The Whistle Stop

The Whistle Stop
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday November 23, 2013

Here is what I’ve learnt since taking up jogging: I do not run like a gazelle. Or a cheetah. Or any of those animals used as metaphors for people who can run fast and free. I run like Cliff Young. No-one will ever mistake me for an athlete.

Last week, as I pounded up the hill to the traffic lights, a young girl in hot pink lycra ducked out of an apartment building and bounded onto the footpath ahead of me.

She looked as natural running as I do gossiping. I was mesmerised by her bottom. It was round and pert and muscular, and with each smooth stride her cheeks rose and fell like pistons. Her lean crankshaft-legs propelled her effortlessly forward. She was a machine. Nothing jiggled or rippled – this girl was poetry in motion, before it became a cliche.

As I jogged behind her, I saw part of the pavement had been blocked off by workmen restoring the council building on the corner. Two middle-aged blokes in fluoro vests were roping off one lane of the highway for pedestrians while half a dozen workmen screwed wooden scaffolding over the footpath.

I watched the damsel up ahead glide from the footpath to the cordoned off lane and cruise past those workmen. Half a dozen hard hats on sunburnt necks swivelled in her direction. One fella elbowed a mate who was facing the wrong way. For several seconds, those construction workers were transfixed by the sight of my friend’s air-cushioned bottom. As I got closer, I saw the foreman shaking his head in wonder. I chuckled as I thudded past him: “Stop perving!”

“You’re just jealous!” he shot back.

“You bet! But I’m ready for a wolf whistle!”

He snorted. “You might be waiting a long time!”

A few seconds down the road, I glanced back at the building site to see who was ogling my 46-year-old rump. The foreman had turned his back to me and was telling a truck driver where to park. His workmates were clustered around a crane chaining beams to the hook. Up ahead the propeller-like ponytail of the girl-athlete was a blur. I could still make out the curves of her neon spandex that had caused such commotion among the blokes in blue singlets.

Sapped, I turned for home and slunk into the shower.

I wore hot-pink lycra once. I also wore white shorty-shorts with lace hems and a g-string leotard. This was my 6am beach-walking outfit, because I was all class in the 90’s. I’d power-walk from Scarborough to Floreat with a girlfriend in her purple leotard and micro-shorts. We were too busy gas-bagging to notice anyone lusting after us. Or smirking. 

But I do remember as a 14 year old, there were two uni students who rented a cottage in the next street, a dozen houses up from my best friend. On summer Sunday afternoons, walking to her place to watch Countdown, I’d see those Uni boys drinking beers, propped on their brick veranda. They’d call out: “Come ‘n have a beer with us! We won’t bite!” Or they’d wolf whistle. Or wave.   

They flummoxed me. Boys were scary. Were their bellows dangerous, like the mating calls of wildebeest? Were they just being neighbourly? Should I ignore them? Should I smile out of politeness, then walk faster? Or should I yell: “Get nicked, losers!”

I smiled, then ignored them. It kept me virginal and in control. Our afternoon three-play became a contest. What would they yell out this time? “Hey, babe, what’s the rush? Where are you going? Can we come too?”

Years later, I bumped into one of them at a pub. Being less self-conscious, we laughed about those teasings. “You were never rude to us” he said, “We were just boofheads trying to get you to notice us. Hope you took it as a compliment.”

I told a girlfriend and she was furious: “Men who wolf-whistle are judging women on their sexual attractiveness. You’re not an object to be paraded for men’s approval or disapproval!”

I’ve never heard workers on building sites voicing their disapproval of women. But yes, when I was young, I was intimidated. Sometimes I’d be frightened, and later, angry, if men’s banter turned crude.

But then I confessed that I was crushed when those tattooed fellas at the building site showed no interest in my middle-aged bottom. My friend stared at me, horrified. And then I felt stupid and ashamed – like I’d sold out the sisterhood.

“I liked that foreman, the cheeky sod” I said. Those builders might have been smitten with that damsel’s perfect derriere, but at least they showed their appreciation with silence.

I’m 46 now. I run like my knees are tied together. I have to stop after 22 minutes and my legs seize up in the car if I forget to stretch. So please Mr Foreman – give me some encouragement! Whistle at me! And make it loud. This would-be cougar needs something to brag about!