I looked over my left shoulder to make sure no one was coming up behind me.
The path was clear.
Then, I let ‘er rip–my snot rocket, that is.
I’ve never been especially “ladylike”. Just ask my mother. Her groans of disgust have been audible since I was a little girl. “Oh, Maria!” She would exclaim, while rolling her eyes, at whatever un-ladylike activity I was currently engaging in.
Even so, I’ve had some limits in my life. Yet, one by one, those limits are weakening–thanks to running and triathlon.
For example, pre-endurance sport, I would blow my nose into a tissue. Seems reasonable. Yet, while cycling or running, it seems much more reasonable to set the little rocket free. And, I have to admit, I even like it. Heck, I’ll go one step further: I am impressed, rather than distressed, by my nose’s projectile abilities.
Nose-blowing etiquette isn’t the only thing I’ve lost.
I used to be modest about nudity. Yet, after Rev3’s Quassy Half Iron last weekend, I found myself at the side of my car, wrapped in a towel, changing shorts, while talking with a complete stranger. Then, as we drove away, I changed my shirt in the front seat of the car, in plain view for whomever cared to look. John’s reaction?
“They’re just boobs. No big deal.”
Clearly John doesn’t think my boobs are a big deal. Well, he’s right: they aren’t. I’d be surprised if you could even see them from a distance. Even if you could, I didn’t care at that moment. I just wanted my stinky, sweaty sports bra OFF of my body. Modesty was not a concern at that particular time.
And that’s just it. The throes of training and racing reduce me to my basic primal essence. My body is simply a tool to achieve particular endurance goals: swim, bike, run. When I’m training or racing, I’m almost free of social norms or expectations associated with the female body. I don’t worry about what others think about my legs, or my boobs, or <insert body part here>. I simply worry about how those body parts feel and if they are working efficiently for the challenge at hand.
So, blow my nose in the air? Pop a squat in the middle of woods to do my business during a trail run? Run in just a sports bra, with my stomach exposed? Swim in dirty water if its cold enough to cool me down? Engage in whatever socially taboo acts to address my biological needs?
If the primal urge dictates it, I will.
Goodness knows, the workout or race must go on.
Be careful what you ask me.
In the last mile of the Quassy run, after battling stomach cramps for an hour, the primal urge was pushing me to finish. So, my legs kicked up the pace. As I passed a few male runners, they commented, “Wow – way to bring it in strong.”
I looked at them, smiled and said, “I have to take a crap.”
Thank goodness, they laughed. I fully realize that not everyone appreciates hearing the blow by blow of my body’s movements. But, if you ask me (or even hint at the topic), be forewarned, I will share, usually in minute detail.
For instance, John and I have been asked frequently how we deal with long hours in the bike saddle.
“Doesn’t it hurt?” friends have wondered.
“Oh, don’t get me started! It’s a war zone down there,” I respond, and then launch into a detailed accounting of just how horrific the chafing is.
One might think that the phrase “war zone” is descriptive enough. Hmmm, maybe for some, but I’m a writer, we thrive on the minutiae–no matter how stomach-turning.
And, I’m happy to say that my attention to descriptive detail, my penhant for TMI if you will, has led to some very valuable information to sooth the savage in me.
Let’s stick with the chafing example. After listening to the gory particulars of my groin’s dilemma, my friend Kim, who has three kids, recommended that I try Triple Paste for diaper rash.
“I’ve got three kids – I know rash!” She exclaimed, joyfully. Ah, a kindred spirit in the love of biological basics.
Now, diaper cream is not necessarily something I see in the running or cycling shops, among the Body Glide and the Chamois Butter. But, good molly, that Triple Paste is worth whatever they want to charge. Laugh if you must that I may be the only 37 year old using diaper rash cream, but all I know is that the sharp daggers in my pants have disappeared since I began applying it. It’s an effective weapon in the war against a burned up bum. (Note: if you are thinking about trying it, my friend Kim emphasized that I get the paste not the cream. I even use it while riding, mixing it with body glide.)
When, I’m not training or racing (or answering questions about training or racing), you may be happy to read that I do restore some of my limits. (Yes, Mom, I’m talking to you.)
If I’m in my house (or your house), I will use a tissue. Snot rockets have their place in the world of endurance athletes, but not among the disciplined bodies of the civilized world.
As the limits return, so too do my concerns about the “normal” or the “good” female body. I’ve written before about how these expectations can do a number on the pysche.
While my actions may strain the reins of proper etiquette, I ask that you grant me my few hours of primal freedom. I promise I’ll always look behind me to make sure I don’t get any on you.
