First things first: I am bashful about being in the buff. In change rooms, I cocoon myself in a towel to take off my sweaty clothes. I leave my underwear on for massages. Lights-out sex is my favourite kind. My hang-ups are pretty typical – thighs that could be thinner, ab flab that no amount of crunching will eradicate. Even wearing a bikini is pushing it for me.

Which is why, on this warm summer morning, I’m one sports bra and a pair of running shorts away from a major panic attack. I’m about to do a five-kilometre. But it’s not your run-of-the-mill race. Held at a nude resort, this is the Fig Leaf 5K, which is a cute way of saying that participants are encouraged to run without a stitch of clothing from the ankles up.

Adventurous to Say the Least

Why would someone so averse to baring her flesh sign up for this? No, I didn’t lose a bet. I’m motivated by my boyfriend, Chris, an avid runner and the inspiration behind my completing six half-marathons, two full marathons and a handful of shorter races in which I’ve even won an award or two.

Chris has done this run three years in a row and won’t shut up about how much fun it is. Though I’m more interested in the bragging rights that come from going through with something so outrageous, at the heart of my decision is this: I love the adrenaline rush of a new challenge.

But as the date approaches, I find it harder to view the race as just another adventure. The thought of my bare body in front of a group of strangers is scary enough; the thought of my lumps and bumps jiggling around for the world to see is downright mortifying.

D-Day

On race morning we head to the resort, register and get our numbers. I say to Chris, “What the hell am I doing?”

He laughs and peels his T-shirt and shorts off as naturally as he would before a shower. Meanwhile, I contemplate whether there’s enough time to chug a six-pack before the race.

Despite a few lame attempts at giving myself a pep talk, my nerves continue to rattle as we take our warm-up lap. A few guys have already stripped down. I try not to gawk, but it isn’t easy to look away.

With two minutes to go, Chris heads to the start while I hover behind the door of his SUV trying to talk myself into removing my shorts and bra. The race organisers remind us over a loudspeaker that it’s a “clothing optional” race and we can wear as much or as little as we want (apparently naturists, as they call themselves, are all about being comfortable).

As I drag my feet to the starting line, I seriously consider keeping my clothes exactly where they are. A pack of 60 or so runners – including about a dozen women, half of whom are fully clothed – are already lined up.

I navigate the sea of sacks and cracks, careful not to make any skin-to-skin contact, and find Chris, naked except for socks and sneakers. When a volunteer shouts, “Thirty seconds!” I heave a deep sigh, yank off my garb and toss it to the ground. It’s a naked race, damn it! I might be crazy, but I’m no quitter.

The megaphone blares and we tear down a steep incline. If you can picture how odd you look wearing nothing but shoes and socks, imagine how odd 60 people look while running in nothing but shoes and socks. There’s more swinging and slapping than at a square dance.

And forget about comfortable. My B-cup gals are jostling so much that at one point I clasp a firm hand over each and run that way for a few metres, elbows swinging wildly, making me feel even more ridiculous.

Nothing about this is fun. Not the views of the runners in front of us. Not the way the naturists lined up along the route, deep into their champagne and orange, cheer us on. And not the highly disconcerting vision of my jiggling shadow. If I weren’t so uncomfortable, I’d be laughing about the absurdity of it all. The experience gives a whole new meaning to the phrase “haul ass”.

The five-kilometre route is three hilly laps through the resort, and about halfway through it Chris and I have moved up to the front third of the pack. In just 20 minutes, I’ve seen more penises than I have in my entire 32 years. Every time we pass a runner wearing clothes, I have to fight off the urge to scream, “Cheater!” Focusing on other people makes it easier to avoid thinking about how I actually paid money to do this.

Newfound Sports Bra Appreciation

As we wind around the final downhill stretch, I quickly grab my bra and shorts off the ground. As soon as we cross the finish line – at a respectable 25 minutes and 16 seconds – I put them back on.

The award ceremony is held at the resort’s pool, and after I accept (fully clothed) my second-place trophy, Chris heads off in search of beers. Half an hour later, sufficiently buzzed, I take a quick look around at the expanse of bare bodies bronzing in the sun, and something inside me shifts. These people have already seen everything I’ve got, and at least now it’s not bouncing around mercilessly.

So I figure, what the hell? I strip off my running clothes and slide into the pool, loving how good the cold water feels against my skin – and how surprisingly comfortable I feel in it. Despite all those negative thoughts I had about it throughout the race, my body came through for me, just as it always has.

On the way home, I smile at my trophy. This one I’ve really earned, along with a newfound appreciation for my sports bra.

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