Author: Christy DeSmith

If you were born after, say, 1955, chances are you think clowns are scary. Whether your fear is rooted in pedophilic scandal, horror flicks, or a bad audience-participation experience, for you a bulbous red nose and size-100 shoes can turn a perfectly pleasant parade into a cavalcade of unease. “They don’t look all that friendly,” said Luverne Seifert, a good clown who lives in Minneapolis. “I mean, they have this macabre white make-up on… they’re not all that appealing.”

Lori Hurley, a good clown who lives in St. Paul and who was trained in the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus, has another theory about the younger generation’s deep-seated fear. “You never see a movie with a good clown in it,” she said, citing Killer Klowns from Outer Space and Stephen King’s It as examples.

Despite the bad reputation, both clowns take their discipline seriously, describing it in almost religious terms. “Once it’s a part of you, it is used in every aspect of your life,” said Hurley. “The art of clowning is really getting in touch with a different sense of self. It’s about being fully present in life, whatever you’re doing.”

The usually coltish Seifert became earnest when he described the difficult exercise of “finding your personal clown.” It was, he said, a humiliating process he underwent with his mentor, Pierre Byland. (Byland is best known around these parts for training the folks at Theatre de la Jeune Lune in clowning.) “You have to put yourself in the shit,” said Seifert. “First you find that state of tragedy, that state of humility. The next thing you do is work on a walk. Maybe your butt sticks out a little bit—you accentuate that. Or maybe you’re pigeon-toed; you find a way to increase that.”

If that sounds terribly degrading and sad, consider this other nagging stereotype: Clowns are lonely. Given their relative scarcity, they certainly cannot hang out in squads or workgroups, each finding solace in the others’ self-deprecating foolery. Even if clowns are rare, their popularity does appear to be building, at least in some circles. A few mainstream theater companies, like Children’s Theatre Company, are incorporating more clown work into productions. In August, the population of theater clowns in the Twin Cities nearly doubled after a group of young actors returned to Minnesota after studying in Switzerland.

There are several distinct clown genres, each with its own culture and look. Although Hurley traces her roots to the greatest show on Earth, these days she makes her living as a “close-up clown” (for hire at birthday parties and other special occasions). To some, it may seem she has finally landed in “the shit” with this career move, but she does not see it that way. “I left the circus because I was missing an intimate connection with an audience,” she said. With close-up clowning “you can look into their eyes and know if you are reaching them.”

While Hurley performs wearing traditional clown garb, Seifert prefers a more individualistic approach. This has, perhaps, a more European aesthetic, where personal characteristics and flaws define each clown’s costume. Seifert sees not a lot in common between his and Hurley’s work. “For me, the circus clown tends to find a trick,” he said. “It’s not so much about the persona. It’s not so much about the character.”

Hurley laments clown-certificate programs, fast courses designed to crank out clowns for companies that provide them for birthdays, rodeos, and so forth. “That lowers the standard for the real clowns who have invested in their training.” Of course, anyone can buy a rainbow-afro wig and a water-squirting boutonniere. Are real clowns offended by uncertified imposters? Seifert does not care. Hurley said, “If they are not dishonoring the profession, I say fine. Maybe they’ll one day catch the spirit of clowning.” —Christy DeSmith

This year, it seems like there are more serious bike riders than ever, judging by the proliferation of Lycra on city paths. The Twin Cities have long been the secret capital of cycling: Two of the world’s largest bike-parts wholesalers are headquartered here, some of the best bike frames are built here, and we may soon replace San Francisco as the epicenter of bike style—you know, courier bags, single-speed bikes, vintage wool jerseys, and so on. With the increased bike traffic, there is naturally a collective rise in blood pressure among the belligerent motoring class. While it’s not legal and it’s not nice to harass cyclists, one can indulge in a genteel form of sadism later this month by posing as a fan of bike racing.

On June 13, dozens of professional cyclists will arrive in Stillwater to race what is billed as “the toughest criterium in North America.” The culmination of the Nature Valley Grand Prix is Chilkoot Hill, a heartbreaking climb from the floor of the St. Croix River valley. The road will be reserved from curb to curb for the riders, all of whom will be in a world of pain.

“Chilkoot is primeval,” said David LaPorte, director of the Grand Prix. Cyclists tackle it on the final leg of a stage race that stretches over five days and takes riders to courses throughout the state. Like a miniature Tour de France, the rider who completes all five stages with the lowest cumulative time wins. But things change quickly on that hill. “Chilkoot is so brutal that riders can gain or lose huge amounts of time,” said LaPorte.

For some perspective on how discouraging Chilkoot is, imagine I-35 as it climbs south out of Duluth. That hill has a six percent grade, the maximum allowed on federal highways. Chilkoot has a twenty-four percent grade. It rises one hundred feet over a distance of seven hundred feet. It’s so steep that the city of Stillwater closes it during the winter, because the north-facing parts are too treacherous for driving. Naturally, this improves conditions for other kinds of sport. “I used to slide on it as a child,” said Sara Russell, a veteran cyclist who grew up not far from the hill.

“We created that monster a few years back,” Monty Brine said with a laugh. He is the Stillwater businessman who brought bike racing to Chilkoot in the seventies, mapping a course that included the hill because he knew its cruelty would create some dramatic publicity. That first race attracted a handful of amateur cyclists. They were supposed to attempt three laps on the course, but Brine estimates that eighty percent of the racers dropped out early.

The Grand Prix resurrected the course for professional riders in 2002. This year, racers ride the circuit for seventy minutes, tackling Chilkoot more than twenty times. After only a few climbs up the hill, “Your legs will start to give out because they’re full of lactic acid,” according to Russell. “They’re wasted! They’re trashed!”

In planning the first pro race in 2002, LaPorte made arrangements to install pedestrian barricades along Chilkoot. But when workers arrived to install them, they took one look at the hill and turned around. “They said, ‘You can’t put fencing on that hill. It’s too steep and it’ll slide down,’” said LaPorte. Without fences, the race has a European feel that cycling fans compare to watching Lance Armstrong approach a mountaintop finish in the Pyrenees; spectators stake out the best spots. As the day wears on, the crowd jams the hill, leaving riders only a narrow passageway up. “Spectators scream support just a few feet away with nothing in between,” said LaPorte. “It’s awesome.”

Of course, what goes up must come down. While the struggle up Chilkoot can make for some comedic outbursts, the downward slope is terrifying. Last year, a thunderstorm and high winds made for slick conditions and the race was momentarily halted after a violent crash. The incident struck fear into Russell. “You’re not going to die going up the hill, but you could die going down,” she said. —Christy DeSmith

Much is being made nationally of so-called “NASCAR dads,” allegedly a flag-waving bloc of voters who drive pick-up trucks, belong to the NRA, and tend to favor football and beer. The colloquial wisdom is that NASCAR dads are concentrated in the South, and in Indianapolis. But according to some experts, there is a healthy crop of them right here in Minnesota.

“Have you been to Brainerd? Have you been to Elko?” exclaimed Bill Hillsman, a political strategist and advertising guru. Brainerd International Raceway and Elko Speedway are real racetracks, and one should not be surprised to learn that real NASCAR dads congregate there. But Minnesota’s dads are also hunters, snowmobilers, and guys with cabins. They populate key districts in the state stretching from St. Cloud down to Mankato. “Whoever gets those votes will win the election,” said Hillsman.

So how did the NASCAR dad displace the soccer mom as the punditocracy’s favorite swing voter? “They resonate with a national leader who is strong and decisive and doesn’t take guff,” explained Larry Jacobs, the director of the 2004 elections project at the University of Minnesota’s Humphrey Institute. Nationally, the dads overwhelmingly supported George W. Bush in the 2000 election. His brand of “compassionate conservatism” apparently resonated with a group of voters whose beliefs don’t neatly align with either party. On issues like gay rights, the death penalty, and military spending, the dads tend to side with Bush. But like Democrats, they fear corporate greed and job loss while they support generous funding for their kids’ schools. “‘NASCAR dads’ is a new label for a persistent swing bloc of voters,” said Jacobs.

Minnesota delivered its electoral votes to the Democratic candidate in 2000—and has a long history of doing so. But according to Hillsman, Minnesota liberalism has slowly eroded during the past several elections, culminating in 2002 with the victories of Norm Coleman and Tim Pawlenty. In light of this, Republicans are promising a drag race for Minnesota’s ten electoral votes. What was no-man’s land for Bush in 2000 now appears to be a key state.

It’s not so much that Minnesota NASCAR dads lean to the right. They lean whichever way they feel like leaning. In other words, they vote independently, and this has led to some surprising results in the past fifteen years. It is possible that Minnesota NASCAR dads are responsible for both Jesse Ventura and Paul Wellstone, two of our more unique politicos.

Bill Morris, a former Republican Party chair and renowned pollster, says that Ventura’s election is what makes Minnesota’s NASCAR dads so special. “Our data suggest that they are a big part of his support coalition,” he said. Like Bush, Ventura exuded the toughness, masculinity, and folksy American values that the dads find appealing. Just so, Ventura was a loud independent, which underlines the fact that NASCAR dads in Minnesota are not blindly loyal to soft-headed Republicanism the way they seem to be elsewhere.

And that’s where the Democrats come into the picture. “There is a cultural dimension to the Democratic Party that these guys find really off-putting,” said Jacobs. “The Democratic Party comes off like a bunch of sissies.” But poor grammar and bad attitude aren’t necessarily going to win their vote this time around. Since the elections of Coleman and Pawlenty, the dads have grown increasingly nervous about jobs and irritated about Iraq. Both Morris and Jacobs agree that the Dems have a fighting chance with the dads, so long as they focus on issues like economic stimulus, job security, NAFTA, and corporate corruption. “The Democrats’ economic populism is aimed at NASCAR dads,” said Jacobs. “It’s not over yet.” To see where the rubber hits the road on this issue, I called Elko and Brainerd. But officials at both tracks were busy, either opening for the new racing season, or reading The Nation. —Christy DeSmith

On a cold winter evening, a crowd of John Kerry supporters bundled themselves in scarves and parkas before venturing to Old Chicago for a regularly scheduled happy hour. When I arrived, I stood briefly near the entrance, scanning the room for a raucous group of politicos clanking glasses and spilling beer. Instead, I was directed to a table where a sedate group of ten had gathered. A few beers were scattered around the table, but mostly people were drinking Coca-Colas and tea. As I was removing my mittens and making my acquaintances, a confused young man approached us and asked, “Is this the Willing to Fight meeting?”

“Umm, no,” someone offered pointedly. This was not the local arm of pro-war zealots that go by that name. “You’ll want to see that group of white guys over there.” Everyone chuckled as the young man walked away, but of course I didn’t see a black face among us. We, too, were a bunch of white guys. Our only claim to diversity was a gay couple, white, sitting primly, listening attentively. Also in our midst: two middle-aged couples, a strapping lawyer all the way in from Andover, and Mark, our fearless leader. Mark was a modern-day minuteman in a brown bomber jacket. Armed with a folder of statistics, he could rattle off Kerry’s record on NAFTA, job creation, or foreign policy at a moment’s notice. “There’s no way the Republicans can challenge John Kerry’s credentials on national security,” he said, reiterating the most obvious asset of the campaign. Mark acknowledged the contributions of other candidates but concluded that Kerry represents the Democrats’ best chance at the White House. The group agreed, listening as Mark laid out his argument. After a half hour, when our attention flagged, Mark promptly excused himself, having finished the job he set out to do. “Can we have the next one in Coon Rapids?” joked one of the women soberly.

Across town a week later, supporters of General Wesley Clark rented a basement room at Awada’s to convene their happy-hour festivities. I was greeted at the threshold with a jar full of Clark candy bars, live Brazilian music and a long table featuring a beautiful display of Wesley Clark swag. I quickly stashed a few stickers and buttons into my pockets. In just a few days, these would turn out to be collectibles!

Clark people were different than Kerry people. Their teeth were whiter. They wore business suits or turtleneck sweaters. When two state lawmakers showed up, the party really got underway. The head count peaked at just over twenty, with partygoers huddling into cliques with their friends. Old high school chums who had grown up to become lawyers or advertising executives swilled drinks and shook hands while exchanging vague testimonials on Clark’s electability. Later, David, the cheerful attorney who’d organized this soiree, announced the screening of a short film on General Clark’s life. All present formed a half-circle around the big-screen TV and politely applauded.

At Nye’s, Howard Dean supporters were gathered in a back room. Given Dean’s stunning declension in Iowa and New Hampshire, I expected to find a small gaggle drowning their sorrows in cheap beer and polka. Instead, I found a diverse group of about thirty. They all seemed to be disheveled after traveling the country on behalf of their candidate. Sure, there were long faces among them—they certainly drank more than the Kerry crowd—but overall, they were a motivated, inspired, and energized bunch. They engaged in robust political discussion and exchanged tips on canvassing technique.

Inevitably, the conversation went south. There were harsh words for Kerry, Edwards, Clark, and, ultimately, Bush. Even so, the smack-talk maintained a certain elevation, since these people were well versed on the records of all the candidates. Still, they acknowledged Dean had suffered a seemingly irreversible blow. “I’m really pissed off at our party!” said Dale, the young, curly-headed leader of this group. Holding a Corona in his left hand while pursing a lime between the fingers of his right, he gestured wildly. It was intolerable to him how party insiders had torpedoed his man. Conversation devolved into a lament about Dean’s dim political future. “It’s like rooting for the Vikings,” moaned one Dean supporter, consoling himself with another swallow of beer.—Christy DeSmith

Masha Frank is late for work. Hugging a mug of black tea between her knees, she throws her car into drive and starts buckling her seatbelt. She is listening to Carte Blanche Volume 1 and it’s getting boring fast. As she merges onto I-35W, she momentarily compromises her view of the road to stretch her fingertips in the direction of a new CD, stashed in the door pocket on the passenger side of her Hyundai. Driving is tedious, Frank says. She craves something to occupy her racing mind. So music and speed are her distractions. She turns up the volume as she darts through traffic on the busy freeway. It is, she says, like choreography.

“Lots of times I imagine being in a race, like I weave in and out of cars. I don’t always use my signal,” she says. “I always wear a seatbelt, but I don’t even put it on right away before I start. I do that as I’m pulling out of the block, with one hand, and one hand holding my mug, and my knee…driving. It’s pretty crazy.”

The only possible explanation for Frank’s unashamed confession is that someone or something else is to blame. Caffeine? Techno? It is adult Attention Deficit Disorder, a condition that affects her and thousands of other adults. As a recent TV campaign makes clear, ADD and its cousin, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD), used to be considered kids’ diseases. Only recently have psychologists found that ADD is a highly genetic disorder—more inheritable than, say, height—that persists into adulthood. Those same kids who wiggled in their seats and threw spitballs while your math teacher lectured on obtuse triangles? They’re all grown up now, and they’ve gotten behind the wheel. ADD adults are characterized as being impulsive, easily distracted, and unable to stay focused. This doesn’t bode well for their insurance premiums.

Researchers at the Medical University of South Carolina are using a high-tech driving simulator to study ADD drivers. Their research proves what is probably obvious to the rest of us: These drivers are at a greater risk for automobile accidents, speeding tickets, and even road rage than their calmer, less impulsive counterparts.

“If there’s an obstacle in the distance, a non-ADD adult will slow down, check what it is, and make a decision whether they need to pull over to the side of road, stop completely, or keep going,” says Dr. Deborah Anderson. She is a licensed psychologist using the driving simulator to research the effect of ADD on driving. Conversely, she says, drivers with ADD tend to speed up and go around the obstacle before they even know what it is.

Many adults may secretly envy those with attention disorders. It’s an open secret that functional ADD folks can be astonishingly productive. In other words, hyperactivity can sometimes lead to over-achievement. One Minneapolis woman I know spent a recent Sunday running thirteen miles, working a part-time job, keeping two business appointments, going grocery shopping, completing a school assignment, calling her mother, and finishing the day with a beer. She described it as a “restful day.”

Still, this kind of nervous energy has its downside, especially when you try to contain it in an automobile. Back on the roads, Frank recently backed into a parked car and got speeding tickets on two consecutive days. Professor Anderson says Masha and others with ADD are not willfully negligent while driving. Rather, their brains do not have the capability “to naturally consider the consequences of various actions, and choose the one with the most favorable outcome.” Meanwhile, Frank safely makes it to work, even if she occasionally steers with her left knee.—Christy DeSmith

“Those gals look pretty darn nice in them,” quipped Minnesota marathon legend Dick Beardsley, referring to the extremely short shorts that elite women marathoners seem to prefer. “To me they look uncomfortable.” They are commonly called bun-huggers, but on the package, they’re called running briefs. While most of the guys along the Twin Cities Marathon course will be covering as much leg as possible, the fastest women will be wearing obscenely skimpy shorts. Nobody seems to know why women wear them and men don’t, but who can explain fashion, let alone sports fashion? Probably it has to do with animal instincts. Everyone believes that a pair of shaven, muscular thighs has the ability to psyche out the opponent. (This seems to be especially true in track and field, volleyball, and tennis—but not, curiously, in women’s basketball or soccer.)

There’s talk of spawning a bun-hugger movement, and it’s not a conspiracy hatched by male oglers. “We’re trying to get more people to wear them,” said Sharon Stubler, an elite runner who, at 38, concedes that she may be too old to be wearing her underwear in public. For reasons of modesty, most citizen runners opt for longer shorts, popularly called “fat boys” or “baggies.” Novices in the sport believe that these shorts will cover the unsightly, fleshy inner thighs. But in truth, they have an annoying tendency to creep up in the middle. If you wear a pair for the long haul, you’ll spend the better part of 26.2 miles yanking out snuggies and tugging at the hem of your shorts.

How to avoid this frumpy fate? Bun-huggers! These little shorts are guaranteed to stay in place because they take the opposite approach to the problem: They’re supposed to stay tethered to your crotch and stuck up your behind. You’ll end the race just as you started it: with your voluptuous thighs nakedly exposed.

The very first time I successfully jogged around Lake Calhoun without stopping, it occurred to me: I should run a marathon. It was late fall. I was wearing an oversized T-shirt and sweat pants cut off at mid-thigh. I imagined my training would earn me svelte, long legs that looked great in more revealing shorts. But as the marathon neared, I realized that my inner thighs had maintained some of their famous curves. My first reflex was to reach for the fat boys. Cover them up! As my mileage increased, my tolerance for shorts that rode up decreased. Soon, I found myself standing at the start of the Twin Cities Marathon in lewdly short running shorts. Dick Beardsley would not have been so impressed.

At the sporting goods store, I encounter female marathoners grappling with the running-short dilemma. The beady eyes of an average runner dart up and down the aisles of the apparel department, searching for some compassion in a sea of blue, black, gray, and white stripes. Wives shout to their husbands from behind the dressing room door: “No, I won’t come out. I look like a hippopotamus!” Serious running shorts are a wardrobe of intimidation and accusation. When it comes down to it, the emasculating designers at Nike and Adidas have no sympathy for biology.

The average woman at the running store is built with thighs that rub together when she walks or runs. Unless harnessed or eliminated, fat deposits will cause her inner thighs to rub raw during a marathon. Her dilemma: Bun-huggers leave her thighs in harm’s way, fat boys ride up. She is just about to throw her hands in the air and take up cycling, where her legs can cocoon in a pair of biker shorts.

As an aspiring marathoner hoping to emulate the go-fast crowd, I took another tip from the elites and turned to a skin lubricant. Most runners, including Dick Beardsley—whose thighs do, in fact, rub together—slather this stuff onto their inner thighs before each run. With lube, even I could wear bun-huggers. Last year, my legs happily swished along for the entire race. Just to be on the safe side, I greased up again at around mile 19, where the National Guard made generous offerings of Vaseline. On I went, gracefully gliding along Summit Avenue, turning heads all along the way. —Christy DeSmith