Chirky

There's something I've got to get off my chest. For the past several months, I’ve been on a quest for the perfect sports bra. I’ve asked friends for their input. And mostly, their answers have been: I have no idea. There are no good ones, it seems. Or, let me edit: there are no good ones for women who wear larger than an A or B cup.

Now, if you wear an A or B cup, you are probably the type of person who can get away with not wearing a bra. Not that you do, but if you wanted to, you could. You’re probably also the type of person who can wear a deep-cut swimsuit without looking like a tramp. And you have no problems with gaping blouses. For that, I’m a little envious.

But the rest of the time, I like having a little more up top. Granted, it can be frustrating to shop for button-down shirts that fit my body AND my bust, but I like my size, and my husband has no complaints, and so I’m willing to work with what I’ve got.

Sports bras, however, have been a constant thorn in my side. The material is too flimsy. They don’t offer great coverage. And worst of all, they don’t support. I mean, maybe they support if all you’re doing is just standing there, but if I was just standing there, I probably wouldn’t be wearing a bra specifically designed for exercise, right? And retailers, in my experience, generally seem to sell sports bras that are meant for A and B cups. (I’m looking at you, Target.)

So I decided to go on a hunt for a sports bra that was functional AND pretty. I tried on every style available, which meant that I spent a half-hour intermittently (a) jogging in the dressing room of my local sports store and (b) wrangling myself into and out of a variety of sizes and styles. I tried on sports bras in materials ranging from cotton to polyester/lycra blends, skimpy to full cuts, by every brand the store carried. Only one bra made the final cut, and this is why: it was customizable to fit every shape, every woman. EVEN ME.

It is the Fiona sports bra by Moving Comfort. Not only is the sports bra customizable, but it is cute. The details: the back has a snap-closure, just like your regular underthings, so you can control how it fits around your ribcage. What I love most about this sports bra, though, are the adjustable Velcro shoulder straps. At first I was a little taken off guard – what if the Velcro doesn’t hold? (It does.) – thinking that there’s no way this bra could be supportive enough. To my surprise, it passed the jogging, the hopskotching and the stretching tests. The shoulder straps are not adjustable from the back; instead, they open and close from the front. And since the strap length can fully extend or shorten, you can control exactly how tight you want to strap yourself in, if you get my drift.

In all, I’d call it a successful shopping trip. Now if only I could motivate myself to go to the gym.

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There is a lesson to be learned from me, and that is: Don’t run three miles - okay fine, two, but it felt like three with all those hills – just a few days after you throw out your back, because chances are it isn’t entirely healed yet, and chances are you’ll be limping around the next day.

You’ll also probably find yourself icing your back every morning and every night and popping muscle relaxers in between. But at least you’ve learned another important lesson, and you’re lying in bed watching TV while you ice your back, instead of lying on the bathroom floor while staring at the ceiling.

You see, there's always an upside to everything, you just have to know where to look to find it.

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I strapped on my timing chip and pinned the number 74 on my shirt. It's a little amazing how that chip and number made me feel like a real runner, like maybe I was that girl whose shorts had slits up to her armpits. I strutted outside and joined my prancing group. We were conveniently positioned in the back of the crowd so that the faster runners wouldn't have to bother trying to get around us. The horn sounded and I began to follow hordes of bodies moving down the street.

I ran, and I ran, and I walked, and I ran. I ran a longer distance for a longer period of time than I've ever run in my life. I decided halfway through the race that if I came across the finish line last, I wouldn't be disappointed. I couldn't possibly be disappointed. Because the point was that I finished.

Every time I went around a corner, I secretly hoped it would be the last. Every time my foot pounded the pavement, I wished it was already crossing the finish line. I made little goals for myself: Just make it to that crack in the road; Just pass that red car; Just stay in front of those women walking; Just start running again once you get to the stop sign. And when I made that mark, whatever it was, I would set a new goal for myself. Sometimes I would surprise myself by starting to run again before I met my next goal.

When the finish line was finally in sight, something happened. It was like I hadn't been running at all, like I wasn't completely worn out, as if I had just been out on a short, leisurely walk. The entire race, Roger was beside me cheering me along. I began sprinting, tearing down the road for the last fifty yards. I couldn't help but wonder whether I could have maintained that pace for a longer period of time, or if perhaps I should have begun that tempo earlier in the race.

In the end, I didn't finish last, but almost. I was number 132 out of 141, and I would have been 133 had Roger not hung back a bit so I could step across the finish line first. But the point is: I finished. And I couldn't be more proud.

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Left to myself, I'm not a runner. Or even a jogger. I'll walk. I'll bike. I'll swim. I'll skip. I'll rollerblade. I'll train on the elliptical. I'll do somersaults, whatever. I won't run.

Something about taking steps in such quick succession makes my heart rate shoot through the roof, like a misfiring machine gun, and to me it feels almost as frightening. Which is why I'm still not sure why I joined a running class several weeks ago, or even why I'm considering signing up for another.

Before the class began, we each had to write down our goals for ourselves and give them to our trainer. Mine was simple: I want to run a mile. And then I want to run two miles. And then I want to run a 5k. Without feeling like I'm going to die.

The first night of class was hot and humid and we were training next to the Dallas Mavericks, which was sort of intimidating to me. I mean, they're professional athletes and I was totally winded every time I passed them. My pride hijacked my body and I was convinced they were all staring at my red face, sweaty shirt and leaden legs. I was heaving and couldn't breathe, and even though they were just doing crunches on the sidelines, I'd be damned if I didn't run when I passed them. Every. Single. Time. I'm still not sure why I was compelled to save face in front of the Mavs.

So that first night I pushed myself too hard – what with all that running, and all – I actually thought I was going to pass out. And I'll admit it here: after class, I cried. So they moved me down one level, which sort of bruised my ego, but by the sixth night of class, I was actually enjoying running, which has always been an oxymoron to me. In fact, at times it was even FUN. Is that normal?

Of course, I should also admit that I use the term running loosely. It's more of a jog. Or actually, no, it's more of a prance. I'm in a prancing class, and I know this because I can stop running and start walking and I don't lose my pace with my group.

(Should I have admitted that?)

Last night was our thirteenth class and we ran relay races, circa third grade. There's something to be said for long, powerful legs and easy, short distances. The sprinter in me leapt to attention and I'll tell you this: I totally schooled our opposing team. There's nothing more terrifying than the sight my body rushing toward you in a very matador-meets-raging-bull way and I'm feeling quite pleased about it today.

This weekend I'm running my first 5k, and though I doubt there will be any sprinting involved, I'm pretty certain that I'll be able to prance it without feeling like I'm going to die.

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