Paddles up!

"Stroke! Stroke! Stroke!"

Good grief, a medical emergency?? No, just the unifying chant barked by my fellow crew members as we paddled our buttockles off during the Great Midwest Dragon Boat Race.

Our lithe bodies strained as one - wait, did I say lithe? - anyway, we moved like synchronized swimmers. But without the pointed toes, goofy smiles, or flowered bathing caps.

Dragon boat racing began in China 2,500 years ago. The sport declined when women grooved on binding their feet, but surged again with the advent of crew socks and waterproof mascara. Today the popular races allow folks of all ages and abilities to enjoy the thrill of a sports competition without lengthy training or pesky drug screenings.

All competitors signed a mandatory waiver that emphasized nine-ways-from-Sunday that, oh-me-oh-my, we could DIE!! Sheesh, who cared about that?? I was dreading the wet underwear.

The document also protected race sponsors from lawsuits by our descendents, pets, personal trainers or Avon reps. With no monetary incentive, families would attend solely out of love. That's a good one.

Sixty-seven teams x 22 people per boat = a remarkable juxtaposition of steroids and cellulite. On race day, teams alternated between paddling like maniacs and relaxing in sun-kissed adrenaline.

Young security guards in camouflage patrolled the site - some branch of Junior Sea Patrol? They strutted around like costumed fourth-graders at a G.I. Joe Action Figure Convention.

Yessir, for effective crowd control, nothing instills a sense of law and order like orthodontia sparkling in the sun or the aroma of acne medicine.

My team warmed up with the usual splits and backbends, then cheered through a DVD of selected slave ship scenes from Ben-Hur. To keep our focus, some of us wore ankle "shackles" made of tuna can rims, and chained ourselves to the boat at race time. On second thought, I might've been the only one.

Guldangit, we up and lost our racing heat by one dragon nostril! Still punch-drunk on adrenaline, I muscled my way past pre-schoolers in line for the Big Bouncer - one of those inflatable jumping cages. I'd only done a few back flips when I snagged a seam.

With a big SHHHH, the damn thing deflated faster than a Boomer's hope of early retirement. For pity sake, the tuna shackles weren't that sharp, were they??

Anyway, I scrambled out and demanded a refund. Like the manager even cared. No, he kept yelling to save the children trapped inside. Unbelievable! Midwesterners aren't usually so rude.

At the end of the day a ten-year-old G.I. Joe halted me at the exit and pointed to my cup. "Ma'am! Is that beer??"

He sniffed my black coffee and speared me with a look. Annoyed by his bubblegum, my wet underwear, and the chafing tuna rims, I almost screamed, "Listen, Bazooka breath! It's my last friggin' addiction, so cut me some slack!" But, no. We need to respect authority figures, even if they can't drive yet. Because we're civilized, right?

Don't be silly. We should make nice with these kids because they'll cross our paths again someday when they have real power - as EMTs and nursing home administrators.

Pointers from a punctilious, pedantic paddler: First, beware of excessive alliteration. Also, seaweed sticks to pantyhose. And forget wearing open weave straw hats - the resulting facial tan of squiggles and dots will not pass for freckles.

Fancy biking gloves can prevent blisters, but my oven mitts worked fine. Finally, leave the glasses and hearing aids at home. Gee, I was so sure they'd float.

I haven't yet removed my competitor ID wrist band - it's so cool. Don't worry, I'm not one of those pathetic, insecure Boomers with a twenty-year wad of faded ski lift tickets still clipped to their parkas.

What? This magic marker on my arm? Oh, that's my triathlon entry number. Silly me, I forgot to wash it off! Hahaha!

Pardon? When was it? Um...1984.

Copyright © 2007 Mary Tompsett