Note: This is my 7th article for Frontrunner magazine and is an amalgamation of the various sexiest and colorful female runners I’ve encountered on the road. It came out during the magazine’s special issue on Women.
by Kitty Cat Runner
Before I came into the spotlight, the local running world was drenched with sweaty, smelly guys whose only purpose in life was to cross that darn finish line, claim their loots and go home. I know it was that boring and remised of color and spectacle. And no one took notice of their feats, how fast they were, how hard they trained and how much time they’ve sacrificed to achieve their goals. Soon enough, running was already running the danger of being relegated into the dustbin of sports history…
Until it suddenly gained a new found life around 2009 – that’s when my running career came roaring in. Yes, yes, I was there when the new wave in running suddenly surged and I grabbed onto it like a blazing comet and took charge of my new found career – the running diva of the new millenium. Seriously, it was never in my plans but the running universe was in search of a nova star – somebody who’ll bring the fun back in fun runs, be the mistress of marathons, the diva of dashes, the siren of sprints, the flame in the darkness and desperation of despondent runners who fail to make the cut-off time (but still insist on getting that medal). So I stepped up the plate and became the ambassadress in running as the sexy and stimulating muse of road races.
Base training, VO2max, lactate threshold – just what the hey are they? I came here to relish a street party and trumpet my showbiz running career. Sorry I have no plans of finishing early and what? Deprive my time to meet and greet my fans along the route? I value them like my plastic jewelry collection and they’re the reason I wake up really early in the morning and abstain from my Saturday night life so they deserve more than my snob and animosity. I don’t want to hear another item of distraught fans jumping off the Manila Bay and disintegrating in its grime and flotsam.
So here I am shimmying across Roxas boulevard with its flank of garish sputnik lamp posts and I feel like I’m sashaying across the red carpet as cameras snap and cheers & claps erupt from the curious onlookers and even fellow runners. What can I say – they know a true diva when they see one. So I reciprocate them with my feigned smile, calculated hand waves and blown kisses at every turn. As the finish approaches, I make a conscious check of pretty old me – no running mascara, check, no messy hairdo nor sweaty armpits, check, check. I have taken on this role of road muse and intend to play it to the hilt. I mustn’t disappoint my gaggle of male admirers who would be watching every move I make, every step I take. Sting could even be one of them.
Of course, as a part of showbiz royalty, threats abound – those cheap, catty, copy cats, they abound like stray cats in the night, ready to pounce and grab the glitter off my running streak. But they won’t thrive – the outfits, the make-up, the drama – they either look like second rate courtesans or some out-of-job mascots. It’s would take them a lifetime to even approximate my class, stature and influence. But they can be plain mean and vicious.
Once my Facebook status only reaped a measly 300 LIKES and I thought I was losing my touch. Where have all my minions gone? Even worse was when a picture of me in one unflattering angle suddenly popped in the internet and spread like wild fire as those despicable netizens had a party taunting, chitchatting and making fun of their running goddess. Such blasphemy. I wallowed in misery but only for a day, for the next day was another chance to reinvent myself. It’s all about keeping them interested, intrigued and seduced in my little universe. And that I got in spades.
To be sure, I do have my share of bashers. All that vitriol and negative vibe and back stabbing – they keep mushrooming everyday in social media, in hushed whispers and team drunken get-togethers. And yes, my sparrows do inform me their chatter revolves around me and my pink universe of waterproof make-ups, scented moisturizers, rainbow-striped calf guards and fancy visors.
But you can’t knock a shining shimmering icon like moi – for I do have my fan base of deranged maniacs, dirty old running men (D.O.R.M.), awe-struck admirers and legion of stalkers – drooling at the sway of my hips, anticipating every jiggle of my puppies and at every pose I strike. I hear they even have their secret Facebook page where they decode, decipher and discuss about me and my lesser starlets, the way fishwives would do on the docks of Storm’s End. And who said men don’t gossip. Duh.
Yep, it’s been quite a reign – longer than any queen can imagine. Soon enough, I will be retiring from the road and I will be passing the crown to one of my wannabes, who have been forever breathing behind my neck. I’m really considering taking on the dreary world of trail running. I think they are in desperate need of a trail nymph to bring some sparkle and fun along those dark treacherous paths. Anyway, it’s been quite a ride. Better leave while I’m still at it. To my legion of fans – I want them to always remember and cherish me, hopefully not for the wrong reason (Banana girl, who?) but as someone who inspired them to run and enjoy life in all its sparkle, color and world peace. I thank you.