September 23, 2015
When I first started running, I wore all the clothes. Bulky, dumpy diaper shorts, zippered track pants, a few heinous pairs of flared capris.
In the summer, I raced in weighty cotton tees. During winter, I labored under hefty hooded sweatshirts. I’d roll up my sleeves when the going got tough and I’d start to overheat. I’d rather die of stroke than embarrassment. I was loath to let anyone catch any part of me jiggling. The thought alone was obscene.
It’s hardly worth explaining here how and why I’ve personally been dissatisfied with my body. We’ve all been dissatisfied with our bodies. A body is sort of like a marriage, that way. Some of my friends swear running is the release they need to happily coexist with their spouses. As silly as it might sound, running is a way to transcend the body’s nagging irritations, too. Eventually, they become minor annoyances, then nonsense you hardly notice at all.
Still, the idea of racing completely naked threw me for a loop. I simply could not imagine toeing the starting line wearing nothing but shin sleeves and a pair of Asics.
Running is a means of spending so much quality time with your body, you simply grow tired of bickering with it. You become accustomed to its flaws. To your horror, you start to like your irreverent, saggy flesh. You aspire to be so rebellious, yourself. What other choice do you have, but to be miserable? A body is unlike a marriage, in that you simply cannot leave.
Most runners will agree: the older you get, the more miles you tick off, the better you feel about your wiggly bits and pieces. The more likely you are to let it all hang out. Eventually, you might not think twice about bounding outside your front door in a sports bra and boy shorts. You stop worrying about whether your nipples are hard or your butt cheeks have slipped outside your two-inch inseam. It’s 100 degrees and you run 40, 60, 80 miles a week. You simply don’t have any energy left to stress over what your fellow park-goers might think of your bod. At some point, you realize you don’t care about their bods either. The phenomenon is a glorious feedback loop. The less you care, the less you wear, the less you care... and so on and so forth.
Over the last few years, I’ve shed most of my layers. Now I’m the lady who races local 5Ks wearing athletic briefs, or bun huggers, as they’re affectionately known in the running community. I encourage others of all shapes and sizes to do the same. I am fit, but I still jiggle, and I don’t mind. As I like to say, “If you’re in a place to scrutinize my butt dimples, it’s only because I’m winning.”
Recently, my friend Chris sent me the link to a “clothing optional” 5K race at a nudist resort in the Poconos. Someone had posted the event to Philadelphia’s Run215 Facebook group with a caption that read, “This is a huge nope.” Fellow Run215 members echoed his disapproval. “Big. Fat. Nope.” they said. “We have parts that bounce when we run. Those need to be contained!”
Later that day, Chris and I went on a scorching, late summer training run. “Do you think you’d ever really have the balls to race naked?” I asked, resisting the urge to peel off my teeny tiny crop top. “Sure,” he shrugged and took a swig from his boiling water. “I mean, it’s hot out. And we’re both practically naked now.”
“No we’re not!” I gasped, scandalized.
“Liz,” he said, lifting his shades for emphasis. His eyes were slits. “We’re both bouncing around.”
The kid had a point. His bandana alone constituted more fabric than both our short shorts combined.
Still, the idea of racing completely naked threw me for a loop. I simply could not imagine toeing the starting line wearing nothing but shin sleeves and a pair of Asics.
That public nudity is one of America’s most profound, collective nightmares has always fascinated me. We attach the utmost value to certain clandestine body parts. We seem to believe skin is more sacred for never having seen the light of day. Our euphemisms reveal a lot about what we think of the naked human form. “He left nothing to the imagination,” we say, of “that guy” in a Speedo at the beach. We express similar disdain for women wearing yoga pants. The underlying assumption is that our worth lies in that which we’ve been groomed to keep secret.
There are naked runners among us. They’re both extraordinary and totally normal at the same time. They are teachers, and lawyers, and medical professionals. They are men and women with mortgages, kids, and pets. They are athletes who are so in tune with their bodies, they hardly think twice about doing something many of us wouldn’t dare consider in our wildest dreams: the naked 5K.
It’s true public nudity is a kind of admission. And yet, whether that admission is one of power or vulnerability is heavily dependent on context. There is, of course, strength in numbers. If, for example, a lone wolf were to take a naked bike ride through the streets of Philadelphia, he’d surely be mocked or apprehended after pedaling just a few blocks. However, the annual, 3,000-cyclist strong Philly Naked Bike Ride just completed its sixth successful year promoting “fuel conscious consumption, positive body image, and cycling advocacy.” Wiggle bits were unleashed, (female) nipples were freed, spectators cheered and no arrests were made.
It’s tempting to take the Philly Naked Bike Ride for what many might see as its face value: just another lame excuse for shameless exhibitionism. But, if you spend a moment perusing one of the many photo galleries dedicated to the event (content advisory: galleries contain nudity,) you might experience a surprisingly quick shift in perspective. Even though our shame surrounding nudity evidently dates back to the dawn of humanity, it only takes a few naked bikers defying convention to redefine the way we see ourselves in the flesh. It’s disorienting to view thousands of nude bodies rolling through the city streets for all of about five seconds, until you realize, it’s the odd, fully clothed biker who’s conspicuous amongst a slew of nudists.
At the same time naked bikers are making great strides to normalize nudity, it’s easy to make all kinds of assumptions about what must be the sort of carefree, kale-eating hippie who partakes in such naked recreation. I know a lot of bikers. I know a lot of runners. Naturally, I assumed, I couldn’t possibly know any naked bikers. I certainly didn’t think I knew any naked runners.
As it turns out, I know both.
There are naked runners among us. They’re both extraordinary and totally normal at the same time. They are teachers, and lawyers, and medical professionals. They are men and women with mortgages, kids, and pets. They are athletes who are so in tune with their bodies, they hardly think twice about doing something many of us wouldn’t dare consider in our wildest dreams: the naked 5K.
The experience, they say, is either life affirming, or positively life changing, depending on your frame of mind when the gun goes off. By the time you cross the finish line, you’ve left the discomforts of the flesh behind. As for the jiggly bits that need to be contained? They’re a pain in the butt for the first few seconds, no better or worse than your typical knotted calf or stiff knee. Once the adrenaline kicks in, however, (most of) it fades away.
I will admit: I was pretty surprised to find out my friend Scott didn’t just participate in that race in the Poconos; he actually won the whole thing. (He’s joined in on the Philly Naked Bike Ride, too.) Scott and I met several years ago when we finished first overall male and female at a local (clothed) charity 5K. Since then, we’ve run into each other at countless other races throughout the Philly/Jersey running scene.
Scott is a high school teacher. He has a beautiful wife and an adorable young son and, though he is an extremely talented runner, he’s also just a regular dude. Last week, we went on a group 6-mile run that ended at a local pub, where Scott graciously agreed to let me pick his brain about the naked racing experience. “What did your wife think?” I immediately blurted out. I could easily imagine the whole public nudity thing being a big issue in any relationship. It certainly would have been a major point of contention in all of mine.
“Oh she would have done it, too,” Scott said, totally nonchalant, taking a bite of cheese pizza. “But we didn’t have anyone else to watch the baby. Next year, we’ll try to figure out a way we can run it together.”
I was completely in awe of Scott’s confidence and starting to think maybe I should actually give this whole naked 5K thing a try. So I asked him what kind of person might benefit from the experience. His answer was “pretty much everybody.”
“I would definitely recommend it for someone trying to overcome body issues,” Scott maintained. “All of those insecurities that we cover up with clothing - a bulging stomach, stretch marks, saggy skin, whatever - are thrust into the open. You quickly see that everyone has some sort of imperfection and no one is judging anyone.
“This is even truer when racing. You stop focusing on your imperfections and remember how strong your body is and what it is capable of.”
Others echoed Scott’s naked running endorsement. Heather Gannoe is an exercise physiologist, prolific adventure racer, and mother of two from South Carolina who blogs about all things running, including the clothing optional 5K she completed at a North Carolina nudist resort last week. In a heartfelt, personal blog post titled “Body Shame, Self Acceptance, and Racing a Naked 5K,” the 33-year-old writes that, even though she’s a dedicated fitness professional, she doesn’t always feel her body lives up to the aesthetic ideals we associate with health and athleticism.
I’m not a mother, and yet Heather’s body image closely mirrors my own. I asked her how racing a 5K in the buff changed the way she views her imperfections. “I wouldn't say the naked race changed my relationship with my body,” she answered. “Instead, the race only reiterated my belief that we truly are our own worst critics. I saw people of all shapes, sizes, and fitness levels, and did not have one single negative thought about any of their bodies. So why judge my own body so harshly?”
Considering our culture’s growing love affair with plastic surgery, naked running may actually be one of the least radical things you can do for a genuine confidence boost.
While Heather says she was initially “concerned” about the discomfort associated with running sans sports bra, she says the burn in her lungs almost immediately superseded the dreaded “bounce” of her chest. And considering the Carolinas’ late summer humidity, she says naked racing was comparatively much cooler than racing fully clothed.
“The fresh air and lack of sweaty clothing on my skin felt amazing.”
Racing a 5K, whether naked or not, is hard work. And clothing optional 5Ks are no less competitive. Greg Smith, a 44-year-old dentist from Chesapeake, Va., who’s run the clothing optional Whitetails Run Walk 5K three times, decided to try naked racing in celebration of another sort of running “streak,” during which he ran at least two miles every day.
He told me the most surprising part of naked racing was the level of competition. “I thought it would be a small turnout and an overall slower race. But there were over 75 people the first year I ran, and five people finished in less than 20 minutes. The race director said he has had multiple sub-16 minute finishers at various naked races.”
Scott, Heather, and Greg agree: naked 5K racing might be slow to grow a following, especially outside of nudist resorts, in cities like Philadelphia. Yet they’re not completely ruling out the possibility naked races might eventually become as popular as mud runs, color runs, and other novelty running events. And they’re not shy about spreading the word, either.
“I’ve talked about my experience to all my running friends. Many co-workers and all my family knows,” said Greg. “They all think I’m crazy for doing something like that. Of course, they all thought I was crazy before, due to the amount of miles I run for marathons and ultras, so this wasn’t a big shock. Everyone has been very supportive.”
Considering our culture’s growing love affair with plastic surgery, naked running may actually be one of the least radical things you can do for a genuine confidence boost.
A few days ago, I asked my mother what she would say if she knew I was thinking about running a naked 5K race. She’d innocently dropped by my place to deliver a bouquet of sunflowers and simply wasn’t expecting this line of inquiry. I was almost 100 percent certain she’d laugh and accuse me of being a total weirdo. She already thinks runners, in general, are total weirdos. I watched her blink and chew her lip a little before shrugging her freckled shoulders.
“Well, Elizabeth, I would tell you to wear your sunscreen.”
