The word “runner” causes problems for a lot of women.
I vividly recall a discussion with my Dad one evening in April 2011 when he referred to me as “a runner” and I corrected him, as I always did when people made that mistake, “no Dad, I’m not a runner”. It was the night before I ran my first Marathon.
“I’m not a runner”
The problem with the term “runner” is that it creates a very specific image – to me it was a confident lycra clad woman gliding effortlessly along a beautiful trail somewhere – sun beaming down as she smiles and takes in the scenery, skipping along merrily without a care in the world. Definitely not me. There was nothing effortlessabout my running. I was more of a sweaty out of breath heap. I had completed 6 months of training, running consistently 3 times per week, distances up to 20 miles. I had purchased countless ‘running accessories’ – from trainers and clothing to energy gels and phone apps. I was pretty confident I could finish the 26.2 mile course the following day, and would then happily call myself a “marathon finisher”. But I was definitely. Not. “A Runner”.
I was running the London Marathon to raise money for a local hospice, so at best I was a “charity runner” with no hope of fitting in with “real runners” who did this sort of thing as a hobby. Although comfortable with the idea that with a bit of willpower and consistency I should be able to complete the marathon, I was very aware that the whole idea was crazy. A ridiculous challenge to raise as much money as possible. It worked too – I had some serious donations coming in from all walks of my life, which was brilliant, but also fed into my assumption that what I was doing was something that was “not me” and therefore quite worthy of lots of sponsorship.
There was always part of me that felt I would never fit in with “real runners” – and quite a comforting belief that I didn’t need to. After all, I had hated cross country at school. I had been half decent at sports generally but no superstar, so there was little point in trying to fit in with these crazy runners. It was never going to happen. I wasn’t “a runner”. All I was doing was running a little bit – enough to raise some money.
In fact it took me three years of running off and on, entering, training for and completing numerous races including distances of 5k, 10k, half and full marathon, and then joining a running club, before I finally admitted I would have to stop correcting people when they called me “a runner”. I now run and race regularly, and the question of whether I am “a runner” or not is less of an issue – by my third marathon I’ve found I can’t reasonably deny it.
Looking back at my old definition, I thought “a runner” was someone confident about their running. In my experience this is far from true. “Runners” are like everyone else and confidence levels vary from “runner” to “runner”, day to day, and sometimes minute to minute! “Runners” do wear lycra, but it is not a requirement. They wear what they feel comfortable in. “Runners” may, on occasion “glide”, but it is usually far from effortless. The best “runners” know when to put in the effort and those who appear to be “gliding” have been consistently investing their effort to reach that point. When they go all out in their next race the effort will be obvious – some of the world’s best “runners” are often seen collapsing at the end of their races, having pushed themselves to their limits.
Volunteer at your local parkrun and it will soon become clear that those of all abilities go out there and push themselves to their limits, whether they are finishing 1st or 400th. “Runners” may enjoy the sun and scenery once in a while, but that is not what makes them “a runner”. And as for having no cares in the world, they are like everyone else – juggling numerous cares, but they appreciate that running gives them space to deal with their issues, and maybe even find solutions out there on the road or trail.
So with my old definition blown out of the water, how are you supposed to know if you are “a runner” – and save yourself the unnecessary squirming. It’s simple – a “runner” is “a person that runs” – put simply, you run, so you’re “a runner”.
If you are putting your trainers on, lycra clad or otherwise, and heading out of the door, putting one foot in front of the other at a pace quicker than a walk, you are “a runner”.
On the off chance you are still squirming, unsure if you will ever get used to calling yourself, or being called “a runner” – the best advice I can give is to get those trainers on and get out there – by the time you get past your front gate it will be too late.