ByFrancesca

The question I keep circling back to

As anyone who runs would know, you get a lot of time to think when you’re out there. This whole idea of calling yourself a runner sits with you longer than you expect. I wouldn’t call myself naturally talented or even go as far as saying I’m a talented runner at all. I’m just someone who loves to run. But throughout my life I keep finding myself going back to this weird little thought that maybe I’m not a runner. What actually makes someone a runner? When do you get to claim it for yourself?

I tell myself that because I haven’t done a race in five years, because I stop and walk sometimes, because I don’t have fancy gear or crazy PBs or the desire to run a full marathon, somehow that means I am less of a runner. It is a ridiculous list when I say it out loud, but it still gets to me.

Because the truth is, thinking you need all these things is the antithesis of what running actually is. Running is more than a time or a distance. It is routine, discipline, enjoyment, movement, connection, failing, succeeding and everything in between.

Rewind

Let’s take it back twenty years. It’s a gloomy, cold morning, a slight chill in the air, girls laughing and joking as we edge closer to my impending demise. I am filled with nervous dread, still annoyed that my parents didn’t believe I was sick today. The whistle blows and that sound is the beginning of the humiliation ritual called cross country. Three kilometers around the local river track and, to seven year old me, it was the equivalent of climbing Mount Everest. I tried my hardest to run as fast as my little legs would let me.

I laugh now. I was so slow I got passed by a girl who had an asthma attack and stopped for what felt like twenty minutes. I can’t remember exactly where I placed, but it was basically dead last. I know someone must come last, but the embarrassment and shame I felt was huge. Why couldn’t I run. Why was I so slow. You are a loser. You will never be a runner. Big thoughts for a seven year old, but they stuck. That same cycle of dread and defeat carried on for years.

There is a lot to say for the kids who still show up and try, who push through the dread and give it a go. I didn’t realise it then, but showing up counted for something.

A Small Spark of Curiosity

Fast forward a couple of years and a similar story is about to play out. This time it’s high school and not only had I still not developed any athletic ability, but I also had all the other joys of being a teenager. Comparing yourself to everyone else, never quite feeling comfortable, always aware of how you look doing anything remotely physical. My high school experience was great, and I wouldn’t change it for the world, but there were some memories I don’t look back at so fondly.

We had these full school morning runs before the sun came up in the brisk Marton air. Laps around the school in preparation for the dreaded cross country. I would spend the entire time thinking of every possible excuse to give the matron so I could get out of it. Some girls made it look effortless, gliding along while I felt like I was fighting for every breath (maybe I can blame the cold air?)

Maybe, I just craved the validation of being good at something, of being the one for once.

Back then, success and sport were everything, and no one really noticed the kids who still showed up and tried. I think about that often now. Is success really what makes you a runner?

What I do remember clearly is the day I voluntarily went out for my first run. I was curious. Maybe if I practiced, I would get better. Maybe I could be one of the girls who got to go to interschool cross country. I took myself to the field and thought, I might as well try. And try she did. Four of the slowest laps around the 400m track (1.6km in total). Probably took me twenty minutes, but I did it. It was the first time I felt even a tiny bit proud of myself for running. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

The Summer I Started Running

Then came the summer of 2011.

After the high of running four laps of the school field, I wanted to get better. I grew up on a small lifestyle block in rural Whanganui, so it was the perfect place to run. No one could see me and the roads felt endless. Our house was exactly 5.66km from a bridge, and I decided that by the end of the summer I would run to that bridge and back. Eleven point three two kilometers. It felt impossible, but all I could do was try.

Armed with my iPod Nano and a playlist of torrented songs, I kept aiming to go just that tiniest bit further. I still had no idea what I was doing, just putting one foot in front of the other and remembering to breathe (sometimes unsuccessfully). Over that summer I built a real love for running. I wasn’t fast and my form was probably terrible, but something about it made me happy in a way I still find hard to explain. Even on days where it sucked and the last thing I wanted to do was run, I still went. The joy and escape I got from running was like nothing else, but even with that, I would still find myself thinking, is this enough?

By the end of the summer, I could run to the bridge. I still run to that same bridge fifteen years later, and I still feel that same sense of quiet joy and pride. To this day, it remains my proudest running achievement.

The Story Behind the Times

If you looked at my running times over the years, they’d probably seem pretty unremarkable on paper (or Strava). But that’s the thing about basing what a runner is on pace or distance. Numbers alone never show the nuance or the story behind how someone actually got there. They don’t show the early mornings, the tiny improvements, the consistency, the days you didn’t want to run but went anyway, or the pride in simply trying your best.

Would I say that seven year old me is a runner because she showed up?
Would I say that thirteen year old me is a runner because she set a goal and actually achieved it?

The answer is yes. And if I’m being honest, there are a hundred other moments I could point to as well. The times I tried again after a bad run. The days I kept going even though nothing felt easy. The quiet commitment that no one else saw.

Somehow the girl who dreaded running, who got curious one day if she could actually do it, is still running fifteen years later. Running has shaped so many parts of my life in ways I didn’t recognise at the time.

Recently I caught myself saying to someone, “I promise I am a runner.” And later I had to ask myself why I felt the need to say that at all. Why am I trying to prove I am a good runner. Like certain times or distances automatically make it more legitimate. When I sit with it, that thinking goes against everything I actually believe. I love running because of how it makes me feel.

Running has always been personal for me. Something steady while everything else shifted. School, university, growing up, heartbreaks, stress, love, family, work and everything else. Through all of that, running stayed. It taught me routine. It taught me to be proud of myself. It taught me that sometimes you just have to do the hard thing. It taught me that practicing, even slowly, eventually leads somewhere.

So, on this random thought from today’s run, I’ve landed on something simple: if you run, you are a runner.

P.S. I need to thank my parents for not letting me pull a sickie x