I am a runner because I run. Not because I run fast. Not because I run far. I am a runner because I say I am. And no one can tell me I’m not.
~John Bingham
I was never any good at running. Running seemed out of bounds, something for the lithe and athletic. Being neither, I stayed away. I saw runners in my neighbourhood jogging down the street in the early morning, getting a jump on their day. Or at the high-school track, long legs flashing, ponytails swinging rhythmically, gliding effortlessly through their workouts. I watched them the way one watches fish in an aquarium: entranced, impressed, but in no way relating. Overweight and ungainly, I was closer to catfish than runner.
Then, in grade nine, our maddeningly enthusiastic physical-education teacher announced that we would be running a mile before each class — as a warm-up. The idea that we would be capable of doing anything after such an extraordinary feat was mindboggling. We rolled our eyes and shuffled off grudgingly, devoting more energy to getting out of the exercise than to actually doing it.
“I have flat feet.”
“My dog ate my running shoes.”
“But I’ll sweat!” Surely, this was to be avoided at all costs. After all, girls were supposed to be pretty and sleek, not sweaty and out of breath.
But we ran, and we panted. After a while, it became, if not actually enjoyable, at least more or less possible and sort of okay. The chasm between the world of skinny, fit runners and myself narrowed ever so slightly. I still felt like I was waddling along, puffing and awkward, but at least I could do so for a sustained period.
I ran with my friend Karen, and we talked as we went along, discussing school, boys, books, and whatever was on our minds. Karen was naturally slim and leggy, but I let her be my friend anyway as she was nice and funny, and we had been friends since first grade. Chatting as we ran, I gradually forgot about the effort and discomfort, focusing on who she thought was better-looking, Kevin or Matt, or why Michael J. Fox was such a great actor.
We explored essay topics, planned trips, complained about teachers — and ran. We did all our runs together, the miles slowly accumulating as we talked. Although I wouldn’t have dared try out for the track team, I was gradually becoming, if not a runner, at least a semi-jogger. I preferred to run with others so I didn’t attract attention and could distract myself. My jeans got a little looser, my stomach flatter.
Fast-forward to university. As a journalism major, I had a full course load and little spare time. I found the best way to clear my head and organize my thoughts was to go for a run. Although I would not have presumed to call myself a runner, still reserving that designation for those leaner, faster people, I nonetheless ran fairly consistently. I found myself looking forward to heading out on a crisp winter day, enjoying the beauty of the glittering world of white and the steady crunch of my feet in the snow.
I no longer required the distraction of company to keep me going, but rather relished the time alone in my head. Writing assignments took shape, thesis arguments crystallized, and I returned from each run with renewed energy and a stream of ideas. While many of my friends gained the dreaded Freshman 15, I lost more weight.
I continued running as I entered the workforce, although I still hesitated to call myself a runner. There were runners at the PR firm where I worked, mostly men, and they were all fit and fast. They discussed split times and personal bests. They ran marathons and talked about runs in terms of hours. Like anyone could run for four hours, I thought disbelievingly. They were clearly some sort of super-human freaks.
Reluctant to compare myself with them, I described what I did as “just jogging,” petrified they would invite me out for a run and I would either a) be revealed as a fraud or b) expire. But the idea of long-distance running was intriguing, and I gradually began to increase my mileage. After a while, I was running 10Ks regularly and wondering if I could go farther. In order to do so, I realized that I would have to fuel my body better, and I began eating healthier meals. I dropped more pounds and a few dress sizes.
I was not particularly fast, nor especially lithe, and I reveled in my solitary runs where I didn’t have to worry about keeping up or how I looked in running shorts. Still convinced that most people did it better than me, I preferred to go it alone. I continued to increase my distance, and eventually set my sights on the half marathon. This sounded like something only serious runners did, but I thought, just maybe, I might be able to do it.
I trained by myself, logging long, hot runs on the trails and quiet roads. I discovered, the hard way, the necessity of hydrating properly and why I needed to grease my toes with petroleum jelly before heading out in the heat. I ran a half marathon, felt terrible, and then ran a few more.
Then I tentatively considered the marathon. Deciding I needed professional help, I signed up for a marathon course at a local running store. Although I felt comfortable at shorter distances, this was the domain of the hard-core. I almost backed out, convinced I was out of my league. Therefore, as we headed out for our first group run, I was surprised to find people of all shapes and sizes, not to mention speeds.
I struck up a conversation with the runner next to me, a 30-something woman also training for her first marathon. She was no faster nor more toned than me. In fact, she looked, well, normal. Glancing around, I realized that I actually fit in. There was no magical quality that set these runners apart from mere mortals. There was no minimum speed or mileage requirement, no uniform body type. We came from varied backgrounds, had different abilities and histories. All that united us was the running.
I have since run numerous marathons and several ultra marathons. I am a solid middle-of-the-pack runner and content to remain so. I like being surrounded by a multitude of people, united in our love of running. We are teachers, lawyers, and stay-at-home mothers. Some of us have been running all our lives, some less than a year. None of us will win the Olympics, but as long as we continue to put one foot in front of the other, we are all runners. After a long time spent trying to become a “real” runner, I now realize I was chasing a mirage. A real runner is anyone who runs.
— Karyn Curtis —