“I don’t do running”
Since I have had free-will on the matter this has been my position; one that I have held with conviction and determination. The ‘just say no’ policy to jogging has served me well. Why would anyone jog aimlessly round and round a park, getting red faced, sweaty, and gasping for breath? It’s idiotic, and I wasn’t going to get involved in such folly.
I didn’t waiver as Geoff took up doing a bit of jogging. And then he did a 10 km and before we knew it he was training for and completing a marathon. I felt proud to see his achievement. And he was clearly good at it. He set off for the 5 km ‘parkrun’ every Saturday, which was fine - more time for me to stay in bed and read.
But it got a bit boring. Feeling left behind as he left the house every week full of purpose and returned an hour later, upbeat and chatty; invigorated. “You could come too” he said “you don’t have to run, you could walk.” Hmm. My policy on walking is that’s it’s a good thing. You don’t get red in the face, you don’t feel out of control. Yes, I’d come along and go for a walk whilst he did the parkrun. We could start Saturdays together and I’d get a little window into this other life he’d been living, and meet some of the new names he referred to. But no point in signing up. I’d just do some walking while he did some running. And this worked very well. I started walking as soon as we arrived, did as much or as little as I felt like. Sometimes I walked with my friend Lynn. Sometimes on my own. It was a nice way to start the weekend and I left with a quiet satisfaction of having done something whilst retaining my composure.
There’s a big variety of people at parkrun and I seemed to blend in. Sometimes people would mistake me for a jogger and call encouragement – “Keep going, you can do it!” “Don’t worry” I’d call back “I’m not a runner; I’m just walking”. But it sowed a tiny seed of possibility. They think that I am that other breed. The breed that does running. I knew better of course. But it was a curious idea and one that I tucked away. I kept walking. Marching along happily one day that tiny seed sprouted: mid-walk the idea popped into my head ‘what if I tried to jog to that bench?’ And I did. I jogged to the bench. Me. Actually moving in a running type way. It felt strange but not as strange as I thought it would. It seemed surprisingly doable. I resumed walking and kept that possibility safely to myself. But next week I did a little micro jog again. This time I went a bit further. After a few weeks I realised that if I did about half a lap – it would be 1km. Me - running for 1km. It seemed totally improbable but I did it. I couldn’t keep my micro jogs to myself. “Guess what? I ran a kilometre” I proudly told Geoff. Not a massive achievement you might think but one that felt significant. Geoff seemed suitably impressed. It seemed that I might be someone who sometimes did a little bit of jogging.
The micro jogs grew and I did more of them, so that parkrun was mostly jogging. Always with the mantra of control in my head: “I can stop anytime I like. I don’t have to do this, but maybe I’ll just see if I can go to the next bench before stopping. Maybe now I’ll try to get to that tree”. Paradoxically, giving myself permission to opt out at any time was key to me feeling OK about trying to keep going. “You should sign up” said Geoff “and get yourself a barcode”. But I was adamant that wasn’t for me. I like to start when I want, finish when I want, and not be on record. Because I’m not really a runner, I’m not part of that club. So I carried on in my own way, and got to the point of being able to do 5 km without stopping, but still not signing up.
But my determination to not be part of it was shaken when my bold friend Mandy signed up for parkrun – barcode and everything. Having never done any running she was willing to sign up one day and go and do it the next. Straight off. Diving into the deep end without arm bands. Hmm. Absurdly daring. But incredibly impressive. If she could decide to give it a proper go, perhaps I could too? And her audacity deserved some support. So we went to our first parkrun together. Her determination and the achievement it led to was amazing. It had taken me years to sidle my way into the idea of jogging. But she put her mind to it, and within weeks was running the full 5 km. And thanks to her, I have become a parkrunner too.
Henry Ford is quoted as having said: whether you think you can or think you can’t, you’re probably right. But in my case, my head was the last part of me to catch up. My feet started to move, and I started to tentatively do, whilst my head kept out of it. Completing a parkrun has seemed like a little miracle each time. Doing the thing I knew for sure I couldn’t do. But I’ve done it 51 times now. And in a week’s time I’m going to run 10 km with my daughter Amy in aid of the Samaritans. My red face and sweatiness on a Saturday morning is now something I feel proud of. By letting go of my control the impossible has become possible. I have had to redefine my capabilities. I am someone that does running. And it feels good.