Whose Panties Are These?
More Misadventures from Funny Women on the Road

An anthology edited by Jen Leo, with a story by Suzanne Schlosberg

• Read Suzanne's story • About the anthology • About Travelers' Tales • Buy it at Powell's or Amazon

Finally! The Long-Awaited Sequel To Sand In My Bra

If you thought Sand in My Bra was funny, stop what you're doing and order yourself a copy of Whose Panties Are These? second in an award-winning series of the best in women's travel and humor writing. In addition to Suzanne's pre-dawn adventures among a sea of beer-drinking, tarp-wielding country-music fans in Ohio, you'll read about a woman who gorged on Lebanese chicken to increase her breast size, a bride who battled hemorrhoids on her honeymoon in Holland and oh-so-much more. For details about this sidesplitting anthology, go to whosepanties.com.

Here's the Panties selection by Suzanne.

See How She Runs
Securing Prime Tarp Real Estate In Ohio

It was a coincidence perhaps unprecedented for any one family: On the very weekend that my cousin Mark participated in the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona, Spain, I took part in the running of the tarps in Morristown, Ohio.

Less dangerous than the bull run but, I submit, no less exhilarating, the tarp run is the stampede to claim prime territory for your lawn chairs at the Jamboree in the Hills, an annual festival known as the Super Bowl of Country Music.

The Jamboree itself is a mesmerizing phenomenon: Every July 100,000 country-music fans wearing cowboy hats and swimsuits convene on an enormous grassy field, hauling custom-made wagons loaded with coffin-sized beer coolers. I had stumbled onto the event several years earlier while on a cross-country bicycle tour and stayed for a couple hours, vowing to one day return for the entire festival. This time I road-tripped to Morristown with my aunt Shari, the only member of my family back in Los Angeles who thought the Jamboree sounded like fun rather than the worst vacation idea they had ever heard of.

I NEED A FRAPPUCINO At 4 a.m., Suzanne sits in line awaiting the Running of the Tarps.

I learned about the tarp run while standing in line at the porta-potties the afternoon before the show was to open and overheard two beefy men talking strategy.

"You gotta bunch up your tarp real tight to eliminate wind resistance," said the heftier of the two, sporting a Confederate-flag bandanna.

"Yeah, and you gotta focus really hard on the spot you want," offered the other guy, bursting out of a Harley Davidson t-shirt. "It's all about focus. "

I asked what they were talking about and the Confederate-flag guy, a veteran of nine Jamborees, gave me the lowdown. In short: each group designates a "runner," who wakes up before dawn to stand in line for several hours outside the concert venue. When the gates fling open, there's a mad rush toward the grassy field in front of the stage. Quickly unfurling your tarp, you stake your claim and wait for your backup team to arrive with the chairs, which you then plant securely on the tarp. The tag-team approach is essential because running with lawn chairs was outlawed a while back for safety reasons. "Some lady got whacked in the head," the flag guy explained.

With your territory secured, you stroll back to the campground, then return in the afternoon for the start of the show. You needn't worry about anyone messing with your tarp or your chairs, he assured me. "We all got respect for property rights."

Unlike the Pamplona bull run, the tarp run isn't something you do for kicks. It's a necessity. If you or your representatives don't participate, you can forget about getting a decent seat for the concert. Saunter over to the hillside when the stampede is over, one woman cautioned me, "and honey, you won't even find a place to put a Tic Tac on the ground."

THE CLOCK IS TICKING Suzanne plots strategy as the crowd swells and the tarp run nears.

I hadn't traveled so far just to find a seat in the next county. Besides, the whole concept got my competitive juices flowing and, as a bike racer, I appeared to be a bit more fit than the average Jamboree attendee. Aunt Shari was happy when I eagerly volunteered to be our runner.

I felt slightly less eager at 4 o'clock the next morning, when the alarm clock in our trailer buzzed. "Get us a good seat," Aunt Shari mumbled as she rolled over in her bed.

While I power-walked with my turquoise tarp in the darkness, my head pounding from four hours' sleep, I couldn't believe that I was waking up this early a) on vacation, b) for an event that wasn't going to start for ten hours, and c) for a concert whose headliner's big hit was called "She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy."

I zipped past a couple dozen people on my way to the nearest gate and upon arriving, around 4:30 a.m., was pleased with my position. There were only about 50 people lined up in front of me. Considering that at least two dozen of them were drinking beer, I figured my chances of success were good.

For the first two hours, the crowd was fairly low energy — mostly we just lolled on the ground and slept. But as the sun began to crest over the hills, the crowd at my gate swelled to several hundred and I could feel the anticipation building.

Then suddenly it dawned on me: I had no idea which direction to run. As I eavesdropped on conversations, I realized people had very different ideas of a good seat. Some felt the closer to the stage the better, while others argued that sitting up front would make your eardrums explode. Some were touting a specific spot "about 25 feet behind the B section and 30 feet to the left of the C sign" — or something like that. I began to worry that experience counted more than fitness.

The task seemed even more daunting when I learned we would be running against a much larger stampede 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 hurtling toward us at high speeds from a diagonal. "Watch out or you just might get broadsided," one woman warned me.

With 15 minutes to go before the gates opened, a man in a pink shirt and a cow-patterned baseball cap appeared carrying a walkie-talkie. His nametag identified him as Denny Schwing, and he appeared to be in charge. At this point, the crowd had swelled to the thousands and was getting restless, chanting, "DEN-NY SCHWING, LET US IN! DEN-NY SCHWING, LET US IN!"

By the time Denny signaled his troops to open our gate, my brain was so crammed with advisories that I was hopelessly confused, not to mention a bit fearful. Instantly, thousands of bodies were hurtling across the field in every direction, as if someone had yelled "Fire!" Adrenaline pumping, I clenched my tarp in one hand and sprinted toward the front, center part of the grass, pumping my arms in a protective semi-circle around me and exaggerating my knee lift so I wouldn't trip. I suspect I looked something like Richard Simmons doing high-impact aerobics.

After about 30 seconds, I realized people were already whipping out their tarps, so I abruptly unfurled mine and pounced on it, without even looking for the stage. Breathless, I sat down to collect myself and was awestruck by the sea of tarps around me. I seemed to be in excellent proximity to the stage, neither too close nor too far, though I wouldn't find out for sure until the concert started.

YOU GO, GIRL! Aunt Shari gives her seal of approval to the tarp territory Suzanne secured.

I promptly conked out and was awoken an hour later when Aunt Shari arrived with our lawn chairs. She was impressed with the parcel I'd secured, especially when the three women on the tarp next to ours said this was the same exact spot they'd gone after for eight consecutive years.

"Well, babe," Aunt Shari said, "looks like you're a natural."

That night, the crowd went nuts when Kenny Chesney sang about his sexy tractor. But personally, sitting on the best plot of grass in eastern Ohio, I felt like I was the star.

Until it dawned on me: If I wanted my seat back tomorrow, I was going to have to get up at 4 a.m. and do it all over again.