I Used to Run from Exercise, Now I Chase Endorphins
1999
Puffy-faced with jelly legs, I limped over the finish line. Number 165 but there were only 170 runners. In the hours that followed my throat seized up and I spent three days in bed recuperating with Ribena and Nickelodeon, vowing never to take part in a cross-country race ever again.
2018
It’s August Bank Holiday, it’s 8 am, there is a literal monsoon going on outside the window and a howling, raging wind. Usually, I’d be in bed hungover, but to my surprise, I’m actually in the car driving, en route to take part in a 10k trail run. I haven’t lost a bet. I willingly signed up to this.
How did this happen?
It started with a 5k Corporate Fun Run, the gateway drug to endorphin alley. Everyone at the Marketing Agency I worked at was doing it, and I figured it was time to show the 11-year-old me how far I’d come since the P.E excuse notes of my adolescence. After all, I had a gym membership now and owned a pair of Nikes. Sometimes I even attended 2 spin classes per month. I was basically an athlete.
Well, let me tell you that any lofty dreams of zen jogging to the soundtrack of Enya dissolved before we’d even left the office’s industrial estate.
The nice thing about running with colleagues is that they chatter incessantly to you, and because you’re too polite to hiss “shut up I can’t breathe” you just gulp air in response to their “what are you up to at the weekend?” questions and dream of chips.
Every minute of that first run felt like an eternity in purgatory. Overcoming the slightest thing was the equivalent to winning a world war battle. The change in tempo on the next song, the manoeuvre from pavement to grass, the tiny incline you’d barely register on a walk felt like the steepest, longest hell-hill.
If my body wasn’t playing ball, my mind sure as hell wasn’t either. “Feel those golfball calves?” it seemed to yell, “Stop, STOP you imbecile. Why did you come here? You can’t keep up. Stop and leave now. Put down your feet and get back in a dark fluffy room where you belong.”
It was just as I remembered it and I was transported back to Haverfordwest Rugby Club and that pesky cross-county race.
After a measly half-mile of this torture, I sacked it off and treated myself to a multi-pack of ring doughnuts for the train home.
But I didn’t stop.
Fast forward 4 years and miraculously I’m about to run the Cardiff half-marathon for the second time. The word miraculous is no exaggeration. Earlier this week, I whined to a colleague about the 10-mile practice I needed to complete to be on track. He said “Rosella, I don’t understand why you go running because you seem to hate it. Why don’t you just go for a walk or something instead?”
It’s true. I could go for a stroll, or settle for a leisurely swim which I’m naturally better at. I could leave all the mud and grit and cramp behind. But the truth is, there’s something about the challenge of how impossibly hard the whole thing is that appeals to me.
I’m aware that this isn’t the case for everyone. Some people can run marathons in their sleep and learn Japanese while they’re at it. I’m not them.
Running is a battle of wills. People say that the first mile is the worst, but I hate the entire thing. Before beginning I feel jittery, I’m worried that I’ll shit myself. [This hasn’t happened yet, but once I got stomach cramps and ended up in the foetal position on Newgale beach. A small dog ran up to me and licked my face.] I feel silly and self-conscious in my short shorts which are necessary to avoid sweat waterfalls and I’m anxious that my phone will run out of battery and I’ll be forced to listen to my uncooperative mind instead of music. Others say that they dream up inventive ideas on their run or listen to science podcasts, but as if. My mind is set to: just keep going.
Yes, I could say “not for me, thanks Sheila” and give up the ghost. I could glide through the leisure centre swimming lanes and dream of unicorns. But I don’t get the same rush of endorphins doing front crawl.
When I’ve completed a long-run, no matter how much of an ordeal it seems at the time, I feel amazing. All the anxiety, fog and self-doubt that crept in before has been sounded out. I could leave the trail, head straight to a party and feel as merry as someone who has glugged half a bottle of prosecco. Sometimes the buzz lasts for hours.
I don’t think I’m alone in this feeling. The world is enjoying a love affair with running. From provincial town pavements to Slimming World mania, everyone and their dog is taking to the trail. I look around Park Run on a Saturday morning and there are people from all walks of life, all running away from fog and chasing shiny, happy endorphins.
Why bother? Because as if by magic, when you get to the point of sweat, gritted teeth, wheezing lungs and limping limbs, something has left your body. You feel empowered. You feel present. You feel alive. Good vibes zing around. Nothing phases you.
I guess what I’ve learnt from this experience is that running isn’t an impenetrable sport reserved for the mega fit, ultramarathon elite. It’s a sport for people who want to feel good about themselves. It’s a sport for Janet, aged 46 or Grace, aged 21 or Roy, aged 72. All you need is determination and a decent pair of trainers.
It also doesn’t matter if you abandon ship after 10 minutes and go for pizza. It doesn’t matter if you despise the whole bloody thing. Just come back to it in a few days, and a few days after that and eventually, finally, when you think you can’t hate running anymore, when your legs feel like lead and your face resembles a tomato and you can’t use the stairs, something will click and you might get hooked.
Don’t be hard on yourself if this happens to you, it’s free and there are worse things to be addicted to.
