CRECC 1999: Life here in Iowa is nothing but an endless series of clichés. It seems like most folks around
here wake up when the cock crows and head out into the autumn's moist morning mist,
leaving dark, dewy footprints in the frosted silver grass on the way to the barn, listening to
the familiar, distant, lazy mooing from the cows just beyond the horizon patterned with
harvested corn rows against a pale blue sky, framed in by once bright but now fading orange,
yellow, and burgundy tree lines that trace a leaning, rusted run of barbed-wire fence, and it
seems like every time a little hairy guy is out running a road race in extra small bikini briefs
and clear plastic pants, he's accosted the following week by a van-load of even hairier,
cigar-smoking, cross-dressing freaks in red skirts and heavy make-up, sporting a wide
variety of obscenely large and blatantly artificial "protruding enhancements", for lack of a
better phrase. Now I tend to exaggerate on occasion and have even been accused of
digressing into hearty disjointed fiction in the past, but if you witnessed this year's CRECC
race on November 7th, you know I'm not making this up.
Set-up and registration went well
in the picture perfect weather until an otherwise nondescript white van with a pornographic
banner duct taped rudely to its side panel crept slowly up to the curb. Before the vehicle fully
stopped, the doors were flung open from within, and at least a dozen men (and a few real
women) burst out in ill-fitting red dresses, huge wigs, and sloppy, smeared lipstick. Within
seconds, the registration table was a bustling blur of black wig-hair, smoke, shiny red
sequins, cigar ash, pointed bras, tassels, and unshaven legs. Luckily, my wife was there to
deal with the shouting mob as I fought off some of the others that had found my boyish
charm too much to resist. I escaped with some minor scars and a smudged lip print on my
unshaven face. There's nothing quite like the Velcro kiss of a bearded man against another
man's rough and ready cheek. I was frightened. I suddenly felt dirty and ashamed, yet at the
same time oddly fascinated and delighted. Never before had I seen "Tomasena" in a dress.
Many of the others, yes, but not Tomasena. He was radiant. He had a glow about him. Later,
after talking with his wife and son, I found out that they were extremely impressed with his
new look as well. Tom was overheard later that day saying something about wanting to be
called by the nickname "Ball Bearings" from that day forward.
After the initial shock wore
off, I went into damage control mode, and managed to get the actual race underway,
watching as the sea of red filtered out of sight over the crest of the leaf-covered knoll, onto
the gravel trail, and into the cover of the woods. I wish I could have seen the reactions of
those few innocent and unsuspecting morning walkers sharing the trail with the racers as the
faux-women pranced by unannounced. A few outstanding performances are still etched in
my mind. (I've tried to forget most of this, but I just can't.) Foremost among them is Brian
Long's sprint to the finish against an 18 year old cross-country runner from an area school. I
was transfixed (and at the same time mortified) as I watched the two of them battle over the
last 100 yards, faces grimaced, teeth clenched in what was an otherwise typical, compelling
sports moment - age and experience vs. youth and raw talent and all that -- except that Brian
was dressed in a fashionable skirt cut just at the knees, not too daring and yet not prudish,
with a smartly buttoned collar that just screamed style all the way. Not to be catty, but he
could have accessorized a bit more -- a few bangles, a broach, or a splash of color to bring
out his eyes -- although compared to most of the competition, he was stunning. Bravo, Brian!
Two thumbs up, if you know what I mean. Anyway, this isn't Cosmo, so I'll stick to the
pertinent, sportsy stuff. Amazingly, Brian's lipstick held up over the approximately 4.4 mile
distance with minimal smudging and smearing, which is important to an athlete, and as he
out-kicked Ryan Jarred for fourth place by less than a second, I was thinking, "What am I
doing here? Do I have a special purpose?".
Other stellar performances were turned in as
well. Marty Klipp set a new course record and six others ran the twisting out and back
course in under thirty minutes, three of which were clad in dresses. Bob Strickand was third
overall this year, despite besting his second place time from last year by 24 seconds. I'm glad
he tied his hair back this year to keep it under control. Last year it was blowing all over the
place, and I was amazed he could even see where he was running. John Swails and Bill Bails
made confident fashion statements. John went with a vogue sunglasses-and-short-hair butch
look, whereas Bill was one of the few to accent his ensemble with a colorful top. The hat
may have been over the top, but I was impressed by the fact that he freshened up his lipstick
prior to accepting his trophy at the awards ceremony. Mr. Bails is definitely a class act. Not
so stellar were the simultaneous finishes of Brad Scott, JR Ogden, and superstar
runner/celebrity John Armon. Talk about fashion crashin'. Brad's shedding red feather boa
was obviously a deterrent and distracting to his effort, not to mention that he was giggling,
skipping, and holding hands with JR and John as he returned across the grass and into the
chute. My immediate thoughts after witnessing this sad spectacle were that groping at
confined balloons and peeking under other's dresses does not substitute for training.
Apparently, "giving 110 percent" has taken on new meaning for them. You don't have to be
a sports editor to see that all three of them will need to really focus in the upcoming months
if they expect to be competitive again in the spring. I don't want to be too hard on them,
however, as there were a couple of bright spots for which credit is due. John accessorized
wonderfully with matching red shoes and dainty white gloves and Brad sheathed himself in
sequins, while JR boldly went with the short skirt in spite of the season and let it hike up a
bit. He needs to consult Brain or Bill Bails about his choice of lipstick, though -- we're
talking scary clown lips.
Luckily, the highly respected president of the CVRA finished next,
wearing his matching Nike gear as usual to bring some kind of order and discipline to the
day. As he crossed into the chute, he did the right thing by immediately filing a protest,
which is still under review at this time. A formal hearing has yet to be scheduled. Running
fabulously this fall, Bruce Bachman finished next showing plenty of leg, ignoring the
whining Ingels. His simple, yet elegant Kleidung shouted "Ich bin Frau!".
The women's race
was taken by Claudia Scott, running well after a summer of rehab from some kind of hip
injury. (No, it had nothing to do with her crank smoking addiction - that was the previous
summer.) After suffering behind me at Sutliff (not to mention the
as-of-then-yet-to-be-contested Marion Turkey Trot), she must have been relieved to know
that I wouldn't be running, and , by the way, any assertions that I cheated in that race are
inaccurate. I must say, though, she looked confident and ravishing in her little red one-piece
with the short sleeves, short skirt, and the smoothly contoured fabric hugging the familiar
curves of...or wait... maybe I'm thinking of Brad. I don't know. Writing these little snippits is
so exhausting that I sometimes lose my train of thought and get all dizzy. I need another
glass of Merlot. Hold on... I'll be right back... There. That's better. So then after that, Lori
Long took second overall less than a minute behind Claudia. Lori proved to be a bit
school-marmish with her selection of an almost protective red velvet dress, showing less skin
than the Church Lady at the annual ice cream social. After a summer on the track in Brandy
Chastain-like jog bras and minimalistic shorty-pants, I think we all expected a stronger
effort. She did run well, however, improving her time by over a minute. Maybe the librarian
look is her new secret weapon. You go girl! The same could be said for Candy-O, placing
third in a similar no-skin motif, although she did go with a bit of a frilly Latin flair in her
choice of gowns, leaving one shoulder free. Candy ran over a minute faster this year as well.
Salsa! Dody Burkey rounded out the red-dress runners and improved by over two minutes,
despite losing her bee-sting kit and her car keys.
So when it was all over and everyone had
gone, I walked back to my truck across the clearing, crumpling leaves underfoot, smelling
the unseasonably warm and pleasant fall air. Red feathers peppered the place by the two
giant oaks where the chute had stood, conjuring up foggy, haunting, repressed images of
broken Chia Pets and relentless spankings. The bright feathers were prevalent near the street
as well. As I turned and surveyed the area one last time, I felt violated, and yet found myself
already looking forward to next year's run. -Tim S.
