Welcome to the real world (now get yourself some real pants)

I will never forget the day I received my team-issued sweats from my college equipment room.

They were thick and fuzzy and perfect in every way. I loved them.

As a freshman, my sweats didn’t get a whole lot of use, mostly due to the fact that I actually cared about my appearance that year. I spent a considerable amount time picking out outfits and fixing my hair before class. When it became apparent that I was never going to be asked out on a date—because “dating,” in the traditional sense, is the furthest thing from the minds of freshman boys (at least that's what I told myself, although it is entirely possible that I'm just not that attractive)—I dramatically reduced the effort I put into looking cute. My ensemble of choice gradually devolved into jeans and nice T-shirts, then jeans and grungy T-shirts, and finally, grungy sweats and grungy T-shirts.

I would estimate that I wore workout clothes to approximately 80 percent of my class sessions over the course of my college career. I justified my fashion choices with the fact that (a) I was always rushing from class to practice and vice-versa, and (b) I was saving money on laundry by not changing clothes multiple times a day. In terms of pure economic efficiency, I was golden.

The problem is, my clothing habits greatly compromised my perspective on what is and is not appropriate attire in a professional setting. So when I graduated and landed my first grown-up job, I was shocked to learn that tights and hoodies did not meet the standards set forth by the company dress code.

So, for the past several months, I have endured long hours in unforgiving dress pants and itchy blouses. When I get home, I can’t wait to change into gym clothes. Also, I’m pretty sure I now understand what spawned the idea for the tuxedo T-shirt.

I have somehow managed not to mix my work wardrobe with my workout wardrobe. (Interesting, isn’t it, that “work” forms the first half of the compound word “workout?” Just saying.)

The other day, however, I was faced with a dilemma. I was asked to attend an impromptu meeting at a company where I work as a freelancer. I agreed, knowing full well that I would have to go straight from the office to track practice.

Since I was running with the team that day, I put on my tights, T-shirt and half-zip pullover—just like I would any other day.

On my way out the door, I looked in the mirror. What I saw wasn’t exactly the picture of professionalism.

Oh well, I’ll just explain that I’m on my way to practice. They’ll understand.

But as I reached for the doorknob, I started having second thoughts.

I don’t want to embarrass myself, or my boss. But what, exactly, is so embarrassing about exercising? I mean, if it’s acceptable for adults to wear overalls in public—seriously, I saw a full-grown man in a pair of bibs at Walmart last week—then why can’t I wear running gear to a quick employee powwow?

I hemmed and hawed over what to do for a good 30 seconds before finally coming up with a compromise. I would wear real pants over my running pants and then do a quick-change in the car before practice. Problem solved.

By the time I arrived at the office, my legs were sweating profusely, and the odd sensation of wearing double layers made my gait stiff and rigid, like I really needed to go to the bathroom but was trying to hold it in.

This must be what it feels like to wear Spanx on a daily basis. Christ, I’d rather just do a few lunges and some sit-ups!

Suddenly, I felt incredibly guilty about all of the times I dissed Kirstie Alley for lying about being a size 6. Having to wear spandex compression layers underneath every outfit is punishment enough for her blatant dishonesty.

I powered through the meeting, resisting the urge to rip off my pants right then and there. I knew for certain that such an outburst would definitely embarrass my boss, and as a result I would definitely get fired.

When the meeting was finally over, I sped over to the track and grabbed the closest parking spot I could find.

I immediately recognized a huge problem standing in the way of my execution of The Plan. School had just gotten out, and as such, the parking lot was crawling with loud, gossip-fed pre-adults (a.k.a. teenagers).

Judgment and scandal are the cornerstones of the American high school experience, and nothing feeds the 24-hour teenage rumor mill better than whispers about the inappropriate actions of a coach.

All it would take is one little cellphone video shot from an incriminating angle, and boom—my name might as well be Geraldine Sandusky.

So, keeping my back straight and my eyes forward, I slowly unzipped my pants and slipped them off. Then, hit with a momentary stroke of brilliance, I put on a sweatshirt, then, acting as if I was having a sudden change of heart, removed both the sweatshirt and the blouse I was wearing over my running top.

Finally, I slipped my feet into my running shoes, got out of the car and tied my laces. Feeling clever and relieved, I smiled smugly as I jogged through the double doors into the gym.

In hindsight, I think my plan was more of a way for me to “stick it to the man” than it was a way for me to “save time.” In foresight, I will probably just give in to the man and start using a locker room like everyone else.

What's my age again?

After the disaster that was my track and field coaching debut, I was bound and determined to avenge my horrible experience with a much warmer, much drier, much more awesome day at the track.

I showed up to my second track meet as a coach with two umbrellas, a rain poncho, a parka, hand-warmers and a box of Hot Tamales. (Have you ever noticed that sucking on cinnamon-flavored candy makes you feel warmer? If not, you clearly live in California.)

Naturally, it was 75 degrees and sunny.

This unseasonably warm April day gave me an opportunity to not only work on my “base burn,” but also to more comfortably engage fellow meet-goers in friendly conversation. (Because there’s just something about 45-mile-an-hour wind gusts that sort of kills the mood for chit-chat.)

Somewhere in between the jokes, pleasantries and track talk, there were a couple of awkward moments that I feel obliged to share not only for sheer entertainment purposes, but also as a way to therapeutically address some underlying insecurities.

You see, I was feeling pretty darn grown-up there at the finish line, clutching a very official-looking clipboard and yelling things like, “Don’t leave the track! Stay in your lanes!”

I was in charge. I was in control. I had authority. Kids were actually listening to me.

Then, in between heats of the 100-meter-dash — my favorite* race of all time — an older-looking gentleman in a Crocodile Dundee hat struck up a conversation with me. It went something (exactly) like this:

Man: So, what grade are you in?

Me: Oh, me? I graduated.

Man: Oh really! From here [as in, the high school at which we are currently volunteering]?

Me: From college.

Man: [Slightly embarrassed] Oh! Gosh, I must be getting old. I guess you do look like you could be 22.

Me: I’m 24.

Thankfully, we were saved by the gun and did not have to continue talking. Suddenly, I did not feel so official, even with the official clipboard containing the official results sheets that I was officially responsible for. Clearly, I might as well have been at the concession stand selling candy bars to raise money for the senior prom.

I’m not a teenager! I thought. I have a job, and an apartment, and a plant-watering schedule. I care about things like gas mileage and taxes and 12-hour cereal sales!

As I stood there, deflated and wondering whether a Crocodile Dundee hat would make me look more like an adult, a sprinter came up to me, huffing and puffing after racing the 100.

“Excuse me, do you know what my time was? I was in lane eight,” he gasped.

“Fifteen-point-six-two,” I replied. (Obviously, he was a distance runner but didn’t know it yet.)

“Thanks ma’am,” he said.

Ma’am? Did he just call me ‘ma’am?’ I thought. Ma’am is something you call…like…OLD people!

I was sort of outraged but sort of flattered at the same time. If the kids can tell that I am ma’am-worthy, that’s all that counts, right?

But, you know, a little anti-aging night cream never hurt anybody.

*We’ve been over this. The 100-meter-dash is not my favorite race of all time. In fact, it is the opposite of my favorite race of all time. Yes, I realize that doesn’t make sense. Watch me not care.

Verbal vomit

It might be hard to believe, but high school track and field season is upon us. If you’re like me, the only thing you look forward to more than watching 37 heats of the 100-meter dash is reading about it in the paper the next day.*

When it comes to post-race interviews, it seems like there is some kind of unwritten code of conduct followed by most runners and reporters. It goes a little something like this: reporters are expected to ask canned, cliché questions, and runners are expected to give canned, cliché answers.

As someone who has been on both sides of the tape recorder, I can say with absolute certainty that 99.9 percent of the time, this makes for really. Boring. Stories.

I mean honestly, who wants to read a heroic account of a come-from-behind win in the 1600 meters when it is peppered with such moving remarks as, “I guess today was my day. I just felt really great.”

It was your day, huh? I would have never guessed it staring at that shiny gold medal around your neck.

A lot of the time, such colorless quotes are the direct result of stupid questions asked by uninformed (read: stupid) reporters. Or maybe they are informed but understandably burned out on covering JV softball and middle school soccer.

Either way, a question like, “So, how did the race go for you?” is almost guaranteed to draw up an ambiguous and painfully uninteresting response like, “Well, there were parts that went really well, but I think there’s always room for improvement.”

At some point, whoever is reading this crap is bound to put down the paper and wonder if he is reading a sports story or a Sarah Palin interview.

Sometimes, though, even a solid, well-researched question asked by the most seasoned sports journalist will fail to extract a single worthwhile sound bite. This often results from an athlete’s inability to articulate what she is feeling for one of two reasons: (1) she is a teenager without access to some kind of keypad or (2) SHE JUST FINISHED RUNNING A FREAKING LONG DISTANCE RACE.

Leave it to a deadline-crazed reporter to saunter up to you with a notepad and pen as you stagger away from the finish line with a fresh string of mucusy spit dangling from your chin. Clearly, he has no idea that you are stepping off of the track to avoid yarfing all over the next heat of runners — not to provide him with a QuoteGarden.com-worthy line for his pullout box.

And so, as you struggle between labored gasps of air to provide answers to questions like So, how did the race go for you? you somehow end up with quotes like I think it went well, considering it’s so early in the season printed next to your name.

What gives? Why can’t you just be honest? Why can’t you say, “I felt like a huge order of crap with a side of crap, which is probably why I ran like crap.” Or: “I realized about halfway in that I shouldn’t have eaten that hot dog from the concession stand.”

And why do you always feel obligated to indulge the eager reporter who follows you to the trashcan where you fully intend to empty the contents of your stomach? Why can’t you just say, “Sorry, but could I just have a couple of minutes to vomit alone in peace?”

I’ll tell you why: because there is a small part of you that gets excited to see your own golden drops of wisdom printed in black and white ink on page 10 of the sports section, right next to the senior bowling league scores. Just like there is a small part of every reporter that gets excited to see their story about the local high school invitational printed in black and white ink on page 10 of the sports section, right next to the senior bowling league scores.

Without that little heart-flutter of pride and vanity, what would keep us coming back for more? Certainly not the hot dogs.

*I would rather bite the inside of my cheek in the same spot multiple times and then suck on a vinegar Popsicle than watch multiple heats of the 100-meter dash at a high school track meet.

There's a map for that

The advent of Garmins and TomToms has made the art of map-reading all but obsolete. Some might even argue—cough, Miss Teen South Carolina, cough—that the art of map-having is equally outmoded.

Much to the chagrin of cross-country runners across the…um…map, young America’s inability to comprehend basic cartographic concepts has led to countless moments of public embarrassment and disappointment.

In high school, we always arrived at cross country meets absurdly early, which gave us plenty of time to walk the course as a team and review confusing twists and turns. (It also gave me extra time to scope out the bathroom situation and look for “secret” toilets so I wouldn’t have to wait in line every time I had to go, which back then was about 25 times in the hour leading up to the start of the race.)

As we navigated each bend and curve, I always found myself making mental notes about various landmarks. Like: OK, remember to make a left at the big aspen tree with the yellow leaves. Or: Hang a hard right at the red tool shed.

Pretty soon, though, all of my directional breadcrumbs started to melt together. Wait a second—I would think—was it left or right after the stinky mud puddle?

Trying hard not to let my mounting panic show through, I would ask one of my coaches, as nonchalantly as possible, if I could borrow a copy of the course map—you know, just to go over everything one last time.

Then I would usually disappear to one of my previously-scouted secret bathrooms, where I would stare at the map for several minutes in a desperate attempt to make sense of the jumbled smattering of lines and arrows.








But alas, I knew it was to no avail. I could memorize the turn sequence all I wanted, knowing full well that in the heat of battle, all would be forgotten. Sometimes I even acronymed the dang thing. For example: (L)iberals (L)ove (R)epublican (L)eaders. But even my catchy-though-factually-inaccurate memory-joggers (ha!) were flushed from my brain as my leg muscles hogged the blood supply.

At the larger races, I could get away with following people the whole way, which took some of the pressure off. Plus, those courses tended to be fairly well-marked.

But at the smaller venues, the course markings consisted of a few directionally ambiguous arrows haphazardly spray painted on the ground. And during my last couple years of high school, there was always a good chance that I would be in the lead—which is how I earned the nickname “Wrong-Way Andrus.” (From my own father, no less.)

It is also how I ended up losing a divisional title to one of my biggest high-school rivals. Out of all my racing heartbreaks, that’s the one I still haven’t quite gotten over. It’s like a cross-country-themed version of the music video for U2’s “Stuck in a Moment.”

Anyway, I’m not exactly sure what the moral of the story is. Pay attention in geography class? Stuff a Garmin in your sports bra? Stop listening to U2 (which you really shouldn’t have been doing in the first place)?

I don’t know. Maybe I should ask Miss Teen South Carolina.

A new "fun"tier

Still amped up on dopamine from my little Good Samaritan episode, I set out on a leisurely afternoon jog through my neighborhood. Although I had no intention of attempting another round of sprint intervals, I decided to take a route that passes by the high school track.

In the distance, I could see a crowd of people gathered in the stadium. As I got closer, I realized it was a group of high school track and field athletes. Track practice.

I stopped and peered through the chain link fence, overcome by the sort of wistful nostalgia Britney Spears might experience by looking at a wall calendar from the year 1999.

At that moment, I made the strangely painful realization that my days of reporting to afternoon practice were gone forever. I would never again be forced to complete crippling workouts that left me sore and fatigued for days. I would never again be expected to race so hard that I had to stagger to the bathroom and sit on the toilet with a puke bucket for half an hour. That made me sad.

But you know what? Britney (sort of) successfully revitalized her career, and I can too. You see, …Baby One More Time was the Britney equivalent of my high school and college racing career: the peak, the zenith, the I’ll-never-ever-be-that-good-again era of success.

Let’s be honest: Circus was no …Baby One More Time. But it was still a successful album, and you have to admit that Britney is still entertaining, whether she’s singing and dancing on stage or assaulting paparazzi with an umbrella. Circus is to Britney what 5K fun runs are to me. (I know, I know, it’s a terrible analogy, but I’ve been out of school awhile and my cognitive abilities have deteriorated substantially. Work with me.)

What fun runs lack in legitimate competition, they make up for in entertainment value and enjoyment. In fact, I might—scratch that, I will—even go so far as to say that fun runs are actually better than serious races. After reading the rest of this post, I think you’ll agree.

Why fun-runs are waaaaaaaaaayyyy cooler than school-sanctioned racing events: a post within a post (not to be confused with that dream within a dream Inception crap)

1.) Degree of pressure

When you and your teammates are getting reading to run a race that actually matters, everyone acts all serious as they silently change into their spikes, pin on their race numbers, and apply their Breathe Right nasal strips:

But at a fun run, the typical pre-race environment looks more like this:

(photo by Dawn-Pink Chick, http://www.flickr.com/photos/dawn-pinkchick/)

2.) Uniforms

As a member of a school-sponsored team, you must compete in a (yawn) team-issued uniform:

At a fun run, you are free to choose your own uniform:

(Photo by Stuart Chalmers, http://www.flickr.com/photos/gertcha/)

3.) Expected effort

When you are competing for team points, scholarship money, or a spot on the varsity team, you are expected to look like this after you cross the line:

It is generally not encouraged to pass out, pee yourself, and/or vomit after finishing a fun run. That sort of behavior is frightening to young children and tends to put a damper on the festive mood:

Let’s take a look at a side-by-side photo comparison:

4.) Awards

If you win a race at an important meet (like conference or state), you’ll likely receive another boring medal or ribbon. (Woo. Hoo.):

But if you’re a top finisher at a fun run, you’ll probably get a supercool prize:

Like a trophy with a golden buffalo topper (a great conversation piece):

Or a beach glass sculpture thingy:

Or even a souvenir pint glass (perfect for drinking a much-deserved post-race bee—er, Gatorade):

On a completely unrelated note, today is my dad's birthday. Happy birthday, Dad!

I wanna go fast!

When I stepped outside the other day, I took a deep breath and filled my lungs with chilly spring air. It smelled like rain and mist and soggy dead grass. And that’s when I knew, without a doubt, that track season was upon us.

These kinds of days—the ones with still, foggy air and puddle-dotted sidewalks—were always my favorite for track workouts. I found the damp, cool air soothing to my throat, lungs and muscles.

When I set out on my run, I immediately felt a familiar spring in my step. At that point, I was no longer in control of my route. My legs took over, knowing exactly where they wanted to go.

I arrived at the high school track feeling fresh and ready to, in the words of Ricky Bobby, go fast. Without even thinking, I rolled into my pre-workout warm-up routine. It had been months since I’d last done my usual series of kicks, skips and leg-swings, but I was surprised at how easily it all came back.

I felt great. I knew it was going to be a banner day. I almost wished I had a coach or a friend or even a live studio audience to witness what was about to go down. I did a quick survey of the track facility and its immediate surroundings. There were a couple of groundskeepers working about 600 yards away from the stadium. I figured that since I could see them, they could probably see me. I decided that counted as an audience.

After doing a couple of strides, I made my way to the starting line. I was smiling, and I even thought about whistling the chorus melody from “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.” Then I remembered that I never learned how to whistle, and I made a mental note to search for an instructional video on YouTube later that day.

I still hadn’t gotten a new watch, and I had a feeling the oral counting method would prove ineffective in a track interval scenario. But I didn’t care—I was doing this work out, with or without a working timepiece.

I slowly approached the line, shaking out my arms and legs to rid them of any lingering kinks. I leaned forward into the starting position, and boom! I launched into a full-on sprint, marveling at the quickness of my feet and the power of my stride. The first 200-meter interval was smooth and almost effortless. I actually felt like an 800 runner again—I wondered whether my training hiatus had affected my speed at all. Perhaps I was just some sort of athletic super human.

Then I tried to do another one. This 200, though, was not so smooth, not so effortless. This 200 hurt—bad. From the twinge in my calf to the tightness in my lungs, my body screamed at me, as if to say, “What the crap? I thought we were done with running fast. You are a liar and a scoundrel!”

I was just about to protest about the scoundrel part when I felt a sharp pain slightly above the back of my knee. I slowed to a more manageable pace. Suddenly, my brain was inundated with hypothetical crisis scenarios.

I imagined limping into the high school and asking various teenagers with bewildered looks on their faces for directions to the school nurse’s office. I saw myself hobble into her little examination room, where she gasped and exclaimed, in a thick Minnesota accent, “Omigash! Did you just come from Coach Brown’s P.E. class? I thought you guys were just learning how to juggle beanbags this week.”

I closed my eyes and shook my head, expelling from my mind all images of myself as an injured, pathetic failure. No, I would not give up. I was going to finish this thing.

During my last few intervals, I was glad the guys on the mini tractors were too caught up in their work to notice me. I was also glad I had no way of knowing just how slow I was running—thank goodness for Wal-Mart and its cheap, unreliable merchandise. The feeling of invincibility I’d started out with had long since faded into stubborn determination. The last few hundred meters were anything but pretty, but I finished them.

As I jogged home, the intensity of my spontaneous little trip down memory lane started to settle on my bones. I noticed pain in places that hadn’t felt it in awhile—shins, arches, hamstrings. I felt like a true has-been, risking my health to prove to myself—and anyone else who happened to be hanging around (i.e. totally uninterested park maintenance personnel)—that I’ve still got it.

Then I realized that wasn’t the case at all. I had nothing to prove. I just missed the feeling that I had briefly experienced during my first interval—that inimitable sensation of quickness, weightlessness and power. I knew that sooner or later, I’d be back at the track for more.

Well, maybe after a few hot baths and a trip to the chiropractor.