Naughty knickers: that's what I want to talk about today. I've tired you before with the lawless misdemeanours of my sport bras but the wayward behaviour of a more mischevious bunch of undergarments gone unpublished for too long. Let's look at the whereabouts* of my undercrackers throughout the course of February's Brighton 51.2% Marathon:
*Not literally, of course. I'll be decent and use a graph.
I'm still not certain whether that plateau was a welcome relief or not.
It's not as if I'm jogging around with some frilly tanga brief under my running tights; these were thoroughly sensible breeches. "Shorts", I think you'd call them. M&S' finest. But, as Caitlin Moran describes them in How to Be a Woman,
To the uninitiated, [shorts] sounds like it would give you full
coverage but merely provides a thin black strip across the middle
section. Much as if your reproductive area has been the victim of a
terrible crime, and was being interviewed on the Six O'Clock News, with
Yes, Caitlin, there has been a crime but those nefarious knickers are the culprits!
So, this week, I bit the bullet and I ordered a pair of these bobby dazzlers (the pants, not the legs; although I agree they are highly enviable):
They arrived yesterday and I'm reassured to see that lady on the tag thinks so highly of her new undies that she's felt it appropriate to abandon all other cycling gear except the helmet and sunglasses:
They'll get their first test drive this week and hopefully I'll have these apple catchers broken in by my the Forest of Dean Half in 4 weeks' time. Mind you, at £11 a go, I may need to resort to criminal activity myself to afford a second pair.