Go ahead...
by Paul Parkinson

...Ask Me Where I Got This T-Shirt

“Lungs of iron and legs of steel” was printed on all of the official swag of the inaugural Vail Ultra 100 mountain bike race which debuted in August 1998 in Vail, Colorado. I still wear the t-shirt sometimes when I need a boost in self-confidence or just some vain recognition from anybody who might read the silk-screened motto (or what’s left of it) and ask me what’s with the shirt. “Oh this,” I always say extra casually, as though I forgot I was wearing the tattered eye sore, “it’s just a race I did: 100 miles off road (yawn) at altitude. Yeah, it was a lot of fun.”

Race t-shirts are as important to competitors as trophies are. In fact, perhaps they’re even better. The guy who wins a medal or a trophy at the races might carry it around for few minutes after leaving the scene before feeling silly or misunderstood then retires it to the shelf where it collects more dust than admirers. But a race t-shirt has no pretences and is a visible credential, certifying that the wearer of the shirt was brave enough to throw his hat in the ring at the “Desert Rampage” or the “Showdown at 5 Mile Pass,” or the “Mud Flats Massacre,” or the “Widowmaker Hillclimb”.

The best race T’s by the way, I mean the ones that make it through the rotation way more often than the others, always have a hint of danger or boasting printed upon them. I have race shirts that simply say “San Pete Classic,” and “Alpine Days” but I only wear those when I don’t plan on leaving the house all day. But the Vail Ultra 100 t-shirt has been with me on more first dates than any other piece of clothing I own.

Race T’s are also better than trophies because everybody who pays the entrance fee gets one. And moreover, they give the last place finisher the same distinguished treatment that they give to the first place finisher; yes, even if he stinks. It’s no surprise then that it’s usually the guys who don’t place very well at the event are the first to cash in on the glory by wearing the new tee out in public, usually on the same day of the race or the next day—and sometimes both! This is most visible in small towns where bike races draw a large out-of-town crowd. In a place like Moab, for example, for 24-48 hours following the Canyonlands race, most of the city’s restaurants will each simultaneously fill half a dozen seats at dinnertime with guys wearing the same race shirt. I assure you, this hasn’t happened by coincidence.

Wearing the race tee is so important to some people I know that they subconsciously plan the new shirt into their travel wardrobe, with the simple hope that it will match whatever bottoms they brought on the trip. The worst offenders seem to be middle-aged men who don’t really wear t-shirts anymore, and whose wardrobe isn’t equipped to handle anything without a collar. These are the guys you see on Sunday morning gassing up before the drive home looking all clean shaven, hair done to a side part, Sunday-best shoes on, Dockers fastened by a conservative belt, and of course, the old race tee tucked in.

If you’ve ever worn a race t-shirt with Dockers then you know something about the thought process that occurs: first, you try a pass at the mirror with the t-shirt untucked. With a blush of embarrassment at your man curves, you tuck it in and say, “This is much better; I think I can even get away with this;” forgetting that “much better” in this case is still publicly unacceptable. Once committed, however, the only decision left to make is whether to wear tennis shoes or loafers; and because tennis shoes complete the “homeless man” look, loafers usually win sometimes without socks, which you may remember was a look made famous in the 1980s thanks to Miami Vice. Such is the allure of wearing the race tee-so strong in fact that it causes grown men all over the U.S. to dress like the Saturday morning crowd in Las Vegas. And of all the things that should “stay in Las Vegas,” this one takes the cake.

Most everybody is drawn in by the race t-shirt, at least at first, but there seems to be a graduation of sorts, when wearing another race t-shirt just doesn’t do what it used to. My friend Greg races so often that he has more shirts than he can show off in a month. So he is stuck giving many away. I took one once but never felt comfortable in it. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was an imposter somehow, wearing somebody else’s medal. I didn’t like that feeling. Nor did I like thinking about the idea of graduating to Greg’s level and not wanting to wear race T’s anymore. After all, they helped define me in high school; not to mention they are still great conversation starters, make the best souvenirs, and they serve to stroke my ego from time to time.

Perhaps the graduation occurs when a person gets more mileage out of his bike than his shirt. A formula for the phenomenon might be something like: 26 hours per week of actual riding time, versus 25 hours per week of wearing race t-shirts, equals graduation from feeling the charms of the race t-shirt. For me, I would have to do an awful lot of training to best the ten years I’ve gotten out of my Vail Ultra 100 t-shirt.

I like to believe that like Greg, we would probably all still race regardless of the prospect of getting a t-shirt, but I’m sure glad that’s not a decision most promoters force us to make!

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