Why good support (of every kind) is vital on the hill
L et’s talk about boobs. My ‘girls’ and me go back a long way and they’re mostly great. But when I’m out and about in the hills, they can sometimes get annoying. I’m not one of those lean, athletic girls you generally see in outdoor clothing adverts, so chest straps on rucksacks don’t always fit well, and outdoor technical clothing is a bit tight across the bust. Ladies – did you know that the majority of you are not wearing the right bra size? If you go to get fitted and they whip out a tape measure, run away. It doesn’t work. Go to a specialist shop and they’ll stare at your current bra, then bring you the right size. Most women are wearing a too-large back size and a too-small cup size. When I first got properly fitted by someone who knew what they were doing, I went down four inches in the back and up three cup sizes (who knew the alphabet went on so far?!). And, miraculously, suddenly, my sports bra actually stopped the bounce!
A well-fitting bra gets things under control, and having been in partnership with the girls for more than twentyfive years now, we’ve worked out how to do most things without bounce or faff. I was recently flummoxed, though. A male friend and I were on a winter wild camp. It was cold, raining and we were in a small two-man tent, with Harpo the Labrador. There wasn’t much space. Now, this pal is a worldly chap. He’s got a partner, kids, I’m sure he’s seen it all before. He hasn’t seen mine, though, and, in the interests of our platonic friendship, I think we’re both keen to keep it that way.
We’d done a long day trogging through the mud and slush, and more of the same faced us the next day. To get a good night’s sleep I needed to take my bra off. But how? Turn to the corner of the tent and everyone politely avert their eyes? It was a tunnel tent, there were no corners. If I went outside to get changed, I’d get soaked. So, semi-clad in my semi-zipped sleeping bag, I began the age-old Dance Of The Bra – you know, the one where the lady flails her arms, shimmying out of her undergarments while keeping her top on and then, ta-da!, her bra magically appears from the end of her sleeve and everyone applauds? That one. But there wasn’t enough space.
Instead, it was like some kind of endurance Pilates exercise, me semi-curled into a sit-up with my arms behind my back, on my side. And then the hooks at the back snagged on my base layer. Trapped! I was well and truly snared by my own brassiere and propriety. My pal, interpreting my huffing and grunting on an impressively intuitive level, casually said “I’m just going to nip outside for a pee”. By the time he got back, I was gratefully snugged up in my sleeping bag, free-range for the night. “In the morning, I’ll need another pee, yeah?” he grinned.
It pays to camp with good friends!
“I was well and truly snared by my own brassiere and propriety”