This is motocross, so wear whatever you want

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August 21, 2012

This is motocross, so wear whatever you want

Anonymous Daily Star The Daily Star Tue Aug 21, 2012, 03:30 AM EDT

I'm staring into a full-length mirror a few minutes before heading out to cover the 10th round of the Lucas Oil Pro Motocross Championship on Saturday.

This isn't a psych-out session to get pumped up for the high-flyin', wheelie-poppin' action in store at the Unadilla Valley Sports Center.

Instead, I'm trying to picture the perfect ensemble that will help me blend in with the 22,000-plus screaming and soon-to-be hard-of-hearing fans at the New Berlin racetrack.

No matter what the temperature is, pants are a definite no-no. Even if it's snowing in Oneonta, it will be hot at the UVSC. Always is.

That eliminates the pile of athletic warmup pants reserved for such things as Oneonta Little League's opening-day festivities and after-school trips to the Oneonta Boys and Girls Club with Sonny Boy.

Ineligible, too, are the three pairs of jeans that have lived in various dressers since high school and the one pair of work-only dress pants that still fit _ aka the only ones that don't paralyze me from the waist down when I take a seat.

I rue the day that poor button gives up.

So shorts are the obvious choice. Black is out, though, since more than half of my shirts are black and I'm not particularly in the mood for a Grim Reaper joke.

That leaves two pairs of multi-pocket swimsuits _ one brown and one blue _ that sort of look like shorts; two pairs of beigeish "golf" shorts; and one pair of red, knee-length shorts more suited for the basketball court.

Side note: Is one pair of shorts really a pair? Someone could really start a trend by calling one pair a short.

So the red short it is. Now I have to pick out a pair of shirt.

The Mets' jersey with "BELTRAN" sewn across the shoulder blades probably won't work. This is a motocross event, after all, and Beltran doesn't even play for the Mets anymore. Plus, the fans killed me last year for showing up in a Nissan Maxima, so I'll be proactive in avoiding verbal abuse and inappropriate sign language this time.

T-shirts? Besides looking like a 40-year-old trying to look like a teenager, I don't think any of the riders want to be interviewed by some tool wearing a crew-neck with a faded Adidas, Atari or New York Jets logo on it.

Dress shirts _ long- or short-sleeved _ don't go with Nike shorts, either ... unless someone is trying to start a trend, of course.

Enter old reliable _ a black (told ya) golf shirt with a lightly tattered collar that always comes through in the clutch. Well, except on the golf course. If the highest score won, though, I'd be Tiger Woods.

Double up on the white, ankle-high socks and cap it off with a pair of black-and-red running shoes and ... now it looks like Mom started to dress me but I ran away before she could wipe the toothpaste off my chin.

Whateva, I do what I want. I decide against changing into the South Park T-shirt because time's a-wastin'.

On the drive up, I realize my son's real name isn't Sonny Boy, running shoes used to be called sneakers, and beigeish isn't a word.

Now I'm sweating, thinking all eyes will be on me when I emerge from the Maxima this year. Stupid 39-month lease.

I half-expect to get stoned by a fashion lynch mob at the hilly entrance to the left of the UVSC track (or to the right of it, depending on which direction you're traveling).

Paranoid? Maybe, but more like egocentric. That's Mom's fault, too, though, making a big deal out of every milestone in my youth.

"You finally hit the bowl!"

"You finally got a C!"

"You finally made the pee-wee soccer team!"

Senior year was the best.

So I open the car door and nothing. Not a peep. Not even a pebble.

It's somewhat depressing, actually. My spirits get a boost, though, at the entrance, where I realize I pretty much could have shown up in my underwear and blended in just fine.

Shirtless 20-somethings (all male, unfortunately) are running amuck with their shorts hanging around their thighs. There are lots of jeans and lots of muscle shirts, the latter mostly worn by those who haven't had any since graduation. The women's clothing isle ranges from paint-thin skinny shorts combined with halter tops _ so everyone can see that sweet, lower-back tat you got in college 20 years ago _ to tank tops, to skorts to ... you guessed it ... T-shirts!

There's even a photographer walking around in a shiny, sleeveless, sequined shirt and flip-flops!

These are my people, and none of us will be appearing in a Joan & Melissa episode anytime soon.

Still, it probably isn't a good idea to show up in my underwear next year.

Unless I want to start a trend or something.

Dean Russin is the sports editor of The Daily Star. Email him at drussin@thedailystar.com.