colder weather, although necessary, long pants lack. Black lacks. Tan lacks. For one race, I did manage a splash of panty color with a multi-hued speedo over my aging black tights, to hold them up. The speedo also kept up my spirits over the course of the 12 hours on the steeps of southeastern Ohio. The NSF boys beat me up on the course, but did not offer a costume award. (My partner, Rob, did win a door prize, and his jacket was at least a sort of gold/orange.)

For a multi-faceted adventure race, the costume is extremely important because of the various situations: wheels, water, woods, boats, rocks, foliage. At times, the proper costume can bring the environment right out of the crapper (e.g. gray road, gray day . . . floral costume, Voila!) Remember, it is not uncommon to lose a drably hued partner due to invisibility. When going solo, it is even more important to punch up your outfit or you run the risk of losing yourself during the race -- getting confused about your existence. Once, during an 18 hour Mission race put on by DINO in Indiana, I lost two hours, thoroughly believing I was a maple tree, waiting in stillness to be tapped for my sap. Someone actually did tap me and I almost crapped in my trunk, but I did get the message. Still, I had a hell of a time pulling myself free from my roots and then heading on to the next C.P.

A secondary issue is the practicality of costume. Irritating seams go on the outside. Bicycle padding should be minimal. I've made several mistakes in the padding department. At one point, my favorite pair of shorts was falling apart. The pad was coming loose and grinding its way toward tenders and bones, so I did a practice run in a finely tuned red pair. Alas, the run was not a long enough test. During the race I was rubbing raw what little I possess in the privacy department. That night after the race, a cold hose shower with what must have been muriatic acid instead of soap brought me to gasps and shrieks and fits of insane laughter. I slept little for days upon days.

My worst occurred during a triathlon turned duathlon. The great Ohio River was too polluted to swim. (It's actually been scientifically proven that after Cincinnati's yearly Paddlefest the paddle blades are 6% smaller and have ragged edges.) I had been inspired by a past duathlon where the winner was wearing a slick bib short, finishing the race as I was starting the second run less than a week behind him. So, for the du, I wore this low end bib that had a pad designed for pole sitting or bronco riding or attempting to fool the world as to one's personal endowment. I truly noticed irritation early in the second run. By the finish I had lost 12% body mass due to erosion, however, my tears turned to joy when I realized I had taken 2nd in my age group. I was fairly certain there were only two of us 55-59 years old, but, by gum, I earned it. I felt good enough to ignore the custom of costume change after performance. That night was very bad. I whimpered as I showered. I knew not what to do. I walked as if I had ridden the Fiery Horse From Hell for One Thousand Miles. The next night, after more symptoms had set in, my partner, Katy, and I went into crying fits of laughter as my tiny weenis had morphed into an Amanita Muscaria, a fairly poisonous but supposedly hallucinogenic mushroom. Folklore says that ancient tribesmen (being men of course) would force their women to eat the panic button-like Amanita Muscaria, whereupon they would get sick as dogs. Then the men would drink the women's urine to attain a high beyond the mountains and skies. I aligned with the women who got the very short straw in this deal, but for a week or two, Katy and I did have nightly fits of merriment over my mutant member and his feisty little brothers. Remember your essence.

The One Who Strives for Mediocrity