Yesterday I got overtaken by a female runner wearing full brief underwear beneath her shorts. I am not convinced this is a comfortable way to run. I am not a fan of the full nicker at the best of times, but definitely not when I’m moving my legs in a continuous motion that has the dual action of propelling me forward, and most definitely sending poorly selected underwear right up my nether regions. While I studied her rump from behind, I considered what it is about her shaped bottom that prevents such wardrobe malfunctions from occurring. For a white chick, I’ve got a rather round butt. It’s relatively high too and there must be something about its design that prevents underwear from staying where they’re originally intended. If that were me, I would spend the whole run trying to decide whether to pick the offending material out of my crack and risk the chuckles of the runners behind, or leave the wad of fabric stuck up my butt and still risk the chuckles of the runners behind.
These are the things you consider on a 20 kilometre run. That’s right folks. Twenty whole k’s. In a not so respectable time of closer to two hours than an hour and a half.
Whenever Gregory is having a rough day and feels like I may have something to do with it, he calls me Big Enemy. Well, yesterday my body was Big Enemy. It took me nine kilometres just to get into stride. I stopped and started a few times at lights which really messes with your groove, had eaten some nuts evidently too close to running and was fairly tight in the abdomen the whole way, and then those nuts worked their way through my system (I think all the jostling sends things through your colon faster than a shot of castor oil) so I then spent the last ten k’s needing to go to the bathroom.
It was, at least, quite a beautiful run; into the city, around the back of Glebe and towards the fish markets, which also messed with my running mojo. It’s hard to maintain an even intake of breath when you’re gagging on the smell of fish guts every time you inhale. Around another few bays, over the Anzac Bridge (being overtaken by fearless bikers on their daily commute) then down to my usual run to make up the extra distance. The toughest part was running directly past my house and not stopping, but I paralleled it to my life, and the frequent times I’ve wanted to sit in a pile of mud and not pursue the arts, yet I’ve found the will to get up and try again.
I worked my way through Muse and the Russians and then plodded home to some gentle Colin Hay singing about his beautiful world. His might be, mine definitely wasn’t.
Upon my return, I refrained from kissing my husband hello owing to some seriously powerful runner’s breath – similar to singer’s breath I suspect. You know, when you’ve been consuming more oxygen than the average Joe and sticky bits collect in the side of your mouth, your tongue gets thick and you feel like you’ve swallowed a cat. It’s not pretty.
I showered, then inhaled a delicious dinner of roasted vegetables and steak, and promptly followed it with a plateful of salt that I all but got down and licked to replace my depleted sodium supply.
Running is not an elegant activity.
And so today I rest, which (according to my Half Marathon Training Guide) is what I was meant to do yesterday. Ah well, I’m already five weeks out of sync, what’s another day?