They Call Us Cowards
Words by Francheska Melendez, Photographs by Ben Roberts
This article was originally published in Issue #2 of Like The Wind Magazine.
The Spanish word cobarde has all the hissing breathiness and rolled r’s of a serious Latin-American soap-opera insult. When the Spanish decree: “Correr es de cobardes” - running is for cowards - they do so dramatically. There’s a joke in there somewhere, but it’s lost on me. I’ve lived in Spain long enough to know that while bullfighters continue to be a source of awe, even pride, and are perpetually featured in every type of media, runners are considered freaks.
Nine times out of 10, when I reveal myself to be a runner, I hear those same words: “Correr es de cobardes.” The funny thing is that even though the phrase is very much a part of the local vernacular, most Spaniards don’t realize that they are misquoting their source. It was former, Spanish footballer Rogelio Sosa Ramírez who first said that running was cowardly. When his coach demanded he run more on the field, he responded that only a coward would run. Sosa Ramírez would instead show his football prowess by making the ball run for him. As often happens in life, even within the same language, even inside the same country, something has been lost in translation.
And so I heard those same words uttered again and again, my reflex response a forced smile. I rarely bothered to tell the edifying football anecdote because I figured it was useless. “These people just don’t get it,” I said to myself. Yet on further reflection, that reaction felt hollow to me – as hollow as their empty repetition of that saying.
My knee-jerk resistance started to feel a bit too full of pride - a bit too “New York”. If I’ve learned anything as an expat, it’s that everything you think you know is worth reconsidering. Now, this is no simple feat, because telling a New Yorker that he or she is a coward will typically warrant an aggressive response. We don’t generally back down from a fight. “I am one tough mother,” says every New Yorker to themselves every day of their lives. Not only do we pride ourselves on surviving the daily challenges that pop up on the impromptu obstacle course that is our grey metropolis, but we would never, ever admit to feeling fear. Though fear is omnipresent, we strive to keep it at bay.
But what if the Spanish are right? What if I am afraid? I know the people who mindlessly say that runners are cowards have most likely never been on a run in their entire lives, but maybe they’re on to something. The older I grow, the more I listen to my mother and the more amused I find myself in the face of the neat truths packaged in adages. They are shared speech’s sweet little fortune cookies, so often ignored for their ubiquity yet frequently called upon when you really find yourself in a predicament.
But “Correr es de cobardes” turned out to contain a great truth for me. The line between fear and cowardice is not always clear. I run and I am afraid. I run in spite of being afraid.
As a mechanism for survival, fear has been very useful in my life. In uptown Manhattan during the 1980s, there were boogeymen around every corner, waiting to hurt you or rob you or sell you drugs. Joggers were raped in Central Park. Shootings were on the list of not-so-unlikely ways to perish. It was a darker time, a time when going outside had some serious drawbacks. The street corners, the stoops and the parks were for junkies and roughnecks. Us good kids had to stay indoors to survive.
This potent mix of real and imagined fears was conjured up by my Dominican immigrant mother in an effort to keep me safe in her adoptive city. I didn’t know it at the time - particularly since Dominicans rarely speak of the atrocities committed during the 30-year Trujillo dictatorship - but the ghosts from the old island were alive and kicking. In the Dominican Republic, nature and wilderness are used to instill fear. It’s said that Trujillo would toss the bodies of his enemies to the sharks. In 1960, the dissident Mirabal sisters were ambushed and murdered in a lush mountainous region of the island. Their car was pushed into a ditch on a stormy night to make it look like an accident. In other words, though my mother was told explicitly not to go swimming in the river because she might drown, there were often worse, unspoken spectres hiding in the bushes.
My fears growing up manifested themselves in the landscape of another island: Manhattan. By never venturing far, I got good grades and didn’t end up a teen pregnancy statistic. Life was good. And as luck would have it, I came of age just as New York City transitioned into urban bliss – crime dropped, Times Square was gentrified, Giuliani’s broken windows were fixed. It was suddenly safe to go out again.
But the crazy thing about the boogeyman is that just when you think he’s disappeared, another guy takes his place. No matter how many times I’ve gone running, there is always fresh fear. When I first started running, I was spurred on by the fear. I was running for my life. I was looking for the antidote to illness and depression. I was 26 yet felt like an old lady. I ran slowly. I was sure I might kill myself because I’d spent most of the past three years lying down. But I convinced myself that at least by getting on my feet, I’d finally be doing something. I was terrified. I was outdoors, by the river; it was all uncharted territory.
Born and bred New Yorkers are known for being highly efficient. And one of our most efficient tactics for viewing our world is compartmentalization. I had my section of my neighbourhood, Washington Heights, precisely mapped. Territories were clearly demarcated and remote areas were not to be explored under any circumstances. Lonely spots were places for people to do illicit things away from prying eyes. After all, in a city of eight million people, the most remote possibility of all is solitude.
Down by the Hudson River, I found solitude and - much to my surprise - a wicked running path. I had been set free. Suddenly, I was moving. Things that had previously freaked me out, such as spending more than a few minutes in a snowstorm, were making me stronger. Here I was, happy as could be, running backwards against the winds of a nor’easter to avoid getting fat snowflakes in my eyes. Never had I done something so ludicrous. My rules were shifting.
I arrived in Madrid emboldened by that spirit of adventure. I was free from the restrictions that had kept me safe but stifled in New York. I’d bought my first pair of running sneakers in New York. I’d run my first race in New York. I’d made my first running friend in New York. But I was only free to become a real runner when I left New York.
Casa de Campo, Madrid’s largest park, lies west of the city centre and happens to be five times the size of Central Park. Among its rolling hills lie hundreds of paths, perfect for completing almost any type of run.
A flat section by the lake offers beautiful views of the city. Intense hills are steep enough to attract downhill mountain bikers. An amazing pine forest track offers glimpses of the nearby Guadarrama mountains. This gem of a park is often referred to as the city’s “green lung”. When the cool air hits as you run past one of the park’s little creeks, it quickly becomes clear how apt that nickname is.
But I had no idea of Casa de Campo’s bad reputation when I first started running there. I was unaware of the prostitutes and drugs that predominated until only around five years ago. I had no idea the park was the site of the front lines of the Spanish Civil War. All I thought was that these 4,255 acres and 11-mile perimeter felt like running paradise.
Although I didn’t fully understand Casa de Campo’s urban dangers, I’d brought along some of my old boogeymen to keep me company on my runs. As a woman - as an inner-city dweller - I have a constant fear that if I don’t keep alert at all times, I might meet an untimely death. It’s illogical yet somehow feels practical. It’s as though somewhere deep inside I’m convinced that by venturing far from the familiar, I am putting myself at risk. Somehow it makes more sense that the wildness found in nature, ephemeral and impossible to contain, is far more unpredictable - and therefore more menacing - than the devil I know.
But when I ran into Zaida, things started to make more sense. Zaida Capeans, 41, grew up in a neighbourhood bordering Casa de Campo. She prefers running in the evening to clear her head; the park is at its quietest just before sunset. She is aware of the persistent rumors about the park, but this is her territory, and she thinks there’s nothing to be afraid of.
The more I investigated, the more I realised that Casa de Campo seems to attract “wonderful oddball” runners. I call them oddballs because they don’t share many of the commonly held local opinions about running. For example, there’s Alejandro Ranchal Pedrosa, 19, who discovered running to be a healthy alternative to football.
Most young men in Madrid would never consider quitting football in favour of running. Though Alejandro was initially a skeptic, he is now a believer. Long-time friends Javier Mora, 32, and Raul Gonzalez, 33, claim they run to prepare for trail races, but mostly they run to avoid overindulging in one of Madrid’s most entrenched traditions: drinking cold beer on a hot day (or on any day, for that matter).
Many run to stay healthy, choosing Casa de Campo specifically for its lush, traffic-free environment. In 2007, the city closed the park to traffic, thereby both reducing crime and pollution. Julio Ledesma, 45, thinks the park is the perfect green space to prepare for his next half-marathon. And Eduardo Cuevas Moreno, 34, loves Casa de Campo because there’s nowhere better to rack up mileage when he’s training for longer distances.
Running in Casa de Campo is also about spending time with others. Ruth Molina, 33, and Sergio Lopez, 35, train together and motivate each other up difficult climbs. I even bumped into an entire family running together in Casa de Campo. Lucia Garcia, 10, headed the pack with awesome running form. Brother Gabriel, 7, kept a close watch on both big sis and dad, Javier, 41, the guide. Javier is an ultra-runner and has been running since he was around 11. Javier’s love of running has proved so infectious that the whole family is now involved. Not to be left out, mum Olga Mumary, 41, was training for Madrid’s Women’s Race.
Others run to change their lives. Mar Rivas Oreja, 48, didn’t feel great about herself or her body, so decided to make a radical change. A year later, she now runs five days a week and radiates well-being and exuberance.
Similar self-assurance and determination were echoed in 72-year old retired cardiologist, Santiago Santolalla Rodriguez, who refused to stop long enough for me to ask him why he runs. He simply said that though he would be shuffling to the finish line just ahead of the broom wagon, he had set a goal to complete a half marathon in 2:30:00. And so he wouldn’t interrupt his training session, even for a brief chat.
I identify strongly with the Casa de Campo runners I’ve met. The harder you work in the park, the deeper you go, the more everything unfolds. I started off running on the main roads and expanded bit by bit as my legs adjusted to the hilly landscape. And just when I thought I had a good idea of the lay of the land in Casa de Campo, I met and fell in love with Ben Roberts.
With his orienteering and marathon-running background, Ben has taught me the joys of running across uneven terrain by pushing me to barrel across the roller coaster of hills and valleys in the least populated sections of the park. With his photographer’s eye, he has shown me that the peace and beauty of the Casa de Campo pine forests gets better the further off the beaten path you go.
Initially I was skeptical; according to my mind’s rules of urban running, it made no sense to go off the clearly marked paths. I could feel the edge of my fear telling me that danger might be lurking there. But Ben helped me get through it.
Though it’s clear that Casa de Campo will always have a special place in my heart because it is where I have most grown as a runner, Ben gave me an additional reason to love the park. During an off-road mission, he suddenly got down on one knee to perform a hip flexor stretch. Or so I thought; he proposed instead.
Despite the local adage to the contrary, none of the Casa de Campo runners strike me as cowards. And I am proud to include myself among them. With every run, we each push our boundaries in our own ways. We show Madrid’s other runners there’s nothing to be afraid of in Casa de Campo.
On a recent Spring evening, I went out for a gorgeous run in Casa de Campo. I felt the old electric storm of fear brewing along my skin as night started falling. But then it suddenly fell away. I could hear only crickets; the sky burned with the dying sun, and rabbits relaxed outside their burrows, undisturbed by my passing. It dawned on me as I sailed down my last hill that if a boogeyman was still out there, hiding in a shadow behind a tree, he’d have to be pretty damn fast to catch me.
