Trickling into McFadden's Saloon is a slapstick ensemble of 21+-year-olds wearing an even mix of nothing-but-their-underwear and stripped-down Halloween costumes. I paired my blue-checkered boxers with a blue button-down for professionalism's sake (though one woman remarked, "That's a walk of shame outfit").
The 11th annual Pittsburgh Cupid's Undie Run fundraiser last Saturday was a pay-to-enter 1.3-mile run over and back the Roberto Clemente Bridge, sandwiched between hours of drinking and dancing. The nationally organized race raises money for research into Neurofibromatosis (NF), a genetic disorder that affects the nervous system.
As the name of the event implies, clothing is strongly discouraged.
When I walk into the North Shore bar, I’m greeted by a waitress carrying a tray of pink, alcoholically ambiguous shots. Up on a stage in the back, a woman with a mesh top and pink tutu is giving out medals to the event's top fundraisers. Jason "Donation Whore” Henahan claims the first prize, having raised $15,553.
Henahan has been the largest single fundraiser for the past five or six years — hence the proudly claimed nickname. In a conversation with him and his wife, Janine, they told me they've been participating in the undie run since 2016 or 2017 in honor of their friend's son Ryan, who has NF.
"[Our friends] said, 'We're gonna go to Pittsburgh and run in our underwear. Do you want to come?' and we're like, 'Sure, let's do it,'" Janine yells over the music, "Every February we come and run a mile in our underwear."
"We say 'party run party' because we party for two hours; we get all hyped up; we run the 1.3 miles; and then we come back, and we party a little bit more," Bissell tells me, clutching her bare shoulders on the back patio.
This year's event raised $99,900 of its $110,000 goal, as of Feb. 19.
Back inside, the party was roaring to a collection of ‘90s hits. With a cowgirl, a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, and a man wearing a thong dancing up on the bar above me, I meet Nicki Bennett. Unable to hear each other over Blink-182's "All the Small Things," I couldn't grab a full interview, but they tell me they have NF and is an undie run veteran of three years.
Bennett tells me later over email that with NF, they're missing the gene that tells their cells to stop growing on nerve endings, causing them to turn into benign tumors. They say they named their first tumor Richard following a suggestion from their girl crush, but they didn't mention names for the ones that would grow later on their brain, ears, neck, and back. While medication is still in the trial phase for the disease, Bennett says they're optimistic that the Children's Tumor Foundation will one day be able to find a cure.
"I don't think we would be where we are today without [the Children's Tumor Foundation],” Bennett tells me in a late night email. “So this is why Cupid's undie run is important. It has become one of my top things I do all year, even though I came home and went straight to bed, and [will] probably be in bed a lot this week from it."
At the event, I buy Bennett a shot of tequila, and then, around 1 p.m., at a disappointing high of 29 degrees, it is time to run.
Organizers sweep partiers out of the bar and onto the street while they dance to the Cupid Shuffle and race to finish their drinks. Around the corner and under an awning of red and pink balloons, 300 or so people are eager to get moving as their goose bumps turned to swan mounds. Despite everyone's mock grumblings about the cold, the energy is gleefully squeamish. Out of the loose congregations and solo runners dotting the Roberto Clemente Bridge, you can pick out the likes of Zeus, Superman, a Ghostbuster, a fairy, Buzz Lightyear, Spongebob, a ballerina, and hundreds in pink or red underwear.
Fielding dirty looks and sarcastic remarks for wearing a puffer jacket, I walk, jog, and trot with the sluggish crowd.
Out on the blocked-off streets, I meet a recently divorced, first-time undie-runner named Bert, who tells me he is out here looking to try new things and get out of his comfort zone. I joke with a bartender named Nick, who is heaved over himself, that he should lay off the cigarettes. "Fuck you," he says, kidding. "I mean, you're right, but fuck you."
Back at McFadden's, the party keeps going, though the slightly thinned-out crowd leaves only the die-hards. While it's easy to see the undie run as a veil for day drinking, everyone I speak to is there for the cause.
"Everybody gives us a dirty look because we're in our underwear, but we do it because what better way to raise money and awareness for a disease than to see a bunch of people in their underwear?" Bissell says.
