It was not so long ago that it was illegal for women to participate in long distance running. Why? Because men thought woman would lose their femininity, their muscles would bulk and their breasts would sag.
In true feisty female style, woman started to rebel. In 1966, Roberta Gibb Bingay was denied entry for the Boston Marathon. The reason the race officials gave her for the rejection was her that women couldn’t go the distance and she would get hurt. She hid in bushes near the start and joined in on the gun. She finished in 3.21 - beating two thirds of the men. The following year, Katherine Swtizer sent in her application under the name “K. Switzer”. As officials thought she was a he, Switzer was granted a place. Unfortunately, during the race, the director chased her and tried to rip off her number. She finished, but was disqualified.
The women's running movement started to take off in the 1970s. But the historical moment that granted equality in the world of runners happened when women were accepted to compete in the 1984 Olympics’ marathon.
The history may seem a little surprising to any present day female runner. Today woman are running, competing and winning everywhere. More and more women are rejecting traditional feminine sporting activities, lacing up their trainers and hitting the pavement.
I do appreciate and almost understand the original male school of thought on the case. I wholeheartedly believe that women should maintain their femininity. Even in this modern day of equality, I’m ashamed to admit that females playing rugby and football horrify me.
Granted, you’ll never find me prancing about in aerobics class or bending myself silly at yoga, but I do consider myself a bit of a girlie girl. I love pink things and perfume. I own about 50 pairs shoes, even more handbags and never miss a copy of Cosmo. I adore shopping, gossip and don’t pretend to understand the offside rule. I’m like a magpie when it comes to sparkly things and jewellery and I can spend hours (and a small fortune) in John Lewis’ beauty hall.
So, yeah, I’m a girlie girl. But when it comes to running, all feminine decorum is temporarily shelved. It’s lady to ladette by the time I’ve laced up my trainers. One double-knot later and all decent and respectable behaviour is out the window.
Firstly, let’s start with the verbals. During particularly hard training sessions, I have been known to use language that would make a drunken sailor blush. The colourful array or vocabulary that tumbles from my lip-glossed mouth would only ever be heard again on building sites.
I’ve also been caught spitting. Frequently actually. I’ve even coughed up and spat out numerous insects over the years. I used to be quite discreet about it. Waiting until I was out of sight. Now I do it during pack runs and races. Of course I always apologise before and after. Like that makes it acceptable.
As you will know, runners sweat buckets. For sake of femininity, let’s refer to it as perspiration. Actually, my favourite expression is: “Ladies don’t perspire. We merely glow”. Huh! Try using that one after a long run in the height of summer. Sweat balls rolling down your back and dripping off your face. Telltale signs of wet patches. A challenge for even the strongest deodorant.
Not only am I drenched it sweat, there’s the issue of a running nose. It doesn’t matter what the weather’s like, my nose runs like a tap. If it’s not running down my face, I’m using my clothes to clean it up.
A pretty, dainty friend of mine who has mastered the butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth aura, spent the vast majority of the Jedburgh half-marathon clearing her nose in full view. Her excuse for knocking holes in the road with snot rockets was “she had a cold” and “had lost her hanky at the start of the race”.
I cannot mock, I’ve been known to wipe sweat on my clothes and blow my nose in my gloves. Something you would never consider doing in any other walk of life. And I’m sure my non-running companions would be horrified to discover this.
One morning I received an email from a work colleague, which read: “Saw you out running last night. You were trotting along very gracefully - a vision in pink lycra, with your golden locks bouncing about in a ponytail. You kinda lost the look when you snorted one up, and spat on the pavement.” Oops. The moral of the story: surveillance.
From a foul-mouth down to my smelly feet, running has a repulsive impact on every part of the female physique. I can no longer point the fingers at the boys for rancid trainer pongs. After running through puddles or on a particularly hot day, my socks could toddle off to the washing machine by themselves. And my feet don’t look to pretty either. My once beautifully pedicured totsies, have been replaced with hardskin, black toenails and friction burns. Let’s just say, I won’t bother buying this season’s must-have Jimmy Choos. Nobody wants to see the raw exposed skin that was once a blister. Ah, there’s nothing classier the sitting popping blisters with a hot needle.
My bathroom cabinet that was once stocked with tingling, luxurious peppermint foot lotion has been replaced with tubs of runners’ favourite, Vaseline. Slapping it my feet before a long run, may not be graceful, but it’s effective. A giant tub – which has raised a few eyebrows – is displayed alongside potions for fungal nail infections and athletes foot.
A crime to fashion and beauty
Running attire? Let’s face it, the clobber isn’t exactly stylish. No one can make a pair of Ronhill tracksters look fetching. Shiny lycra tights accentuate every sinful curve and ripple of skin. If you don’t having a figure like Nell McAndrew, then forget wearing hot pants. And if you’ve got cellulite (just for the record, I do), you’re not going to feel attractive in a pair of running shorts. Plus the motion of running, makes you fat bits jiggle about on full show. I lined up for last year’s London Marathon next to the Cheeky Girls. Can you have imagine how demoralising that was? Thankfully I beat them.
What about what’s underneath the running ensemble? You can hardly call it lingerie. Forget silky camisoles, frilly bras and sexy French knickers. It’s been replaced with double-layered wired-up, boulder (or pebble in my case) holders. OK, Anna Kournikova still looks stunning in her Shock Absorber modelling campaign, but my cheekies are squished and strapped down to look like an eight-year-old boy. As for pants, if you’re like me, the pants I use to run in are horrible greying numbers that I wouldn’t even display on my washing line. Oh, sexy stuff eh? Heaven forbid if I was hit by a bus whilst wearing them.
OK, so it’s not supposed to be a fashion show, but I definitely don’t look my best when I’m out running. And there’s nothing more cringe worthy than being spotted by an ex-boyfriend or old school mate. Any other time, I am eternally grateful for an Estee Lauder made-up face, but when I hit the pavement, my face has been stripped pure and soon to resemble a smacked backside.
As for your hair do, well, I generally set out with my hair scraped back, tied up and hidden underneath a cap. A cap than is so disgusting, that it could actually run on its own accord. With the bouncing motion of running, combined with the dampness of sweat, I generally have a mass of knots on the back of my head. A barnet that looks more like something the cat coughed up, rather than a Tony ‘n’ Guy creation.
Embarrassing internals
Well, now we’ve got the external niceties out the way, let’s talk about the disgusting unsociable, unmentionables that running does to your insides.
Firstly, there’s the infamous runner’s trot: A catch-all term for a range of unspeakables including cramping, flatulence and diarrhoea. Most females don’t indulge in “toilet chat”, but runners seem to have some kind of camaraderie in the area and will divulge their most private moments. Again, something you wouldn’t consider doing amongst your non-running friends. But hey, we’ve all suffered from it. Catherine McKeiran’s victory in the 1998 London Marathon wasn’t a ‘clean-sweep’. She suffered from an unfortunate attack of diarrhoea in the last few miles, but stormed on.
Although I may have been spared the public disgrace of the notorious trot, I will shamefully admit that I have been ‘caught short’ in various outdoor locations. Of course, it’s viewed as perfectly acceptable for the boys. One mile in to a race and they’re lining the course. They would be horrified if a girl did the same thing. Mind you, the required position is a little more graphic. Although I wouldn’t even contemplate “doing a Paula”, I’ve Jump behind many a wall and crouched behind many a tree. In true girlie fashion, I’ve even gone with a group. Although, unlike Radcliffe, I can spare the time during a race. Her much publicised “comfort break” during the 2005 London Marathon shocked the nation, caused a media frenzy and even introduced a new catchphrase. But I say, victory over modesty. You go girl!
What about periods? They say that running helps alleviate PMS symptoms and period pain. Fair play. But it’s hard to find the motivation when you’re crabbit, craving chocolate, harbouring murderous thoughts and feeling like an inflatable beachball. Plus, sanitary products aren’t the easiest things to run with and sport bras weren't designed for tender breasts.
Vomiting is also common side effects of running. The motion shakes the internal organs and can cause food and stomach acid to rise. I’m sure you’ve seen many a runner, sprint to the finish only to double over and hurl. One of my favourite race comedy moments was during last year’s Glasgow Women’s 10K. After finishing, I went back to cheer on the rest of the runners. One girl stopped in front of me, grabbed on to the railing and spewed at my feet. She then tilted her head, looked up at me with saliva dripping down her chin and said: “You can’t buy class”. Fair play to her though. She staggered over the finishing line.
So, the moral of the story is two-fold. Running is not for the fainthearted, precious princess types. And if you’re considering joining a club or entering a race in the hope of finding a love interest, don’t. Granted there will be lots of males there, but you ain’t looking your best.
On a more positive note:
Apart from the obvious health benefits, running is fabulous for us gals. We can counteract the chocolate gorging damage, as running burns off more calories and fat than any other physical activity. For a double-bonus, there’s guilt free wine drinking. Hey, life’s all about balancing the good with the bad. The ying and the yang. Shopping is more of a delight when you can slip in to tiny sizes. Skinny jeans will always look better on backsides that have maintained gravity. And we can wear summer tops and dresses, without fear of bat wing arms.
Thankfully many running brands have recognised the growth in female runners and introduced feminine coloured gear to their range. Better. Not perfect. But at the end of the day, regardless of how hideous the running gear is, girls still wear it better than the boys. Vests may not be stylish, but men just look silly in the them. And as for running tights? Enough said.
So, you can keep your poncy aerobics classes. I’m not going to the gym, and my yoga mat can stay under the bed. I stick to mud, sweat and blisters. There’s nothing more invigorating or effective and throwing on your scabby gear and and running through mucky puddles. Bring on a cross-country session in the pouring rain.
Of course afterwards its back for a well deserved girlie pamper session. Bubble bath with candles, luxurious beauty potions, fluffy pink pyjamas, curling up with a big mug of tea (or a glass of Chardonnay) and a chick-flick on TV. Heaven.
