When I was in high school, I liked to play tennis, so I decided to go out for the tennis team. This was something new for me — a formal athletic pursuit that was not set to background music — so I attended the informational meeting with some trepidation. When the coach informed us that each practice started with a mile run, my tennis career came to a crashing halt.

The next year, though, my gym teacher decided to base a 9-week course on Ken Cooper’s book Aerobics. In those days, “aerobics” just meant exercise that forces the body to use increased amounts of oxygen; the whole concept of calisthenics in Spandex had not yet been invented by Jane Fonda. So the content for this particular gym class consisted of running a mile every day.

At first, I could barely run ten steps. But by the end of the class I was running a mile in 7:30 and loving it. You’d think that this would have given me enough confidence to go out for the tennis team, but instead, high on endorphins, I went out for the cross-country team.

As much as I loved running, I was a lousy runner. It wasn’t my body type or cardiovascular capability, both of which are fairly well-suited to running. I was timid and careful; I held back. I was always last at the 2-mile mark, occasionally gaining a better position in the last part of the race. Other people puked at the finish line, tore ligaments, ran themselves into horrible repetitive stress injuries, but I was always intact and always having fun. And unlike baton twirling, cheerleading, or dance — my other quasi-athletic activities — no one ever expected me to smile, look good, wear makeup, or be the best. It was extremely freeing. I could just do something active for the sheer enjoyment of it.

So that was in 1980, and here I am 25 years later, still running. Still timid and careful, always conserving my energy, never going as far or as fast as I could; still without major injury, and still enjoying myself. I’m the same, but technology has changed. Now I can carry a little iPod with 500 songs on it (not its limit, just the limit of my music collection), rather than a chunky Walkman with a single cassette that needs to be flipped. There are hundreds of models of running shoes available, not just one version of waffle tread Nikes (take your pick: blue or red). And there are running bras. Hallelujah, there are running bras.

I can’t believe I used to run 7 miles in a regular old cotton Maidenform without even an underwire for support. The funny thing is I can’t even remember being bothered by it then, whereas I can’t tolerate even the slightest bit of bounce now. Of course my breasts, like every other part of me, are a bit bigger now than they were then.

Not that much bigger, though. I’m not even into D territory, much less double letters. So why is it so difficult for me to find a running bra? I mean, I understand that runners are supposed to exercise away their secondary sex characteristics, but what do I wear for support while I’m becoming abreastual and amenorrheic?

My goal is a simple one: I want those babies to stay in place while I run. No bouncing and no chafing, (which, incidentally, is the very worst pain I’ve ever known, even worse that the stomach cramps with amoebic dysentery I got in the Peace Corps. I haven’t given birth, but still). I’ve tried every bra I could find in every athletic goods store on the North Shore, plus several I’ve ordered from the internet, and results have been constant: bounce, bounce, bounce. I’ve worn “high-impact” bras that don’t provide enough support for a walk downtown. I’ve tried underwires and racerbacks, “masher” bras and “natural” bras.

I asked my fuller-figured friends for advice. Responses ranged from “sucks to be us” to “two bras, of course.” The last suggestion has worked out pretty well. I find that a regular Champion jog-bra as a base layer, with a racerback bra over top to hold it in place, is fairly effective. There is not too much bounce, although the effect is akin to wearing a whaleboned corset. It’s a wonder I could dance a stately quadrille in that getup, let alone run five miles.

I was not content, though, and continued to Google, looking for that Holy Grail. I finally came across the aptly-titled Last Resort Bra on Title 9. The marketing text warns that it “ain’t pretty,” which is an understatement — I have the white version, which is in a shiny fabric reminiscent of a ’50s girdle, and the picture doesn’t really do the hideous character of The Masher justice. But it does eliminate bounce, and is currently the only bra I will wear solo to run.

This morning, I woke up at 5:45 to run (more on this later), and went to the dryer to retrieve The Masher only to find that several of the twenty little hooks that go up the front had worked their way into a grille in the dryer, which I didn’t even know was there. As the dryer barrel continued to tumble, the bra had twisted upon itself, strangling several other pieces of lingerie and baby clothes in the process.

I think my running bra tried to commit suicide.