I went for a run last night. I was quite proud of myself because I managed to stumble through 14 km. That’s damn near nine miles. Nine miles gives a person a chance to think. And think I did.
Like when I ran past the woman with misshapen legs who was using two crutches to get around. I felt bad. Like I was taunting her. Like by running by her I was pointing out the fact that she couldn’t run. Luckily I was running so I could get away. Plus she was on crutches, she couldn’t catch me.
Then, later in the run, I was reminded of my own misfortunes. That of being very, very slow. Because suddenly I was staring at the very large ass of a very large man in very large bright blue tights passing me. I was passed by a fatty. Running. It hurt my pride a bit. Mostly because I was only about four kilometers into the run. It also left me concerned that maybe the lady on crutches would have been able to catch me. Good think I was only thinking.
I put my head down and kept chugging away though. Still hoping for the ever elusive runner’s high. It never came. Finally, I made it home, at which point I immediately checked my nipples. They were not bleeding. I had avoided the dreaded runner’s nipple.
I had not, however, avoided the dreaded runner’s inner thigh chafage. I haven’t suffered from inner thigh chafage since high school playing football. To solve that problem, I wore sliding short. Basically tights in boxer form. They were amazing. Especially after not having washed them all season. I was free from inner thigh chafage.
Now I find myself in a foreign country with absolutely no sliding shorts and chafage on my inner thigh.
Welcome to Sweden. And running.