“Those gals look pretty darn nice in them,” quipped Minnesota marathon legend Dick Beardsley, referring to the extremely short shorts that elite women marathoners seem to prefer. “To me they look uncomfortable.” They are commonly called bun-huggers, but on the package, they’re called running briefs. While most of the guys along the Twin Cities Marathon course will be covering as much leg as possible, the fastest women will be wearing obscenely skimpy shorts. Nobody seems to know why women wear them and men don’t, but who can explain fashion, let alone sports fashion? Probably it has to do with animal instincts. Everyone believes that a pair of shaven, muscular thighs has the ability to psyche out the opponent. (This seems to be especially true in track and field, volleyball, and tennis—but not, curiously, in women’s basketball or soccer.)
There’s talk of spawning a bun-hugger movement, and it’s not a conspiracy hatched by male oglers. “We’re trying to get more people to wear them,” said Sharon Stubler, an elite runner who, at 38, concedes that she may be too old to be wearing her underwear in public. For reasons of modesty, most citizen runners opt for longer shorts, popularly called “fat boys” or “baggies.” Novices in the sport believe that these shorts will cover the unsightly, fleshy inner thighs. But in truth, they have an annoying tendency to creep up in the middle. If you wear a pair for the long haul, you’ll spend the better part of 26.2 miles yanking out snuggies and tugging at the hem of your shorts.
How to avoid this frumpy fate? Bun-huggers! These little shorts are guaranteed to stay in place because they take the opposite approach to the problem: They’re supposed to stay tethered to your crotch and stuck up your behind. You’ll end the race just as you started it: with your voluptuous thighs nakedly exposed.
The very first time I successfully jogged around Lake Calhoun without stopping, it occurred to me: I should run a marathon. It was late fall. I was wearing an oversized T-shirt and sweat pants cut off at mid-thigh. I imagined my training would earn me svelte, long legs that looked great in more revealing shorts. But as the marathon neared, I realized that my inner thighs had maintained some of their famous curves. My first reflex was to reach for the fat boys. Cover them up! As my mileage increased, my tolerance for shorts that rode up decreased. Soon, I found myself standing at the start of the Twin Cities Marathon in lewdly short running shorts. Dick Beardsley would not have been so impressed.
At the sporting goods store, I encounter female marathoners grappling with the running-short dilemma. The beady eyes of an average runner dart up and down the aisles of the apparel department, searching for some compassion in a sea of blue, black, gray, and white stripes. Wives shout to their husbands from behind the dressing room door: “No, I won’t come out. I look like a hippopotamus!” Serious running shorts are a wardrobe of intimidation and accusation. When it comes down to it, the emasculating designers at Nike and Adidas have no sympathy for biology.
The average woman at the running store is built with thighs that rub together when she walks or runs. Unless harnessed or eliminated, fat deposits will cause her inner thighs to rub raw during a marathon. Her dilemma: Bun-huggers leave her thighs in harm’s way, fat boys ride up. She is just about to throw her hands in the air and take up cycling, where her legs can cocoon in a pair of biker shorts.
As an aspiring marathoner hoping to emulate the go-fast crowd, I took another tip from the elites and turned to a skin lubricant. Most runners, including Dick Beardsley—whose thighs do, in fact, rub together—slather this stuff onto their inner thighs before each run. With lube, even I could wear bun-huggers. Last year, my legs happily swished along for the entire race. Just to be on the safe side, I greased up again at around mile 19, where the National Guard made generous offerings of Vaseline. On I went, gracefully gliding along Summit Avenue, turning heads all along the way. —Christy DeSmith
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