Queer Eye for the Tri Guy
What's the in thing for the with-it Tri Guy, now that the Mark Allen Spiderman top has gone the way of the Nehru jacket? Am I crazy, or is anybody else seeing polyester retro ski-suit neon that says, "Sure I'm tough, but I'm not afraid to sweat, either." Little beads of perspiration that hit the camera like, ooooohhh, I don't know…a Paris Hilton brooch in a cheap home video (is there any other kind?). Anybody can wick, but it takes a real stud-muffin to cling and absorb.
Logos? Shut up! It's '05 and the world is going to heck, so why not! Volcanic spewage, but I'm not talking vog, I’m talking NASCAR-caliber decals covering every — and I mean every — square inch.
That Bento box. So so Asian and just screams forgiveness for that annoying mid-century war thingy, but don’t be fooled: They didn't come 5,000 miles to break ahi puffs with you. Speaking of whom, doesn't the winner of the World's Smallest Speedo trophy also have the World's Smallest…but let's not go there, dearie: The true testosterone is all right there on the clock. I said clock. Whoops!
Bike frame choices overwhelming the uninitiated hetero-with-too-much-bling? One word, schatzie: Titanium.
Okay, smarty-pants, not very flattering at high noon, but later? When the sun goes all peach and mauve and humidity-filtered soft? De la Renta metallic shimmering in spades, and no bottom-bracket-sag, either, a God-send for those of us on that side of 50-55. And don't let me hear carbon-fiber or I'm out the door and into the Dempsey like a 1993 Soft Ride.
Yes, sure, they keep the fluids cooler but those bottles with the holographic Mariah Carey glittery glitz foil? I say, okay, so you'll hydrate a little slower (blame it on Madame Pele, don’t-make-me-laugh passé and even worse taste in accessories than weather) but a small price for no snobby stares from the minimalist shutterbugs at Inside Tri. Don't think they can make you look ten pounds heavier if you get their Campagnolo jerseys in a bunch? Say hello to my boy-toy, Photoshop.
And what about those course marshals? Come now, WTC, be honest: You swapped for new security because of those awful black-and-white striped neo-penal shirts, right? Let's be real: They're not about scented candles and a signature body wash. So what's it going to be now for the Vespa'd Sgt. Peppers? Wait…I'm seeing…epaulets and sashes, in three wash 'n' go colors at a price point we can all live with! A cohesive statement that says, "Drafting? Oooohhh…slap me, Mandingo!"
And ladies, puh-leeeze! What's the sense of kicking butt if your own tush is wrapped in a moo-shu of chintz? Can you say "Thongs for the Memories," Irongal? It'll get more attention from the puppies at NBC than those orange Jackson Pollack splotches on your race number. Listen: It's not the one with the smallest brain who gets voted off the island. Don't believe me? Here's Anna Kournikova's cell number.
Now let's go look at some swatches…