See How She Runs

Securing prime tarp real estate

By Suzanne Schlosberg

July 15, 2000, Morristown, Ohio -- This week my cousin Mark is celebrating his college graduation by participating in the famous Running of the Bulls in Pamplona, Spain. In a coincidence probably unprecedented for one family, I -- at the very same time -- have been participating in the Running of the Tarps in Morristown, Ohio.

Suzanne sits in line at 4 a.m. waiting for the Running of the Tarps.

Less dangerous than the bull run but, I am confident, no less thrilling, the tarp run is the mad rush to claim prime territory for your lawn chairs at the Jamboree in the Hills.

Here’s how it works: Each group designates a runner, whose job is to haul ass out of the gates each morning and quickly unfurl a tarp on the giant grassy field in front of the stage. Later, the backup team arrives with the chairs, planting them securely on the tarp. (Running with lawn chairs was outlawed a few years back for safety reasons.) Everyone then goes back to the campgrounds for breakfast, returning in the afternoon for the show. The tarps and chairs remain untouched throughout the day; Jamboree guests have deep respect for property rights.

The tarp run is no joke. If you or your representatives do not participate, you can forget about getting a decent seat for the concert. As one woman told me, "You won’t even find a place to put a Tic Tac on the ground."

All tarps must be removed after each show, so the run starts again every morning. The first day, I got in line with my turquoise tarp just after 6 a.m. for the 8 a.m. gate opening. I was pleased with my position; I counted only about 50 people in front of me. Considering that at least 10 of these people were drinking beer and another dozen had beer bellies so big that they looked pregnant, I wasn’t worried about the competition.

But I soon realized a big problem: I had no idea which direction to run. (Imagine competing in a 100-yard dash and not knowing where to find the finish line.) Everyone, it seemed, had a different idea of a good seat. Some valued proximity to the stage, while others argued that sitting up front would cause permanent hearing damage. Some were touting a specific plot of land "about 20 feet behind the blue B and 30 feet left of the green C" — or something like that. Clearly, experience counted more than fitness.

I also learned that, in addition to the competition lined up at our gate, we would be running against a larger group that would be released from the Main Gate at the top of a big hill. Having farther to run, the Main Gate herd would be set free a few minutes before us and would be heading toward us at a diagonal. I was advised to watch out so that I wouldn’t be broadsided.

Standing in line for the Run of the Tarps, the mad dash to secure prime territory for the day's concert.

On our end, this whole operation was coordinated by a guy in a pink shirt and cow-patterned baseball cap whose name tag identified him as Denny Schwing. Denny looked like Don Knotts, only taller, and appeared to be quite enamored with his Walkie Talkie.

At a few minutes before 8, the crowd was getting restless, chanting, "Let us in! Denny Schwing, let us in!"

By the time Denny signaled his troops to open the gate, my brain was so filled with advisories that I was hopelessly confused and even a bit fearful. With my adrenaline pumping, I ran like hell toward the middle of the field, chose a spot at random and unfurled my tarp. It was all over in a matter of seconds. I was pleased when the three women in front of me said this was the exact same spot they’d chosen for eight consecutive years.

Having achieved a fair amount of success on the first tarp run, I was feeling pretty good about myself on Day 2 when I was unexpectedly presented with an ethical dilemma. I was making the 20-minute trek from our trailer to the gate when I came up on a small woman carrying a tarp so big and bulky that she kept dropping it.

"That’s quite a load you’ve got there," I said. She told me she was the only one among her group willing to get up this early, as they’d been up late at the hospital with a friend who’d broken his ankle while jumping out of a truck in a drunken stupor. After hearing her tale of woe, I felt like it would have been cruel to ditch her. Besides, technically, Mission: Implausible had begun and I did feel a bit of pressure to be useful.

Aunt Shari gives her seal of approval to the tarp location after the great tarp run.

On the other hand, the woman was slowing me down, and this was, after all, a competition. I thought: When I compete in a bike race, do the faster girls slow their pace and wait for me? They do not. So why would I sacrifice a potentially excellent tarp space for a woman I don’t even know?

I couldn’t think of a reason, except that abandoning her just didn’t seem right. So I plodded along at her tedious pace, grimacing as dozens of people passed us. Apparently, however, I earned some good karma and ended up with a fine spot on the grass.

On Day 3, the stakes were higher. The gates would open at 6 a.m., and the crowds would be much larger, the competition more fierce. Although I wasn’t thrilled about the lineup — featuring the Bellamy Brothers, Billy Ray Cyrus (gag me), Kenny Chesney and Alabama — I was not about to get shut out of a choice seat. So I set the alarm in the trailer for 3:30.

As I power-walked with my tarp in the darkness, my head pounding from three hours’ sleep, I busted out in laughter at the absurdity of it all. When you got right down to it, I had woken up in the middle of the night to make sure I got a good seat to watch a guy sings "She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy." (That’s Kenny Chesney, for those not in the know.) I laughed so loud that a Sheriff’s deputy on horseback trotted over to see if I was okay.

When I got to the line, Denny Schwing hadn’t yet arrived, and one of his underlings was on a real power trip. "There will be no running with chairs or stakes," she admonished us. "I repeat. There will be no running with chairs or stakes. Keep your tarps rolled up tight. I don’t want to lose anyone."

Her tone did not go over well with the crowd.

"That lady needs to get laid," one guy shouted.

"Someone get her to a trailer —fast," another guy chimed in.

"She’s so mean she couldn’t even get some in a trailer around here — and that’s saying something," shouted another.

Finally, Denny arrived and the crowd settled down. I felt secure about where I was headed, and when the gate opened, I ran directly to my chosen spot and whipped open my tarp like a pro. I shook hands with my new neighbor, Matt, and promptly fell asleep on my tarp.

An hour later, Aunt Shari arrived with our two lawn chairs. She was impressed with the plot of land I’d secured, our best yet.

"Suzanne," she said, "you did good."

Doing good — is that not what Mission: Implausible is all about?

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Blackwater Blues

In defense of the port-a-john

Anchorage, Alaska, July 19 -- On my flight to Anchorage for the wheelchair race, I read in the New York Times that Arkansas governor Mike Huckabee and his wife, Janice, held a press conference to announce that, contrary to news reports, they will not be moving into a trailer.

"Trailers are pulled behind pickup trucks," Janice explained to the national media. The structure into which she and the Governor would be moving was, in fact, a mobile home — a 3,200-square-foot triple-wide that would serve as the First Residence while the Governor’s Mansion undergoes remodeling.

Now, the Governor and Janice may not plan to reside in a trailer, but I spent all of last week living in one with my Aunt Shari and her weimariner, Gracie. The experience should not go unreported, particularly with regard to the restroom facilities.

First, some background. This was not a rented vehicle. My Aunt Shari — my mother’s sister -- purchased this trailer four months ago so she could haul her quarter horse to trail rides around the Midwest. If this does not sound to you like the behavior of a 55-year-old Jewish woman — particularly one related to my mother, -- you are correct. But that is why I asked Aunt Shari to accompany me to the Jamboree. She is not like the rest of my family: She lives in Kansas, likes country music and owns a trailer.

Aunt Shari and I met up in St. Louis — me having flown First Class on TWA, her having hauled the trailer from Kansas City in her three-quarter-ton Chevy Truck. We then embarked on a 550-mile, 11 1/2-hour journey across Illinios, Indiana and Ohio, followed by a four day stay at the Jamboree campground.

At a rest stop in Illinois on I-70, Aunt Shari went to walk her weimariner, Gracie, while Suzanne went to the trailer to get some snacks.

Originally, I had planned on learning everything I could about the operation of her trailer — what to do with all of the valves and hoses and knobs and levers and tanks. Attending the Super Bowl of Country Music may not have had any inherent value, but I was at least going to be of use to my Aunt Shari. The plan was short-lived.

The trailer and I got off to a rocky start when, at our very first rest stop in Illinois, I promptly got locked inside of it. Aunt Shari went off to walk Gracie, while I went back to the trailer to raid the cupboards for snack foods. I located the licorice and the Pringles (hey, we were riding in a trailer) and then discovered that I could not open the door. I tried pushing and pulling the handle. I tried clicking and unclicking the lock. I tried banging. I tried everything. I could not get out of the damn trailer.

The situation was somewhat urgent as my bladder was desperately full. Aunt Shari and I were both equipped with cell phones, but I did not have her number on me. I called my sister, Jennifer, in L.A. --- 2,000 miles away -- to see if she could give me the number, so I could call Aunt Shari — 200 feet away. Alas, reception was poor, and my sister hung up on me. Finally, Aunt Shari returned, wondering what exactly I was had been doing back there.

I can tell you one thing I had not been doing back there: using the toilet. Aunt Shari’s trailer does, indeed, have a toilet, a fact of which she is very proud. This toilet allows you to do everything you would normally do in a toilet -- except use toilet paper. If you flush toilet tissue down there, the container underneath gets filled up too quickly, and you have fewer opportunities to use the toilet before having to dump out the contents. I should tell you that the contents have a specific name: the "blackwater." However, I personally find that the term conjures up unpleasant images, so I prefer not to use it.

Aunt Shari had no such problem, however — either with using the toilet or with saying "blackwater." Several times a day she would remind me how lucky we were to have a toilet on board and how I’d better not flush tissue down there because "the blackwater gets filled too quickly."

Right here I should probably answer a couple of questions you have undoubtedly asked yourself:

Good questions. Okay, what you do with your toilet paper is put it in one of the dozens of plastic bags that Aunt Shari has scrunched up in a cabinet above the toilet. Then you place your plastic bag in the trash can to the right of the toilet, where it stays until you empty the garbage.

As for the blackwater: You step on a pedal underneath the toilet and the contents drop into a container down below. The blackwater container sits right next to the container for the graywater — the water that comes from the sink and shower. (I was far better able to deal with the term graywater than blackwater. Graywater. Graywater. Graywater. It doesn’t bother me at all.). Once the blackwater gets full, you have to empty it, and frankly, despite Aunt Shari’s enthusiasm and detailed explanation of the procedure involved, I cannot remember a single thing about it.

Thankfully, Aunt Shari and I did not have to implement this procedure at the Jamboree because there is a sanitation team that drives around in a golf cart-type vehicle and takes care of it all for you. I can’t really tell you anything more because when the sanitation team arrived, I pulled out my computer and and began to work feverishly on a Shape magazine article so that Aunt Shari would not invite me to observe.

Oops, I got ahead of myself. Let me return briefly to the part where I was locked in the trailer in Illinois. Despite my full bladder and Aunt Shari’s enthusiasm for the toilet in the trailer, I wanted very much to use the one at the Shell station — not only because that toilet did not involve foot pedals and because it gladly accepted toilet paper but also because the contents would be staying in Illinois.

Call me a princess, but I simply did not like the fact that if I did use the toilet in the trailer, the contents below would be traveling with us across I-70 all the way to Ohio.

Once Aunt Shari freed me from the trailer, I promptly used the restroom at the gas station — a pattern I sustained throughout the week. Every time we would stop at a restaurant or a gas station, I would make a run for the bathroom while she’d go back to the trailer. When we would regroup in the truck, she would say, "I don’t see why you keep going inside when we have a toilet right here." Inevitably this would be followed by a sentence including the term "blackwater." Like: "It’s such a great toilet. You just have to remember not to put toilet paper down there or the blackwater will get full too fast."

Aunt Shari seemed to have the opposite problem as me: She hated using any toilet that was not owned and operated by her. She had an extreme aversion to the porta-Johns at the Jamboree, which I found to be very high quality and nicely deodorized and most, importantly, somebody else’s responsibility to maintain.

In case you’re wondering, I did actually use the toilet in Aunt Shari’s trailer, but only in the middle of the night and only reluctantly. I would have been happy to open the door (a maneuver I finally mastered) and walk to the porta-Johns in the campground, but I would have woken Aunt Shari up in the process and she would have been insulted that I was not using her toilet and she probably would have felt compelled to remind me that I shouldn’t put toilet paper down there because the blackwater would get too full.

So it was easier to just hold my breath, use the damn toilet and go back to bed.

Given all of this, I’m sure you can understand why I did not take an interest in learning the inner workings of Aunt Shari’s trailer. By the first day, I had learned all I wanted to know about trailers and decided that this was one gap in my knowledge I was prepared to accept.

I will also say this: I am happy for the governor of Arkansas that he and Janice will not be moving into a trailer.

 

Coming Soon:

Suzanne's report on the tornado that threatened to cancel Lynyrd Skynyrd's performance.

Mike hides under his protective tarp during the tornado watch.

 

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