When I’m out and about running, quite often a song pops up and starts playing in my head. It’s to the tune of Abba’s ‘Money, Money, Money’, but the lyrics have been changed somewhat:
“Running, Running, Running, done lots of running, in a fat man’s world.”
The strangest thing about it is that I haven’t consciously devised any of it; I can’t remember the last time I heard the Abba original, and I certainly didn’t sit down to pen some alternative lyrics just to entertain me on my evening’s jog. It just pops up randomly, uninvited and unexpected, plays itself round perhaps twice or thrice, and then disappears again. The amateur psychologist in me wonders what the meaning of it is (assuming that there actually is a meaning and it’s not just some bullshit my beer-frazzled brain has manifested). Does it mean that I think I’m fat, and that I’m running to reduce the cake/beer that has settled around my midriff? Or does mean that I’m running to escape from a world of fat men? Perhaps it’s neither. Who cares.
Anyway, it’s not the only strange thing that’s happened since I’ve started training for the Marathon:
People Look at Your Junk
In a way, I suppose I’m partly to blame for this. When I first started training in November I very quickly realised that not only was it pretty nippy outside, but that it was going to get considerably more brass monkeys over the coming months. Alas, I traded in the shorts for a lovely pair running tights, and despite the fact that I bought them almost entirely to stave off the wintry evenings, I absolutely love them. Not only do they keep the cold at bay, but they’re also extremely comfortable. I now have two sets, a full length pair and a three-quarter pair, and during our recent sub-zero dip in temperature I was wearing both at the same time.
But here’s the thing: My two pork pies and miniature trumpet are constantly on display. This isn’t an entirely new thing to me as I started cycling a few years back and that also involves quite a bit of Lycra-wearing, but it’s different on a bike, because you’re sitting down and hunched. People would have to try pretty damn hard to get a good look at your John Thomas whilst you’re in that position, especially as you’re whizzing by at 20mph. But with running you’re generally –hopefully -in an upright position, and your Cuthbert is not only smack-bang dead centre, but is also doing its own little side-to-side dance in perfect time to your footsteps. And people’s eyes just seem to go there.
I don’t think it’s necessarily an entirely conscious decision on behalf the person to have a little look; you can almost see their thought process sometimes:
“Hmmm….oh look, a runner…….wearing tights…….I wonder if you can see his…Yep, there it is”.
Once the deed is done, and the crotch has been well and truly looked at, you can see a flicker of fear on the face on the looker as they realise what they’re doing. Just after they realise they’re glaring at your groin, they look to see if I realise they’re glaring at my groin (which I do, because I’ve become almost too acutely aware of the situation). And not only do I realise they’re glaring at my groin, but I also realise that they realise that they’re glaring at my groin. The rabbit hole goes even deeper, because they then realise that I realise that they realise, and the whole thing is an awkward mess of strange, silent glances. Fortunately, because I’m running in one direction and they're walking in the opposite direction, the whole scenario is normally over in two seconds, and the feeling of awkwardness passes until the next person decides to help themselves to a free eyeful of bollock.
Even more oddly, the men are just as guilty as the women. I can sort of see why a women would take a look, because a member of the opposite sex has his genitals on display, and woman are evolutionarily predisposed to check out a possible mate’s belongings as a sign of their virility (phew, I’m so glad I went with the scientific approach – my first draft was “because all women are sluts and love cock”). But, assuming that not all the men I pass in the street are gay (unless they are all gay and they get together to work out what routes I run specifically to get a glimpse of my nylon-shrouded penis – but why would I think that?) then it poses an interesting Freudian question: Why are heterosexual men looking at my willy?
And, as hard as it is for to me admit, I’m not overly well endowed (My brother says that when I was very little I was “all sack”), but, on a good day, in a well heated room, I’d say I’m a thou or two above average. (I’m also a grower, not a show-er, but that’s for another time). But obviously, once I step outside into minus one conditions, I am very liable to appear under average, to anyone that cares to look. Which, apparently, is everybody.
Anyway, I’ve used quite a number of curse words and penis euphemisms in the previous few paragraphs, and I’m aware that my parents & parents-in-law occasionally read this, so I’ll end it here. Knob.
Thanks for reading
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