The Thong Also Rises (23 page)

The author makes a fashion statement at her first triathlon.

I
T WAS COLD.
I
T WAS DARK.
A
ND SOMEWHERE BETWEEN
my car and the port-o-john line, I'd determined I was the Barney Fife of triathletes. The nerd of the herd. Goofy, inept, and continually surprised by the obvious. As I looked at my fellow racers on this cold, dark morning, the morning of my first triathlon, it was becoming obvious that one of these things was not like the others, and that thing just happened to be me.

I should have been psyched. I'd been asked to join a relay team called the Three Minnies. We were racing with the Disney Tri-Club in the Nautica Malibu Triathlon, and I was riding the bike leg on the most scenic road in America. An eighteen-mile excursion along the Pacific Coast Highway from the white sands of Zuma Beach to the coastal flowers of Carrillo State Park and back again. The other two Minnies, Kiran and Rory, had lured me to the competition with whispers of celebrities, food, and hunky bikers. “And it's for charity,” they added. “It'll be fun.” Who was I to resist the
sirens' call? I pictured myself a stylish Malibu Minnie, nibbling cheddar cubes and flirting with sexy Mickeys after an invigorating ride. And it was for charity to boot. Flirting and feeling good about myself all at the same time. What more could a single Minnie want?

But cheddar dreams turned to Velveeta nightmares while waiting in line for a port-o-john, a wait just long enough to allow me to observe the competition and reach a depressing pre-race conclusion: “I'm totally out of my league.”

First clue? My outfit. While the kind-hearted might've called my white cotton t-shirt “old school,” in reality the only message it proclaimed was “nerd school.” A point hammered home as the sun rose over the gray port-o-potties, and I saw the shirts of my competitors. Stretchy synthetic tops that clung tightly to ripped abs. Shirts with more functionality than most of my friends. Shirts that could “wick,” shirts that could “breathe.” Give them a year, and these shirts would be whipping up lobster bisques and crème brulees while their owners took post-race showers.

And the colors, I thought, as I finally stepped into a portable gray toilet. Flashing purples. Dashing reds. These shirts were fast. These shirts were moving ten miles an hour standing still. But not my cotton t-shirt. It was white. It retained water. It clung to my body like a fried egg on a wet burrito.The only thing my shirt had going for it was the fact that it covered my ass. And ah, my ass. It looked twice its normal size because of my padded tights. Now padded tights aren't bad in and of themselves. Most bikers wear them to avoid sore butts on long rides. But padded tights gave their butts a little more personality. Just enough personality to be considered cute. But I'd moved past cute into whole new dimension—a dimension begging to be covered by a pair of lavender bike shorts. Shorts so heinous, so purple, that they
screamed to the passing masses that I was, indeed, a pear. A pear in a bowl full of power bars. A pear that was about to get bruised.

“Hey you! Need a number?”

I looked right. A perky surf chick smiled, waved a magic marker at me. “C'mon, dude, beat the crowd,” she said. Beat the crowd? For what? Free stuff? Count me in, I thought as I wandered over. “What's your event?” she asked.

“Women's relay,” I responded, looking for my free gift.

“Age?” asked the Surf Chick, all smiles as she crouched by my leg, marker poised above her head like a spear.

“Thirty-seven?” I replied as her marker zoomed onto my calf.

“Ooops,” she murmured.

Ooops? What's ooops? Me no like the sound of ooops, Surf Chick. I looked down to see
Relay
scrawled across my leg in black. Underneath was a giant 37. Surf Chick had written my age on my leg in black ink! Well, sort of. I leaned closer. Surf Chick was no Michelangelo.The seven was a big scratchy blob that could also be a nine. That's a key two years to a single gal, my dear. How do I pick up a celebrity with a big 39 on my leg? Maybe I'll wash it off and start over. Twenty-eight was a good year. I'll create a new identity. No last name. No back story. Just 28. I'll start fresh….

“Amy, come on! We need to get going,” yelled Kiran. I looked up, smiled, waved, and realized why Kiran was ready to get going. She had a 31 on her leg. Things are good when you're 31. Not so good when you're 37. Or 39. Maybe I should grab the marker. Add that I like long walks on the beach. A 37 looking for a 38 to 42. Single. Own bike. Likes celebrities. Queen of the Nerds.

I followed Kiran to the staging area where my nerdiness went from bad to worse in 3.2 seconds. Rory, seeing me
approach in my white cotton t-shirt and lavender shorts, stopped adjusting her wetsuit. She grimaced, obviously displeased with my “look.” She took a breath, smiled, and reached deep into her knapsack.

“Wear this,” she whispered, giving me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as she passed me a shirt. As she trotted off toward the beach, I took a closer look. It was a Disney Tri-Club racing jersey—a yellow Lycra shirt with black Mickey Mouse ears emblazoned on the front. I slipped it on. Too bright. Too tight. I am nerd, hear me squeak.

For the next twenty minutes or so I paced, checked my bike, planned my escape. But before I could go AWOL, the first male swimmers were emerging from the sea. After rounding a corner at the north end of the Zuma Beach parking lot, they ran south toward the transition area, looking to tag their biker for the next leg of the race. I watched the transitions with awe. These guys were so fast, so smooth, that for a moment I forgot my inner nerd.

“You might want to get ready,” Kiran said, breaking the spell.

What? Get ready? Rory has to swim half a mile for Pete's sake, and the men are still coming in. I've got time girlfriend, relax.

“Oh my God! There she is! Get your bike!” Kiran yelled.

What? I looked up. Rory was indeed dashing toward us. Or me rather. Had it even been half an hour? Had she done so well she was running with the men? Shit! I yanked my bike from the rack, maneuvered it through a cheering maze of yellow-shirted Disney racers.

“Go Amy, go!” Kiran yelled, pulling me forward for the transition. And whatever you think you know about the word graceful? Picture the exact opposite and you'll have some understanding of my scramble toward the gate.

I pushed though a sea of triathletes, running beside my bike. At the gate, I hopped on without falling and rolled forward, the crowd going wild at the sight of a woman starting the bike leg. Too bad that woman was me. Me in my tight yellow jersey and huge purple pants. Please don't take my picture! I'm an imposter! I don't know what the hell I'm doing! All I know is my jersey's creeping up my stomach and soon you'll be cheering my breasts! Or laughing. Look away, people, look away.

I pedaled south out of the Zuma Beach parking lot, pumping like my life depended on it as I tried to maintain Rory's lead. As I swung onto the Pacific Coast Highway, I started a slow climb up a long, tough hill.

“Good work Disney!”

I looked left. A yellow-shirted Disney biker was speeding past.

“Thank you,” I gasped.

“Keep it up Disney,” yelled another, passing seconds later.

“Thank you!” I yelled.

“Go Disney!” said another.

“Thank you,” I replied.

“Good work Disney!”

“Thankyouthankyouthankyou,” I gasped again. And again. And again. Was I being passed by every member of the Disney Tri-Club, not to mention the other 1,500 or so registered bikers? What was the etiquette here, I wondered. Was it rude not to thank them? Maybe I should save my wind. Maybe I should just nod. Or maybe yell “Go Disney!” in return. Maybe I'm an idiot. Maybe I should've clarified this with Kiran and Rory. Maybe I should stop stressing and pedal.

After an eternity of pedaling and gasping, my purple-padded ass and I made it to the top of the first hill. On my
descent, I decided to appreciate this new experience. The new sights. The new smells. This was the most scenic part of Malibu after all, and it was nice to enjoy it outside the confines of a car.The blue Pacific rippled calmly on my left, lazy mountains rolled gently on my right. Life was good, I wasn't last, it wasn't raining, and…

“There's no coasting on Team Disney!”

I looked left, swerving out of my reverie. The General George F. Patton of cyclists snarled as he powered past, disdain wicking from his bright yellow jersey.

“Aye, aye, General! Disney don't coast!” I thought, snapping to attention and pressing down on the pedals.

After another sixteen miles and forty-two additional “Go Disneys!” I rolled into the Zuma Beach staging area. I hopped off my bike at the gate, wobbling as I hurried toward Kiran for the transition to her four-mile run. After tagging off, I gasped one last “Go Disney!” before collapsing in a heap on the black concrete. And there I lay, exhausted and panting, hoping someone would carry my thirty-seven-year-old prostrate body to the celebrity tent. Cheddar cubes, celebrities, and free smoothies.

After waiting ten minutes with no relief in sight, the obvious became apparent. If I wanted to enjoy the celebrity tent, I'd have to drag my nerdy ass over there myself. I took a breath, stood, and dragged my rusty, nerdy bike to the bike rack. I dusted myself off and headed toward the tent, sweaty, tired, and a just a little proud in my tight yellow jersey and padded purple shorts. As Lance Armstrong so famously wrote, “It's not about the bike.” Of course not. It was about Sheryl Crow. Celebrities. Glitterati.The good life. So get out of my way. If this was a celebrity-studded event, I wanted my celebrity stud.

So I entered the big, white tent, bold and invigorated, just daring someone to ask me to leave. But it appeared I was in luck.The Queen of the Nerds had raised enough in pledges to ensure admittance without question. I looked around, taking a long breath as I scoped out the food. The drinks. The celebrities.

“Weren't you on
Survivor
?”

I turned at the question. Behind me, a gangly triathlete was standing beside a bearded young hunk. Awkward, sweaty, slightly delusional, the triathlete gazed at the C-list star—a twenty-something hunk who'd been voted off Mark Burnett's island at some point in the recent past.

The young hunk nodded, smiling at the recognition.

“Wow, I watched every one of your episodes,” the triathlete said. “And I just want to tell you, I thought you did a great job. I really admire your work.”

And with that cheesy line, the torch was passed. The crown of dorkdom had been lifted from my head and placed on another. The queen is dead, long live the king. This Malibu Minnie was free.

Amy Balfour practiced law in Richmond, Virginia before moving to Los Angeles to break in as a screenwriter. She's a writer's assistant on
Law & Order: Special Victim's Unit
where she writes Fed Ex labels and phone messages, simultaneously hoping to be noticed and ignored. She's hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon, rafted the Gauley River during dam release, and run with the chickens in Collierstown, Virginia.

When the universe calls you, you come.

A
BOUT AN HOUR OUT ON THE LONGTAIL BOAT TO
Phranang, I feel the stabbing reminder of those six cups of tea.They'd gone down in a teahouse in the seaside town of Krabi, while I was chatted up by a Thai love prince who had emerged in the center of my karmic field. With a ritual softness he poured cup after cup of jasmine tea, while from his lips tumbled strings of monosyllables, pearls he'd gleaned of my language.
You, me, go.
I wanted to respond in kind— what more needed to be said?—but I was quiet. He watched me for signs of melting, his eyes watering with such a tragic thirst that I suffered chest pains when I heard the boatman's call. He was a man, and I was in recovery from just such an affliction. I departed forever from the idea of him, the bursting forth of its many possibilities. I'm sure you can understand how easily one could forget, wavering between impulse and intention, to attend to one's physiological details.