Last week during East Nasty‘s Wednesday run in Nashville, I found myself running strong in a pack of dudes, which has been kinda typical lately. I can dig it.
There are old dudes with hairy legs and short shorts (the older the age, the shorter the shorts?), young bros in frat tanks (it’s December y’all!), and normal dudes about whom I can’t find anything witty to retort. We get along.
But I wasn’t the first lady to finish. I was second behind a leggy, blonde Victoria Secret model (probably) in too-hot booty shorts (even I couldn’t stop staring). When she ran, she didn’t jiggle. At all. No cellulite. In fact, she was still pretty tan, and it was dark, and it’s December. Barbie.
I tried to pass VS Model because I saw her as my competition. As the only females running in one of the fastest pace groups it would seem pretty natural to want to beat the other. We weren’t friends, we weren’t necessarily there to support each other. It irked me that I was thinking this way, because it isn’t my normal motivation when I run with a group. But this week, it so was.
She kicked my butt and looked like hot stuff doing it. I’m pretty sure I had a lougie on my sleeve that somehow missed the ground.
As we got water from the orange Gatorade troughs, VS Model asked no one in particular what our time was. Four miles in 29:forty-something was the answer. Just around a 7:30 pace.
“That’ll work,” said VS Model coolly sipping water and unbuckling her reflector belt like yoga had just ended. I guzzled my water, wished I had a cool reflector belt to coolly unbuckle, wiped the sweat from my forehead/eyebrows/neck, and I envied her. Not only was she a model, clearly, but she was a fast one. And she beat me. She had won.
Later that night after online shopping for my own too-hot booty shorts and at-home spray tans (Dear Santa…), I realized something.
I beat the boys, too.
I have blonde hair, too.
I can rock a 7:30-minute mile and take names, too.
And you know what?