I’ve fallen in love a bit late in life with running, and even more so with the look of a runner’s body. There is nothing sexier than a person who sweats on a regular basis. Just check out Australian hurdler Michelle Jenneke. Girl looks good and she knows it. And she can dance. It’s a bit too bubbly-clubby for my taste, but the energy she must be feeling is contagious.
I can see why, after watching this, the Olympic Village has a standing order for 100,000 condoms. All those rock-hard runners’ bodies. All that energy.
Now, I’m not implying Jenneke is taking part in any of this, mind you (though that soundtrack suggests otherwise). Just that, wow! I could totally see why there’s so much debauchery at the Olympics. Those bodies! And I can totally relate to the feeling expressed by one athlete in a recent ESPN article on the Olympic Village brothel when she says, “And the track guys, they’re sneaky-cute. Very serious, but when they lighten up, you’re like, ‘Oh, you’re kind of adorable.'”
They are. It’s one of the reasons I actually like running now. I look like hell — my face turns pink, my pants fall down, I can sometimes barely lift my knees — and I run slowslowslow. But the results of running on my body have been like nothing else I’ve ever done. And people-watching other runners really brightens my day, especially now that I understand the phases they’re going through (you know, like the part near the end of a run where your eyes glaze over, your head seems to be shaking no, and yet you just push harder, your legs stuck in a momentum you don’t seem to have control over). It’s not sexy, not really, but the after-effects? Doch doch doch.