Lessons I’ve learned as a (below average) long-distance runner
On mediocrity and plodding along
At 28, I’ve come to terms with the fact I will never be a great runner.
Several marathons, many half marathons, and endless miles around London have provided me with some amazing stories. The time I ran into Louis Walsh, who was bearing a bottle of champagne in each hand, or the time my friend bumped into a bin and apologised. But I will never be great, or even good, at this sport.
Yesterday, I did a short lap around the park with my boyfriend, who has just started running. Somewhat predictably, he was much better than me.
“Come on!” He shouted from the ever-increasing distance between us. He laughed easily, annoyingly, without any loss of breath. Salt trickled into my eyes. It was an unpleasant reminder that I’m really quite rubbish at this. And how deeply unfair it is for someone to be naturally skilled.
I started running because I’d started work — and I felt like I needed a hobby beyond ‘going on the internet’ and ‘Z-list celebrities’. I put on some old trainers and lumbered along the road. My throat felt scorched after 30 seconds, setting the tone for the next seven years of plodding, rasping breath and having a very red face.
But I tried then, and I’ll keep trying, as long as I’m able to.
Here’s what I’ve learned since I started running:
People are amazing
The kindness and compassion of strangers is something that chokes me every time I run a big race. Last year at the Great North Run, countless strangers came up to my cousin, who had been diagnosed with early-stage skin cancer, and congratulated him, wished him well.
At this year’s Hackney Half marathon, people passed out thousands of sweets, pre-cut oranges, even ice lollies all along the course. When I ran the Berlin Marathon, and my ankle made a gruesome crunch with every thud, someone noticed me crying and kept pace alongside me for miles. They made me laugh, told me why they were fundraising, encouraged me to get through the pain.
I’ve been lapped by people pushing wheelchairs, or leading someone with impaired vision as they ran into infinite darkness. Even in park runs, I’m overtaken by tiny children, gleefully faster than the adults towering above them.
The power of camaraderie is incredible. The power of knowing that everyone is aiming for the same goal, in the same direction, for an endless number of reasons.
You have no idea what someone else is going through
That is, until they openly display the reason why they’re running on their top.
The rainbow of charity t-shirts is mesmerising, whether you’re running or watching. But amid the anonymity of bright colours, there are people bearing bereavements, hopes for survival, causes they truly believe in.
This year, a group of friends and family ran for the hospital looking after my mum — The Royal Marsden. We raised nearly six thousand pounds. I felt a strange combination of horror and pride whenever I spotted anyone outside of ‘Team AJ’ bearing the same gene-dotted design. I wouldn’t wish the horror of knowing someone with cancer on anyone, but I was so pleased that others were helping raise awareness, raising money, doing something to challenge the hideousness of the disease.
Ignore the niggling doubts
I am, and always have been, a worrier. This is not useful when you’re running and need to conserve energy, just as it’s rarely useful in any other situation in life.
Long-distance running is often about mindset rather than fitness, and (in my case at least) it really is a battle against my brain telling me to stop.
Without being too sentimental, I think I could — and should — learn from that.
Don’t compare yourself to others
I got my personal worst (opposite of a personal best?) time at a half marathon last year. The legendary Mo Farah completed the race in under an hour, and I more than doubled that time — at one point I had to reach down to check my knee caps were still attached. While I have slightly more realistic expectations about what pace I can achieve, I do have a tendency to compare myself to other people. It’s pointless.
Whenever I cross a finish line, I vow to never do it again. But here I am, training with my boyfriend for a race, where I have no doubts I’ll lag behind him.
It doesn’t matter. I may be below average, but I’m trying my best.
