Gentlemen, Cover Thy Nipples

                I love running outside, despite the weather or temperature for the most part.  This is because my runs are generally half-hour runs, a manageable timeframe for most weather conditions sans a deluge, single-digit (Fahrenheit) temperatures or less, or absurdly icy conditions.  I don’t enjoy running indoors because I feel like a hamster running in a wheel.  I mean, if I have a misstep, or if I look over to my side while running on a treadmill, serious disaster could ensue!  The machine will keep whirring at a constant tempo, as I envision my face hitting the sand-belt-like moving ground, leaving me with the most hellacious rug-burn ever… or even worse.  Furthermore, there are bound to be witnesses in the gym from whom you can’t just walk away from as though nothing happened, whereas if you’re outside, any witnesses would be either in a vehicle that is passing by or pedestrians who have their own respective destinations to get to.  The embarrassment is much more ephemeral, if at all, since there’s always a chance that no one saw you bite the dust.  If you’re tired or fatigued outside, you can slow down or stop at will, and the ground will not forsake you.  You need not be a slave to the sand-belt-moving-ground-torture.

                I am presently training to run in a marathon.  No, no, I am by no means an accomplished athlete.  Far from it, as a matter of fact.  However, I do derive pleasure and totally unnecessary egotistical inflation from pushing myself to run ridiculous amounts of miles.  To the relief of those around me, this maniacal ego boost doesn’t occur too often, since I typically run outside by myself.  I never run with a group, although many have sung the praises of being part of a running group.  (Namely, I am intimidated about running with others because those groups have some seriously elite runners mixed in there.  You know, those obsessive types who are addicted to running.  There are runners, and there are crazies.) 

                Anyhoo, in recent weeks, I have hit the treadmill a couple of times in lieu of running outdoors due to some crazy rain storms that have been coming through.  Also, even if it’s a mild rain, it becomes too uncomfortable running outdoors when one must endure the “long run” of the week, which was about 2 ½ hours for me yesterday.  So I opted to walk to the Y in the rain and bite the bullet. 

                Most treadmill hamsters are on for half an hour, or an hour at most.  Many walk at a brisk pace or mix it up by walking and jogging.  I, however, am training for the marathon!  I cannot subject myself to such luxuries as short runs or simple jog-walk-jog-walk combos!  I must endure my long run!  So there!  Just watch as I, a running machine, put you to shame.  I can’t help but notice that my pat-a-pat-a-pats of my feet against the whrrrrrr of the sand-belt are more upbeat and faster than anyone’s!  My breathing?  Steady and relaxed; one with the whrrrr!  Plus look at my treadmill.  It’s moving up and down ‘cause I’m doing hills.  Take that!  Oh, there goes another one: she got on after me and got off before me.  Look at me.  I’m still going.  What now?  Got something to say?  Yeah.  I thought so.  What’s that?  You’re just jealous.  What?  Did you call me a loser?  Okay.  Um, I have nothing to say to that.  You’re right, of course.  So what?  My dad can beat up your dad.

                Last night, the air was so still in the workout room.  Maybe because there were so many people in there and the treadmill that I grabbed was one of the center-most ones in the room.  Ever notice how when there are treadmills lined up, people generally stagger to occupy every other treadmill until those are all filled, then the open ones get chosen by default.  It’s kind of like picking teams for kickball and you’re always one of the last ones picked.  Yes, that was me.  The default loser…  Obviously I’m still reeling from such treatment during childhood which now manifests as self-inflating ego-needs described above.  Wait a second.  That describes this entire blog!  That’s what motivates my writings.  I am running away from my status of the “big L”!  How depressing…  But I digress!

It was freakin’ steamin’ in hamster central.  I was wearing a wicking shirt made from soy materials that I’d never worn before, and within a short while, I was dripping uncontrollably.  Within the first hour, my shirt was thoroughly soaked, but the wicking was allowing the excess waste-sweat to succumb to gravity.  Bucketful after bucketful of sweaty nasties trickled their way down onto my running shorts, which were grey.  However, as I took quick (careful) glances down, my grey shorts were resembling black shorts, no thanks to the sweaty tricklies.  Pretty soon, my shorts began to feel like poopy diapers from the added weight that first permeated in totality the built-in inner shorts, and eventually my shorts in its entirety.  The shorts were now plastered onto my legs as I continued my pat-pat-pats against the whrrr.  Nevertheless, “badass” undoubtedly echoed through the collective minds of all those in the gym this night, as they bore witness to my toughness.

                As mentioned, my cool-ass soy shirt was drenched.  Such conditions cause exceptional friction against one's chest as your body moves up and down and the shirt rubs up and down against you.  After 2 ¼ hours, I looked down at my bright yellow shirt and noticed a streak of bright red snaking its way down the front of my shirt.  Damn it!  There it was: the bleeding right nipple!  I could feel both nipples being tender but didn’t anticipate bleeding nipple syndrome today!  Ironically, during lunch on this very day I had just talked about men’s need to wear Band-Aids over their nipples when running marathons because of this exact seriously painful chafing problem!  (Even worse, I actually picked up and pocketed an unopened Band-Aid that I found on the floor of an elevator during work today.)  I just didn’t anticipate that my cool-ass soy shirt was going to succumb to such vicious attacks from physics.  I was bummed.  To throw salt upon my wounds, the chafing upon certain “hot spots” in my derriere region is omnipresent as well.  Next time I run in the heat, I will have to resort to Vaseline to cover such sensitive areas.  And of course, I must protect myself with Band-Aids, although it would not surprise me at all if laziness and wishful thinking may overrule rationality, as I take my chances against mein enemy (feind), physics.