The Runner

 I don’t know why I got into running.  I’ve always hated it. Running was something that other people did – people with longer legs, deeper lungs. Jocks. I really can’t remember having run for more than a minute in my life without feeling like I was going to die. But this spring, after a long winter trying to shave off some pounds doing cardio in my basement, I wanted to run.

So one fine Sunday in spring, I set out with my iPod playlists and running shoes and ran for as much as I could handle over a half hour period. I pushed passed the one-minute ‘feel like I’m gonna die’ barrier and ran for several minutes at a time, lungs heaving between intermittent hauls off the asthma inhaler. The inflated sense of pride I felt at my accomplishment afterwards was only slightly thwarted by the pains in my chest. These pains grew in intensity over the next few days and finally landed me in the doctor’s office. Ruling out a heart attack, it was determined that the running had somehow triggered acid reflux, promptly treated with Malox and the doctor’s advice to join a program called “Learn to Run” by the Running Room store. I stayed away from running for a few weeks and was reluctant to join a program, being the lone wolf I am often inclined to be.

But something inside of me still wanted to run. So, once the esophagus had forgotten its woes, I put on the running shoes once more and ran around my neighborhood for half an hour. The usual heaving ensued. I pushed past the imminent feelings of death. I started enjoying myself. But somewhere along the way during the last ten minutes, I began to limp. Not sure how, but I had sprained my right ankle. “Why are you limping?” asked my step-daughter when I got home. “Dunno”. The limp lasted a week. A co-worker suggested the Learn to Run program. On that same day, a Running Room Magazine showed up in my mailbox (addressed to the former resident). The universe was insisting that I end the torture. A clear path lit up before me. I registered in the program.

Before commencement of the program, as I was talking more about running and doing more research on it, I discovered that there are two different camps when it comes to this activity. Those who believe it’s great for fitness, and those who believe that it is harmful to one’s body. Some of my friends started sending me articles with titles like “The Answer is Running”. Other friends told me stories of how their running parents have undergone hip and knee replacements, and that you can end up with a prolapsed uterus from such a high-impact exercise. I researched ‘prolapsed uterus’ and was not pleased to find out that yes, your uterus can actually fall out. Holy shit.

By the time I began the very first day of my running program, I was a bit nervous. After an introductory presentation on the program, I joined all the other newbies on the trail. I stood near the back, introduced myself, and matter of factly stated that “you’ll be seeing a lot of me back here”. And then we were off, starting with walking and doing short stints of running. As I ran, I dismissed the idea that my uterus could bounce right out of me and focussed instead on the more imminent lung issue. I worried about keeping up but I was keeping up just fine. We weren’t running for long enough periods to warrant fear of collapse. By the end of the session, I was intact and actually felt good. The next day I didn’t feel like I had been dragged behind a truck.

I wasn’t as trepidatious about my abilities at the second class. When we approached the trail, I placed myself at the front of our line. Expectations of myself were still low; if people needed to pass, they would pass. But as we got going, no one passed. And they did not pass in subsequent sessions, either, despite that we were running for longer periods at a time. Sometimes they were so far behind that I was occasionally asked to run back to the group to keep together. At one point, someone referred to me as ‘The Leader’. Others said that they set their pace to mine. “As long as I’m keeping up with her, I know I’m fine”, said some lady. And up at the front, where I least expected to be, I was managing it. I didn’t want to be a leader and I didn’t want to set the pace, but there I was with my assigned role and a renewed perspective of my capabilities.

This isn’t to say that there seized to be an internal struggle. The “holy fuck, this is hard” voice was still getting ample airtime. But so was the voice saying “push, push, push, I can do this”. Needless to say that to keep moving forward, one foot in front of the other at the head of the pack took a lot of focus. Breathe in, breathe out was really all I cared about from moment to moment. So I wasn’t sure how I felt when someone new joined the group and found a place right beside me. She was an odd bird. Before our run, as we all gathered in the store, she gravitated to me and began telling me about getting her washing machine fixed, like she was picking up the conversation where we had left off at some undefined point in time. She continued chirping in my ear all through our run. To be polite, I gave her the odd grunt while running but I desperately longed for peace and quiet. Over the course of her monologues I discovered that she used to be a triathlon athlete and was recovering after having broken her back. On the same day as a regimental funeral downtown for a local fallen police officer, she shared that she was also an RCMP officer. “I have inadvertently acquired a cop running buddy” I told my partner that night. All my childhood friends, including my partner, would understand the tinge of cognitive dissonance this might invoke. I grew up in the rougher part of my hometown, where signs of police presence usually imply that you should drop what you’re doing and make a run for it. And in my misspent youth I often did. Oh, the irony.

Last week after a particularly good Friday night run, I came home and proclaimed to my partner that I was going to work towards running a half marathon, then finish working towards my black belt in karate. He gave me a look. “What?” I asked. “You’re turning into a jock”, he said. I laughed, but I kind of liked it, too. I had embraced the formerly unknown. I had become one of ‘those people’ who dwelled in the esoteric realms of fitness.

As we near the end of the running program, even the cop has dropped off. There are only a few of us who have made it to the end (including a gaggle of loud 20 year hens that it happens I can run circles around but just try to get away from most of the time). I have met people in my community, learned a great deal, and conquered physical and mental barriers. I have also discovered that I am a solitary runner. Just me and my breaths, one foot in front of the other through the forest trails. And I can run for almost ten minutes at a time now, which, prior to my current mid-life years had never seemed possible.

I recently read a running article that addressed the question of what makes a person a runner. The answer quite simply is: you run. And so another runner has been born. No one is more surprised than me.