That Rash is From What?

This post comes with a disclaimer: if it makes you really uncomfortable to read about my thighs, please turn back now. Go make yourself a sandwich, or watch some TV. Check back after a few days after I've updated the blog again.

As previously stated in this blog, I rarely do anything without reading a book about it first. During my reading about running I ran across several "common" side affects of running more miles that make sense unless you are being chased by mountain lions or bears... or chasing after someone dressed as a mountain lion or a bear.

I read about toenails turning black and falling off, achy knees, sore IT bands, pulled hamstrings, and stiff ankles. I also read about some well endowed women getting rashes from their sports bra or developing back problems. I had not read about the rash that developed on the insides of both of my thighs. Naturally, I assumed that due to the location of the rash, it was being caused by the liner of my running shorts rubbing against me. So, I spent a couple of very long extremely uncomfortable runs trying to adjust my liner on the move. Cars, bikers, and other runners would whiz by me, my hands either down my shorts or up from the bottom trying to put my liner in a place it didn't rub my thighs. People stared. I considered trying to explain to the slower-moving starers, but figured that might only make me look more guilty. Plus, after 10 miles running with a rash, I didn't care what they were thinking.

While chatting with the owner of Running Wild, a running store in Iowa City, I happened to mention my rash and proceeded to gripe about not being able to find a pair of shorts that do not rub me.

He smiled knowing, and said, "oh, that's not your liner, that's your thighs rubbing together when you run."

"But my thighs aren't big! We just went shopping and I had to buy smaller sizes." I protested.

"Don't worry," he smiled, "everyone's thighs rub together when they run," and he hopped up and picked up a pair of spandex shorts that mercifully (for everyone else on the road) had a skirt attached over them. He handed it to me and said, "here, this should solve your problem."

I started playing soccer when I was about 10 years old. I'm not saying, after playing for 17 years, that I am a good soccer player, I'm saying that my legs have muscles in them. I estimate about 80% of my body weight is probably in my thighs. So, at the mention of them rubbing together while running, I immediately used this rational in my head rather than actually picture the event happening. (On a side note, my mom, who was shopping with me, thought this was all very amusing)

Back in Colorado, I went for a 7 mile run and the rash is back, just a little lower. It turns out that so much of my thighs rub together when I run that I need longer shorts. I started complaining about my situation to my boyfriend, "you see," I explained, "I have this rash, and at first I thought it was the liner of my shorts rubbing against me when I run..."

"...but it's really your thighs rubbing together." he finished for me. I froze. It's one thing to have some running store guy telling me my thighs are huge and another thing all together to have my boyfriend do it.

He saw the look on my face and started laughing, then explained that it would be gross if my thighs didn't rub together because they would be way too skinny. So, this afternoon my thighs and I are going shopping for a longer pair of shorts.

(That picture? A barn I might have run by in Iowa. The barns all look the same after 2 hours of plodding along)

Saying Hello to Muscles

In addition to cross training, I also used my week in Costa Rica to acclimate to the humidity I would experience the following week while visiting my family in Iowa. If you have ever been to Iowa in the summer, you will understand. It’s so humid that you just feel kind of sticky most of the time.

Running in Iowa is both easier and harder. Since I’m at such a much lower altitude, breathing is a lot easier. In fact, I never get out of breath, which is saying something considering I’m usually so out of breath you would think I was hyperventilating. Conversely, the air can be so thick I’m not sure whether I’m running or I should be swimming. I’m soaked when I get home and it’s not from sweat.

My mom figured the best way to contribute to my newest crazy endeavor is by doing what she does best. She took me shopping. I almost never shop unless I’m with my mom so I probably haven’t done any serious shopping since last Christmas.

We went to the mall and I headed straight towards my favorite store. I started scooping up tops, shorts, a dress and a couple of skirts and headed for the dressing room. Soon Mom came to check on me. “How does everything look in there?” She exclaimed from the door of the dressing rooms, listening for my voice to hone in on what room I was in.

Even though I’m 27 years old I always come out of the dressing room and study mom’s face for her honest opinion when I ask things like, “Does this shirt make me look like I have the shoulders of a football player?” or “Do I look transparent in this color?” or “Would it work to wear this as a shirt rather than a skirt?”

This time I replied from behind the door, “I think this is too big…”

“Which one?” Mom readies herself to fetch a smaller size of my garment of choice.

“All of them…” I said, wondering what happened. I had scooped up all my usual sizes. Sizes I had worn for years, whether I should have moved up a size or not.

I opened the door to search Mom’s face for confirmation. “Oh yeah, you are swimming in that. Hold on, I’ll get you a smaller size… in everything,” and she was off.

Under the florescent lights of the dressing room, I smiled at myself in the mirror, and welcomed the lines on the sides of my stomach that outlined, very lightly, the very hint of some abdominal muscles. I guess running over 30 miles a week does earn me some new friends: muscles.

Surfing Counts as Cross Training, Right?

I spent all last week cross training (ahem, learning to surf, cough, drinking Pina Coladas) in Costa Rica. I had several goals for my week of cross training:
1. Be able to catch my own wave.
2. Be able to stand on my surfboard after catching said wave.
3. Drink as many Pina Coladas and I wanted in the evenings.
4. Wash them down with mango smoothies for breakfast.
5. Do not drown.
6. Do not get bitten by a shark.
7. Return to the states with the same number of people I left with, preferably the same people.
8. Don’t see the inside of a Costa Rican hospital.
Two of my traveling companions almost forced me to break goal #8 by drinking the tap water and then becoming violently ill. So, when that catastrophe was so narrowly avoided, I thought it best that I not risk breaking my ankle jogging on the unpaved and pot-hole ridden roads.