A Breezy Entry

Okay. So I asked Julie-Ann for some feedback on this blog – you know, stuff like how’s the writing, is it interesting, is there anything you’d like to see? And during our conversation, I asked her about the voice in the writing: is it breezy enough? She laughed. She said it wasn’t breezy at all. I asked her is it at least conversational? No. Nobody talks like that, she said. It’s reflective, she said – introspective. She didn’t think this was a bad thing, but she thought that if I were trying to broaden my range, I should try different things. Apparently, the road from formal academic essay to reflective essay is not very long. Hey, I said – what about my little entry on the results of the National 10k road race? She read it. Sucks, she said. And worse, there was an embarrassing typo – and typos don’t count as broadening my range. Crap.

So she gave me an assignment. You want to write breezy, she said – then write breezy. Give me cotton candy, but don’t make me feel guilty like I might gain weight. What does that mean? I asked. Give me fluff – just fluff – without all of your self-conscious, broody stuff. Really? I asked. Really, she replied. She smiled slyly, clearly pleased with her idea: I think you’re going to have some trouble with this, she said. No kidding, I said. What qualifies as breezy and fluffy? Her grin broadened. You’re just going to have to figure that one out on your own. Great, I thought. Just great.

Hmm. Breezy. Here goes nothing…


Nipples. Man nipples. I never paid much attention to my own before I started running. They were there; they were unusual. When cold, they shrunk up and got hard. At one point, hair started growing around them. I wasn’t thrilled about that, but I didn’t really care. I mean, who cares about their nipples?

Runners do.

In fact, my nipples were the catalyst for my change from "runner who eschews running gear" to "runner who realizes the importance of good running gear" [Author’s query: can I say “catalyst” in a breezy article?]. Here’s how it happened.

When I started running, I wore cotton T-shirts, boxer-briefs, soccer shorts, and cheap cotton tube socks. Shoes were the only thing I didn’t skimp on. I figured shoes were important, but the rest of it? No way. Those “technical” shirts and skimpy shorts – designed for “real” runners – were purchased mostly by middle-class wannabes with too much disposable income. I figured, leave the pricey gear to those with talent and those who want to pose – I’m just trying lose some weight and complete a marathon.

And things went fine at first. I printed out my Hal Higdon training schedule. I started pushing my mileage. I felt smug and self-satisfied when I’d pass other runners whose gear was worth more than a month’s rent. I was cruising.

And then it happened. My nipples.

I remember the run vividly. It was a cold August morning: fall had slipped into town overnight, unseen. I went out for my run in shorts and a T-shirt (a white T-shirt, no less) expecting summery temperatures. I could feel the unexpected cold as soon as I opened the door to my apartment building. I could see my breath. Oh well, I thought. Nothing for it.

In the beginning, the run felt pretty much the same as every other run. In fact, after a kilometre or so, I was basking in the toasty warmth of a body hard at work. I passed some other runners wearing those really expensive Running Room jackets with the shiny silver strips and felt pretty smug. Actually, I felt tough in my shorts and T-shirt.

But after a few kilometres, I began to feel something. My nipples. They were getting a little uncomfortable. What was that? I kept running. The discomfort increased. I passed some other runners and they smiled at me. But it wasn’t a friendly smile – it was a smile I knew quite well: a smug smile. Did they somehow know I felt like my nipples were on fire? I had no idea what was going on.

By the time I got home, my nipples were screaming. I got up to my apartment and ripped my shirt off. As I was hanging it up to dry, something caught my eye. Holy moly – there were blood streaks all the way down the front of my shirt. I quickly checked out my nipples in the mirror. The tips were rubbed raw. I couldn’t believe it.

What I did next, though, was just crazy: I had a shower. Remember when you were a kid and you got a scrape during recess because you fell off the climber or you tripped and skinned your knee on gravel and the school nurse cleaned the wound with rubbing alcohol? Remember the sharp stinging sensation? Yup – that’s what a shower does to newly sandpapered nipples.

So I did a little research. Turns out that salt from sweat, plus erect nipples from cold, plus coarse cotton T-shirts, plus running equals pain. The cure: some Vaseline and some good gear. From that moment on, I’ve worn gear. Turns out that gear isn’t just for “real” runners – turns out that people don’t wear it just to be posers – turns out that it saves numerous body parts from all manner of friction-related ailments.

So that’s my breezy story about nipples and running gear.

The end.