My Existential Crisis as a “Runner.”

Every runner, even those who have been running since they were old enough to stand, will tell you that the transition from “someone who runs” to “a runner” is a momentous one. The ability to identify oneself as a member of that still somewhat elusive club is greater than the sum of all your miles, race bibs, and a closet-full of smelly running shoes. Because being a “runner” means a lot of different things, but what it signifies the most is that you actually enjoy running enough to run a lot.

So, it was with some hesitation that when someone would ask me, “So, are you a runner?” that I would answer, “Yeah. I’m… a runner, I guess.” Because, the truth is, less than one year ago, I really hated running.

Growing up, other than the occasional game of tag, I had almost no willing interaction with running — either as a spectator or a participant. By the time I was in 6th grade, I detested the act of running so much that the mere idea of jogging for any extended period of time would cause full blown panic attacks. One year, when I was 12 years old, I was literally carted off by a team of paramedics because I passed out cold in 4th period woodshop class when I learned we would be running for a whole 20 minutes during gym class later that day. I was, from that point on, “the girl who fainted in woodshop” — which was totally ok with me if it meant I didn’t have to run for 20 minutes.

So, it was with not-a-little-resentful disbelief that I would listen to people carry on about how much they “loved” running. Such people were either (a) lying, or (b) bat-shit. How could any rational human being voluntarily subject their bodies to bone damage, muscle cramps, heart palpitations, blisters, and the mind-numbing boredom that attended the most repetitive activity that God ever created? It would be one thing to run for some purpose — like fat loss or money, but to do so for “fun” — that was, as I said, definitively insane.

Life has a strange way, though, of shifting one’s loyalties (or dis-loyalties). More than two decades after that 20-minute run around the track of Wilmette Junior High, I would find myself huffing and puffing towards the lighthouse at the end of the pier on North Avenue Beach. Recently divorced and overweight, I hated the woman I’d become far more than I hated running. So I used running as a means to an end — an end to my marriage, an end to my obesity, an end to my crippling self-loathing.

This morning was a race morning. A “no biggie” 5-k out in the burbs that I registered for last minute. It would be my third race since I’d started running “competitively” last November. By now, my “race morning ritual” was starting to feel as familiar as my favorite pair of running shoes, including my bowl of oatmeal, Ibuprofen, and a small cup of water mixed with honey to take with me to the starting line. The fact that I could go from one task to the next without the jitters was proof, to me, that I was, in fact, a “runner” this morning.

But, of course, fate enjoys testing such lofty conclusions. No sooner had I deemed myself to be a member of this amorphously elite group of over-achievers, that I walked into the gym of Oak Park High School for this morning’s “no biggie 5-k” where virtually everyone — including the 8 year old girl in pigtails and the 72 year old grandma with knobby knees — was aiming for PRs that were as accessible to me as, oh, I dunno, the moon.

To my right, I overheard a group of middle aged women who, from far away, might look as though they were discussing the pros and cons of minivans or a particular brand of laundry detergent:

“Yeah, I haven’t run a marathon since Boston last year. That’s extremely atypical for me.”

“I know what you mean. I’m usually on my third or fourth marathon at this point in the year.”

To my left, an older woman in her 70s who looked pleasantly out of her element and very cold in her fluorescent pink running shorts and a pair of bright neon yellow Saucony’s, shared her modest goals for the morning’s race:

“Well, last year, when I did this, I think I came in at around 23:04. I want to come in under that.”

Here I thought that a race in the boonies would mean I would finally be considered more of a “vet” than a “noob.” I was wrong. It seemed as though all the hard core runners that remained anonymously buried in the 26,000-strong Shamrock Shuffle were uncomfortably within arm’s reach inside this high school gymnasium. They actually had jackets emblazoned with “Runners Club.” I felt silly and out of place. I felt my self-induction into this club was premature and that it was only a matter of time before I would be turned away and asked to reapply next year.

But instead of getting up from the steps of that gym with my tail between my legs, I thought about that run from last summer — the one to the North Avenue lighthouse. I pulled out my phone, which keeps a log of just about every run I’ve ever run. It took me awhile, but I scrolled all the way back to June 7, 2014 to find this:

I’m a big fan of before and after pictures. There is nothing more humiliating than documenting the scope of one’s failures — every dimple, every stretch mark, every sagging fold of skin served as a reminder of why I woke up at hours like 6:14 a.m. to “run.” When I logged the above “lighthouse run” last summer, though, I never dreamed it would serve as a “before” to the following “after”:

I did the math — in about 10 months, I improved my mile by by over 4 minutes, which equated to a 30% improvement in speed. While 3.97 miles had been an achievement the year before, 4 miles is now my “floor” — the bare minimum of one of my runs during the week. I log in anywhere from 15–26 miles a week, with my longest run (to date) being 12 miles — representing a 200% improvement in distance. Just last week, I ran 11 miles at ~10 minutes a mile. Last year, I probably would have fainted at the thought (and that’s not an exaggeration).

By extrapolation, then, I reasoned that it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that next spring, I would sit on these exact same steps at this exact same gym, thinking about “marathons” and aiming for a 23-minute 5k. After all, it was well within the range of the 30–200% improvement I’d calculated from last June. In fact, I was actually looking forward to that day — one year from now, when I would look back with a certain pathetic fondness for whatever time I’d run this morning.

And it was then, right then, that I knew —

I am a runner.

Oh. And just in case there’d been any doubt — I PR’d this morning. By over 90 seconds.