I took up running many moons ago after a colleague suggested I was a lazy fucker for not making it to the gym. Not quite his words but his sentiment.
“You see, the problem is,” argued me, “I work so late most nights I cannot seem to find the time or energy.”
“Rubbish,” exploded he, “do it first thing in the morning, up from bed and out the door, paratrooper style, don’t even think about it, hit the deck and go, run, run, run.”
It was not the first time I had taken advice about doing something paratrooper style, and from an ex-para. Damn good advice as well. Front end load the pain and misery, get it over with early in the day, that’s the ticket.
I have previously suffered runner’s nipple: The chaffing of nipples due to prolonged friction with shirt. To be fair, I don’t even have to be running, I can get it from drinking in the pub. Well, drinking, and frequently massaging my own moobs in large circular motions in public spaces.
This week I am cantering the final stretch of my regular London jaunt across the Millennium Bridge to Embankment. Like a salmon spawning upstream I am caught in a tidal onslaught, of the office worker variety.
Head steady, eyes forward fixed, I am blankly staring into the eyes of the oncoming hoards. I notice a pattern emerging in those of the fairer sex. Many engage in eye contact on approach, and then drop their eyes to my groin before I pass.
I mean really, shocking. It’s not like you catch me gaping at the vital parts of the fairer se…well anyway, that’s not at issue here.
Mr. Happy and the lads aren’t on parade. It is a cold morning. They’re stuffed into my tight fighting Nike running pants. The poor fellas have already done 5K and are exhausted, though I am feeling the pain of last evening’s martinis and have been known to go titanium in a jiff, often without noticing.
What’s more shocking is the occasional trouser pilot snatching a glance, and smirking.
I must immediately review the annals of Runner’s World to seek a remedy for this.