If herding cats were an Olympic sport, this event would certainly have qualified for a medal. Here’s what took place. I was asked by our NOW women’s Team Captain, Louise, if I would coordinate an upcoming photo shoot for our women’s cycling team. Well, having been “in the biz” for enough years to run it with my eyes closed from my couch, I say “sure”.

Let me preface by saying I have directed shoots with animals, children, young petulant fashion models and food. Right there, I have more than enough marketing and creative experience for some of Wall Street’s top Fortune 500 companies.

Looking back on this particular occasion, all I can say is my experience was completely irrelevant. Trying to conduct a shoot with 16 women was more like trying to swim to shore strapped to a patio umbrella. I’m sure that’s not anywhere on my resume.

Walking into to Louise’s condo I immediately find my team of gals already on wine bottle number three. Nothing gets done without wine; it’s their prelude to just about anything once you’re off the bike.

So, I think OK, they are here, excited to do this and having a great time. The photographer is ready and in his best effort attempting to get one girl, any girl to come stand in front of the camera. Obviously, shooting women racing bikes is far different than shooting women without them because they just keep right on drinking and gabbing as if he were Claude Rains; the invisible man.

I collect the cats and herd them upstairs for some grooming. We need to change into our jeans and blank tank tops, a fashion look we have adopted as “our look” even though you can find it anywhere among the streets of LA, all day long. We like it and so it’s ours.

I change and head into the bathroom where I am surprised to find “The Next Top Model” in full swing: lips, eyes, foundation, hair, checking, rechecking and the inevitable comparing, then more adjusting.
Wow, what ever happened to the natural athletic look? I guess Flo Jo pretty much sent that packing.

One by one I get the cats to stand in front of the camera and all is purring along. Soon it’s time to go outside for the group shots. While the house is in a dull roar now with 16 women all competing to be heard at the same time (women are remarkably adept at talking and listening to one another simultaneously-a skill set men absolutely cannot comprehend). There is yet another clothing change now into our team kits, but this goes remarkably better than I expect.

We are outside at the beach, on a little grassy knoll in a park. All good except the sun is rapidly falling out to the sky, the wind has kicked up and it is FREEZING!

Sixteen girls are now huddled together, shivering, giggling, non-stop joking and hair flying about. It looks like Top Model went to Antarctica. The grousing is so loud no one can hear a thing the photographer is saying. He just looks like one of those guys on the deck of a carrier ship that signals when the jets should take off, only no one cares about any of the signals.

Just as this could not get more out of control, it does. A neighbor of Louise’s has spotted us on our grassy knoll and has decided we look thirsty, three bottles of Champagne thirsty. The team cheers and breaks formation like it was a sale at Bloomies.

Photo by: VeloImages.com/Brian Hodes

“Sure, thanks” I say to myself. “Why not bring out some sugary candy or better yet, some cocaine. We can just start the shoot in 3 days, by then no one will care what they look like!” (Hmmm…note to self should I have to do this again).

It takes another 20 minutes to get a Follies line up and by now the sun is falling faster than a toolbox. Finally, the team falls into total, obedient, compliance as if they just graduated from Wilson’s finishing school for women.

Photo by: VeloImages.com/Brian Hodes

I look toward the heavens and give thanks for Melatonin and some tasty cheese dip.

VeloImages.com
NOW Women’s Racing