Who Runs the World?
Female runners have long fought for the recognition and status of male ones. Rachel Hewitt asks why a woman pulling on a pair of trainers is still such a defiant act.
By Rachel Hewitt
At around 5pm on October 28th 2018, the day the clocks went back in Britain, I pulled on my running shoes and left the house. My usual route follows a seven-mile (11km) loop. It starts in the medieval walled city of York, going south on good, firm cycle paths, then on to boggier trails and through a small wood to the nearby village of Bishopthorpe, returning via a few suburban alleys, across a race-course and a paved riverside path. It is flat and untroubled by cars, and I do it once or twice each week, taking one hour and one, two, sometimes even three minutes. As long as it’s not my turn to put my children to bed and I get changed the minute I stop work, I can run and be home before sunset. But on the day the clocks changed, I misjudged things and at 5pm it was already dark. No matter. I shrugged myself into a high-viz vest, donned reflective arm- and ankle-bands, stretched my new head-torch around my forehead, and left the house.
I’ve run for over a decade, since my mid-20s. When I started it brought me little pleasure. I had been running for only a couple of weeks…
