Now anyone meeting me for the first time might be surprised to learn that I’m a regular runner. Not that you could tell by looking at me, but it’s true. About every other day or so, I leave the house early and jog along the Hudson River from 22nd Street to Battery Park. Well, I don’t so much jog as I plod, which might explain why several years of regular running has failed to shape the rounded contours of my soft body. Sometimes I run with E—, sometimes with S—, but most mornings I can be found trudging along, lost in a good brood, practicing my Russian vocabulary words, or staring wantonly at other runners whose lithe and well-muscled bodies seem to have been appropriately compensated for their efforts.
So why do I bother? I’d like to tell you that I’m training for the Marathon or even just doing it for my heart or other reasons relating to some degree of fitness. But I’d be lying. Sadly, I run because I’m an insomniac. It gives me something to do in those lonely morning hours when most people are sleeping. So when I find myself wide-eyed but not quite bushy tailed at four in the early morning, I’m consoled by the knowledge that I can go running in a couple of hours and that by the time I’m back home and showered, the rest of the world would be rising and shining themselves.
In addition to killing a couple of morning hours, jogging so regularly lends me a bit of respectability otherwise sorely lacking in my life. When someone learns of my early morning regimen, I like to think that they say, “Wow, Kevin’s really got his act together!” Of course they’d be mistaken, but sometimes I even fall for it myself. At the end of a day spent watching too much television, surfing the Internet, or otherwise procrastinating when I should be working, writing, or doing something of some value to myself and others, I can tell myself “At least you went for a good long run. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
I employ the same strategy when I tell someone I’m writing a novel. It seems to have the same effect. When someone learns that you’re writing a novel, it’s not so much important that you actually finish it or do any real writing. The simple fact that you have this mammoth project looming large in your life is impressive enough and often comes off as rather admirable. So after a weekend of spending far too much money on drinks and ultimately making an utter fool of myself, when asked about what I did, I can honestly say, “I got together with friends and went running…oh, and then there’s the novel….” A winning trinity: the impression of friends, health, and the solitary labor of the writer.
But just as someone will eventually corner you and ask to see a chapter from you novel, forcing you to put your money where your mouth is, it is inevitable that you’ll run into someone you know while you're running in the city. In these instances, I feel compelled to pick up the pace, subdue my wheezing, and try to mask any signs of nausea. You’d think that appearing exhausted would work to my advantage in these instances, but I really think it’s a hard sell. The first time I ran into S— on the running path, she was jogging toward me in slick, form-fitting athletic garb: tight, black lycra shorts and a turquoise racer-back tank-top/jog bra. Both items bore the Nike Swoosh(™), which struck me as remarkably out of character for the usually fashionable S—. Even her little ankle socks sported the Adidas logo. But she looked great, regardless. The outfit flattered her surprisingly small frame, inspiring a why-I-had-no-idea moment. Usually decked out in jeans and bowling shirts or vintage dresses and skirts, I was taken aback by the long lines of her smooth, sweat-bespeckled muscles. Me, I was wearing whatever shorts and T-shirt that were laying on the floor of my closet: a pair of khaki cut-offs, an old green T-shirt suggesting I had been to Dublin, and a pair of sneakers that should have been thrown out years ago. Whereas she wore a healthy glow on her face, I looked liked some sweaty Dungeon Master desperately in search of a Coke machine and a bag of Doritos.
Somewhere along the way, manufacturers of athletic wear got it into their heads that Turquoise and fuchsia were the colors of decatholoners, and that Olympians preferred to wear crotch-hugging clothing emblazoned with corporate logos. Since they had failed to ask for my advice, I refused to shell out good money to dress up like a gay billboard or maybe it’s just that didn’t think I could pull it off. Besides, people look ridiculous in sports attire when they’re not exercising, take the Italians in Brooklyn or the Russians in Brighton Beach? If they don’t look like clowns then they look vaguely criminal. It’s not by accident that the Romanian mafia is referred to collectively as “The Athletes.”
But bumping into S— gave me second thoughts. In proper context, this kind of clothing is completely appropriate. And come to think of it, all the cut-offs were offering me was chaffed thighs, not to mention horrified stares from passers-by upon noticing my sweat-sodden pants when I was finished with my run. A sweaty, red-faced man, in wet pants — a look counter productive to achieving my “Kevin’s got his shit together” persona. As long as I only wore them when I was exercising, I supposed they would be fine.
With careful shopping, I was able to cull together an all-black running outfit. The shorts were fitted, but not too tight, though unfortunately branded with an unreasonably large white Fila logo on the left front leg, which fell disturbingly short on my mid thigh. I had my doubts about the shirt, while black as well and with a fashionable “half-zipped” collar, it was narrowly tailored to a degree that might make people think I was absolutely unaware of my widening paunch and that one day I’d suddenly notice it and say, “Whoa! How’d that get there?!” But I was pleasantly surprised to learn that the shirt was actually slimming, remarkably so. The fabric and cut just nips and tucks all your rough edges into a deceptively firm shape. I had to lift it up several times to assure myself that the original layer of muscle-free flab still existed.
Sportswear has come a long way. Gone are the days of the baggy, yet functional drawstring sweatpants and dingy old T-shirts. While stylistically repellent, the object is not only to more efficiently enable your workout, but also to make you look good. All told, I looked fantastic, or at least much better. The shirt somehow managed to give me an almost V-shaped torso and the shorts were just short enough to flatter the muscles that just walking around had developed on my thighs. And those pathetically small socks? They actually make your calves look more defined, even when encased in a pair of sneakers that look more like futuristic Tonka trucks.
And aside from the body-flattering and workout enhancing effects offered by this space-age clothing, I also discovered an entirely different benefit provided by the athletic wear lifestyle. How often have you found yourself on the street, desperately looking for a Starbuck’s or Barnes & Noble because your bladder was about to explode? Those quick but short steps you use when you seriously need to pee, seem only to add to your discomfort, don’t they? I mean, they don’t actually get you anywhere quicker. All they do is let the world know about your problem — you might as well be holding yourself “down there." Well, in your Adidas track shirt and Nike running shorts, all you have to do is start running down the street until you find a toilet, and that’s something you really can’t get away with in your Banana Republic Stretch dress shirt and navy-blue Dockers, now is it? Though while watching last year’s New York City Marathon, I did note that several runners had deemed it absolutely appropriate to launch snot from noses and to slip out of the race to pee against a wall.
It’s a wonder that more people don’t wear athletic wear in other circumstances. What if you ran into an ex girlfriend on the street? Not only will she notice how svelt you look in those running togs, but you can literally run away without looking like the one with issues. Or imagine bounding into a job interview with the confidence of Jack Lelane, or putting the moves on some bridesmaid at a friend’s wedding in one of these outfits. You’d be unstoppable. In short, just like buying an expensive new pen or an impossibly thin lap-top computer makes you think you look like an serious writer without having written a word, just putting them on makes you look healthy and fit; so, unless you’re like me and need to kill a few early morning hours, why bother to go running in the first place? Just get up and throw on a tight-fitting tracksuit and let the world see that you’ve got your shit together.
Related musings.
Also, I come across recently (sadly, can't remember the source at the moment) proclaimed difference between use of "to piss" and "to pee".
The source claimed that former is a male usage, and the latter- female.
Posted by: Tatyana | October 17, 2004 at 07:57 PM