The Naked Runner

 

I’d been stuck behind the same arse for twenty minutes. It wasn’t the sort of arse you expect on a runner, fat, hairy, unkempt, packed with cellulose – the men’s arses were even worse.  I tried to overtake, but every time I upped a gear so did she. And as for dropping back, well dropping back is never an option when I’m running. Think what it’d do to my times.

 

In a sense I was impressed, you wouldn’t expect a big, fat arse with that much wobble on it to belong to a serious runner, but this lass was fair belting along. I couldn’t overtake, couldn’t drop back, I was stuck, watching the cheeks wobble after every step.

 

The Cambridge 10-mile Naked Run 2016. I’d signed up for a variety of reasons, but mostly because I’d never done a naked run before, and I’ve done every other type of running race. It sounded fun, lots of naked sexy women, running in au natural. After all, we were born naked, we were meant to run this way, what could be more natural than to do a run in the nude (as long as I had my GPS watch and power trainers). Who knew, without the drag and carry from clothes I might even get a personal best.

 

Ah, the naïve optimism of a nudity-virgin. I soon realised why the human race wears clothes. The human body – the smell of it, the squelch of it, arms and even thighs squeaking as they run, the sight of it, hairs in places there’s no discernible need for hairs (I’m looking at you, the arse in front of me).

 

The race was an hour late starting, as seemingly the entire female half of the racers decided to simultaneously shave their pubic areas at precisely the time we were due to set off. All that could be heard was the whirr of quim strimmers, resulting in an unwanted sea of smiling vaginas all around, onto which suncream was frantically slapped.

 

The worst thing was, what do you do when the start of your naked race is delayed for an hour? I’d nothing to read, nothing to write, nothing to do, all my stuff had gone ahead of me to pick up at the finish line. I could hardly just stand there admiring the view. The reverse was true, I spent the hour desperately trying to avoid the view, 200 pairs of female legs spread wide, razors buzzing, the slapping on and squelching around of Factor 30.

 

And then there were the men. The paunch is in fashion this year, apparently, who knew? Two hundred fat, naked men strutting around like self-unaware ugly peacocks. FOR AN HOUR! Christ, I’d have given my soul for anything to read, anything to avert my gaze, a copy of the Beano, Your Windowsill Magazine, Hell I’d even read the Daily Star, I was that desperate, but there was nothing to do, nothing to read, and far, far too much to see.

 

Usually, once a race starts I ignore the runners around me. I might notice a man in a giraffe suit, or something similar, but aside from that they’re just other runners and consequently I blank them from my thoughts. Here though, it was impossible not to notice them, all around me arses, boobs, willies and paunches bobbing up and down with every stride. 

 

Finally, after about twenty minutes, I overtook the arse in front of me, only to be greeted by its identical twin a few metres further down the road. I tried to overtake, but again I was stuck, not able to pass, not able to slow down.

 

And so it continued. A frustrating race, not once was I able to relax and enjoy myself, it was constant stress.  I was so relieved when I finally reached the finish line. This had been the longest hour of my life. Well, not quite an hour, 59 minutes and 23 seconds.

 

That can’t be right, that’s under an hour. My personal best is 1 hour 3 minutes 16 seconds. Shit, I’d beaten my PB. No I hadn’t, I’d smashed my PB, taken nearly 4 minutes off it, and this was a hot day, a hilly circuit. I suddenly remembered what I’d read about naked running, the absence of drag and resistance from wearing clothes – it was true, you really were quicker when you ran without clothes. A lot quicker.

 

A race official gave me a ‘winners’ T-shirt for completing the race, but I threw it away. Clothes, who needs them? I’m a naked runner from now on, who knows, on the right circuit with the right weather I could get my time down below 55.