Of Buffs, Lycra, And Being Well-Coiffed: Tips For Trail Running In Switzerland

[Editor’s Note: With numerous Americans about to head across the Atlantic to race TransGranCanaria, this is the first in a two-part humor series on international trail running fashion. Don’t worry, we’re equal-opportunity humorists so stay tuned for a follow-up article that tackles U.S. trail running fashion for Euro visitors.]

The Euro-style start of TNF UTMB in 2013. Photo: iRunFar/Meghan Hicks

“Your parts, they are not too loose?”

The question, offered in a thick Swiss German accent, comes as I am getting ready for Glacier 3000, one of Switzerland’s more scenic trail runs in a country that offers dozens of remarkable trail races. Twenty-six kilometers long and with almost 2,000 meters of climbing, Glacier 3000 is a bit schizophrenic, featuring a rolling tour of several bucolic Swiss villages, followed by a steep upward push through alpine terrain, and a finish across an aging glacier.

It’s not exactly the usual low-key chatter I expect before the starting gun. Apprehensively, I followed the stare of my new acquaintance, and looked below my belt line. Nothing to see there. Everything seemed to be in order. Then, I looked towards, well, his he-ness. As an EMT instructor might say, when scanning a body for trauma, I ‘glanced casually.’

He was compressed, mightily so. Tight Lycra covered everything, his torso, the area that was the topic of the moment, his calves, and feet. His parts were anything but loose.

I decided to have some fun. “I like the wind down there,” I explained. “Feels good. Give it a try sometime!” I got a blank stare back. My comment clearly didn’t compute.

The gun went off. We left the posh village of Gstaad, and headed for the mountain looming in the distance. Each of us with—how do I put this delicately?—our culturally different degrees of compaction. Vive la différence!

I have been running in Switzerland for a number of years now, ever since my brother and I stuffed a few francs in our socks and took off one day during a family reunion, on what we later called our ‘Gentleman’s Trail Run’—a hard push uphill, followed by a café au lait and a croissant. That was nearly 20 years ago, and it’s a concept so good, it’s still in use in our family.

I love running here, more than anywhere else in the world. For what I like, it’s got it all. Cozy villages. Miles of high-alpine pastures filled with contented cows, sheep, and goats. Tough climbs, followed by a reward of fresh fruit tarts at the local hut. Scenery that’s right out of, well, Heidi. And a culture that loves trail runners. It’s not unusual to run past a farmer, only to have him put aside his rake and clap a few times. The fact that his tools look a century old and he’s dressed in clothing that appears to have been provided by the Swiss tourism board makes it that much more memorable.

Switzerland and I, though, we’re at odds on one thing: trail running fashion. To me, it’s an oxymoron. To the Swiss and many other European runners, it’s a phrase that can be uttered entirely without irony.

I’ve never been accused of being the slightest bit fashionable. To make matters worse, I work for the NPR show, Car Talk, with two bosses whose idea of haute couture is wearing something to the studio that’s not so saturated in petroleum that it might spontaneously combust. Our Executive Producer’s nickname is ‘Not a Slave to Fashion.’ We take pride in our slothfulness.

To be honest, I am a bit torn. One side of me secretly admires the sleek look of the Euro trail runner. The clichéd American in me, though, comes out when I’m in the Alps. I scoff at time spent preening. Back home, I tell myself, that would cut into our time spent burning donuts in the Wal-Mart parking lot. Or, in my case, finally reading that New Yorker that’s been sitting around, gathering dust.

The lure of the European trail running scene is mightily strong, though. And, I’d hate for any reader to be caught unawares, perplexed by disbelieving looks. So, with that in mind, I offer a few fashion faux pas and tips, for those of you someday headed to the pastures and peaks of the Alps.

Dos

Compress! Compress everything you can. Compress your toes, your calves, your quads, your torso, your arms. It wouldn’t surprise me if guys will soon be wearing compression jock straps and women, compression bras. The manufacturers, of course, will claim they will make you run faster. (Imagine the sensation. It’s hard to believe they wouldn’t.)

Coordinate. Your pack should match your shirt, which should match your socks, which should match your shoes, which should match the accent stripe on the inner layer of your compression shorts, which should match… well, you get the idea.

Wear designer sports sunglasses in the absolute brightest colors you can find.

Use a Buff. In the quiet of your bedroom, train endlessly to understand the dozens of ways it can be worn. When you’re wearing it, try your best to shunt aside the thought that you look like you just walked off the set of an old ER episode.

Emma Roca finishing in style… Euro style at TNF UTMB. Photo: iRunFar/Bryon Powell

Bring trail running poles. Refer to them as batons. When someone asks you if you have batons, say “Bien sûr!” and act mildly displeased at the stupidity of the question.

Accessorize! Guys: consider a small earring stud. Women: lightweight jewelry is a must.

Get a haircut. And not from a barber, but rather from what one Euro friend would call “a proper stylist.” If you’re getting this done in Switzerland, prepare to have your savings drained. A simple haircut last summer cost more than my first car. Unsure if your style works? Try this test: it shouldn’t budge, even when you remove your Buff. (Side note: On the upside? Guys who, like me, are follicle-ly challenged will love this country. Lack of cranial coverage seems almost desirable.)

Got it? Good! Now keep telling yourself this is exactly how you run at home. (French-speaking trail runners searching for the right word will sometimes use the word ‘costume’ to describe their collection of trail running gear. It’s an accident of language that works beautifully, in this case.)

A final tip: buy everything you need before you leave the States. In Grindelwald, Switzerland, I once saw a Salomon trail running clothing package that totaled well over $1,000. No one said fashion was cheap.

Seb Chaigneau debuting some French flare on the Hardrock catwalk in the summer of 2013. Photo: iRunFar/Bryon Powell

Don’ts

Don’t wear baseball caps. As a friend of mine from Paris once pointed out, only kids and tourists wear caps in Europe.

Don’t be unkempt. Know exactly which pocket in your trail running pack is designed for your Buff, which for the gels, and which for your comb. (Yes, I have seen this.) Never confuse them.

Don’t wear clothing that isn’t formfitting. The only fabric that should be flapping in Switzerland is the iconic red and white flag.

Don’t allow mud on you shoes. I have seen runners in ultramarathons, finishing the day with shoes that look like they are still warm from the factory forms. How do they do it? I’m still puzzling over it.

Conclusion

Now you’re dressed and ready for a nice, long trail run through the Alps. Locals will address you in French or German, naturally assuming you’re one of them. Smile knowingly and nod, but don’t utter a word. They’ll never know you once wore mismatched clothing whose total value was less than a latte at the local hut.

I, by the way, never seem to care enough to follow any of my own advice. And, frankly, I like to run with my settings a bit, well, loose. So, I remain mostly unfashionable.

One final observation that’s part fashion, part physiology. Swiss trail runners, it seems, don’t sweat. I, on the other hand, sometimes look like I just walked out of a swimming pool. I’m not sure how they do it. More research is needed. So, when the snows disappear and the heat comes back to the Valais Alps on the border with France and Italy, I’ll be there, still trying to figure it all out.