My Running Life

Almost exactly three years ago (October 2022) I walked into the Charlotte Running Company store nearest to me to start on a new journey. They were starting their Saturday group runs up again for the first time after Covid. I hadn't put running shoes on my feet in 13 years. I used to run but had gotten out of the habit, busy raising children and perfecting the body-shaped divot on my couch where my equally sedentary dog enjoyed being on my lap while I read my books. I went to Chicago to watch my baby, now a college kid, sail in a regatta and I met up with one of my oldest and dearest college friends who lived there. She said she couldn't stay out very late the night I was there because she was running the Chicago half marathon the next morning. I jokingly told her that I had just gotten a Facebook notification from CRC that they were starting group runs and even had a one mile route, that maybe before I turned 60 (I was 51 at the time--nothing like giving yourself a lot of lead time!) I could run a half with her and her running partner. Truthfully I was only following CRC on Facebook because my sailing kid had been a pole vaulter in high school and the store was willing to special order pole vault shoes for him (yes, there are special shoes; yes, they are expensive; yes, the Facebook page alerts you to sales; no, I hadn't remembered to unfollow after he graduated and hung up those fancy pole vault shoes). But in some weird algorithm glitch, Facebook, which had to know I was no runner, pushed that event to me as something I might be interested in. And by some strange confluence of the universe, I got that notification perfectly in time to mention it to my friend that weekend in Chicago and joke that I might go and try to run for a whole mile.

So why did I actually show up for that run? I have no idea. Nothing about it was really me. I was in my 50s. I was overweight. I was completely out of shape. It was an early morning and I have never been an early morning person. In fact, I convinced my college swim coach that 10 pm practices were far more reasonable than 6 am practices, which only lasted for my senior year as far as I can tell. (I'm either very convincing or so annoying it's just easiest to give me my own way--and I know which my family would vote for.) Most importantly, I didn't run anymore. But something made me set my alarm, get out of bed, and drive to the store. There had been a nasty storm, the remnants of a hurricane, the night before and the roads were littered with wet leaves and branches. I was the only person to show up for this newly revived group run. And I was horrified, having assumed that I could hide myself in a crowd of others. Matt and Armani greeted me warmly and enthusiastically. They said they weren't sure if anyone was going to show up given the storm and asked how far I wanted to go. The Facebook options had listed 1 mile, 2 miles, 4 miles, and 6 miles. Beyond embarrassed, I said I was just trying to run again for the first time in more than a decade so I was only going to do a mile. They smiled and said they'd happily run my mile with me and I could set the pace. More embarrassment. My pace was going to be "dirt slow and hope I don't die." They didn't care one iota. And they didn't make me feel badly about it either (although when I later--and by later I mean weeks or months--found out they could have run faster backwards than the pace we did that morning, I felt another little tinge of embarrassment, thankfully lesser by then because they were so kind). We set off on the run, with them comfortably behind me, chatting away. I only managed to run the entire mile because they were there behind me, encouraging me when they thought I needed it, and because I'm stubborn enough that I didn't want to have to stop and make even more clear what my slow, chunky, old lady self probably already telegraphed. I ran that whole mile that morning. And because they were so welcoming and accepting, I came back Saturday after Saturday until the week I decided I was ready to run two miles. And then there was the week I came in and told them I had run once in my neighborhood that week as well as showing up for Saturday. Every step of the way, folks in the store celebrated my every achievement, large or small. They reminded me of how far I'd come if I was disappointed in a run. They welcomed me into the running community, one of the nicest communities I've ever been a part of. They were there when I took my first running steps and they have had my back the whole way. I may not love running quite as much as so many other runners. It's hard and I'm still not that good at it. I'm still chunky (although less so). I'm still old. I'm still slow. But I'm not out of shape anymore. I'm proud of myself. And yes, I'm a runner.

Three years ago I ran a mile. Two weeks ago I ran 32 miles.

**Note: I do not necessarily think running is for everyone. But whatever path you take, I hope that you find as warm, welcoming, encouraging, maybe mixed with a little--or a lot--of crazy a community as I found at CRC and in the greater running community in Charlotte.