Running and Not Running

I pulled two running shoes from the blue Ikea bag under my stairs. They were caked in dry mud, the laces were double-knotted and stiff, and my attempt to loosen them left a sizable patch of dirt on the parquet floor.

Whilst they were both made by the same brand, Brooks, and had the same garish use of colour and material that seems to be reserved for only the most serious of running shoes, it became apparent as soon as I stood up that these were not a pair.

The subtle difference in height caused me to lose my balance, and I briefly imagined myself as a young Rivers Cuomo. At some point, I must have been the type of person who possessed a rotation of running shoes.

I like to think of myself as a runner, but if you were to look at my Strava dashboard for the last two years, you might accuse me of stolen valour. 

I didn’t compete. I wasn’t even fast. But I ran. I ran 50km a week. I had strong opinions about heel-toe drop. I had high-tech insulated gloves and a fancy head torch so I could run through the dead of winter.

It was trails mostly; the undulating track that connects three reservoirs on the edge of the West Pennine Moors. It was where I had ideas, listened to audiobooks, solved complex problems, and where I found a sense of perspective.

These trails are a memory palace, where ideas and stories are printed onto the landscape. I remember how heavy my legs felt when I first heard the quote “It is not that we have a short time to live, but that we waste a lot of it”. I remember the relief of the shaded path and how the cool air felt on my arms, the moment I decided to quit my job.

Although my speed was average, owing to my rural surroundings and unchecked penchant for masochism, few could compete with me on distance and elevation. It was something I was exceptional at, and that gave me a sense of pride.

Running was an integral part of my life. 

And then, almost imperceptibly, it slipped away.

Last year, I succumbed to burnout. The effects were debilitating, recovery was slow, and I lacked the energy and willpower to put on my running shoes. 

Over time, I got further and further away from the person I think I am. My iPhone would show me a beaming selfie I’d taken atop a big hill, or I’d try on a favourite jacket that no longer fits, and I’d mourn that version of myself. 

Starting again seems daunting. You’re older, heavier, and it gets harder by the day.

But starting again was inevitable. Vital, even. I just didn’t know when it would happen, or how deep this lull would go.

It usually requires a nudge. A brain-splitting hangover. An unflattering photograph from your cousin’s wedding. Some YouTube video about that Topanga run club, where it’s all dudes with really cool tattoos and $220 shorts that make you think that could be me.

For me, this was a friend telling me about a 10k race he was training for. It was the catalyst I needed to lace up my shoes again.

I have been running for the last three weeks. The change in my fitness has been dramatic, and, for the first time in two years, I feel confident and happy.

The benefits of running are measurable, well studied, and widely reported: endorphin release, time in daylight, cardiovascular health, weight loss, better sleep, and improved mental clarity. The list goes on.

But for me, it’s simpler than that. Every day I run is a tick in the box that says I want to live.

It has been hard, uncomfortable, and demoralising.

I catch glimpses of myself in the windows of parked cars as I walk up hills I used to sprint, with my sweat-soaked shirt clinging to me in unflattering ways. I’m overtaken by septuagenarians in Ronhill shirts that are as old as I am. Every kilogram of excess weight pounds my shins and ankles, 170 times a minute.

But, through gritted teeth, I remind myself that each graceless plod is a step in the right direction.