I get it, you’re bored of hearing about running, of seeing the zillionth marathon post. I feel the frustration. I have long been a running hater; coming from a family of sports fanatics, my refusal to get out of bed for parkrun on Saturday mornings was the peak of my teenage rebellion. Yet at the tail-end of last summer, facing a return to Oxford without my friends, who had treacherously graduated, and without my favourite way to waste time (Atik), I realised I needed a hobby that could help me meet people in a low-commitment way, and maybe also do me some good: sedentary months of revision followed by summer bed-rotting had taken their toll. The shame of realising my cardiovascular fitness was about the same as my elderly house cat spurred me into downloading Couchto5k.
So I dutifully followed Sarah Millican’s instructions and set off. A few days later, I had my first injury. A few weeks later, I was buying my first shoes. And a few months later, I decided to enter my first race. Nothing crazy, just enough to motivate me to continue during Oxford’s winter months. I stumbled across Denbies’ ‘Bacchus’ 10k and half-marathon, held in a beautiful vineyard and punctuated by wine-tasting stations – the British answer to the Medoc marathon. My interest in wine was far more deep-rooted than in running, so this was a no-brainer. It was a fun run, which rewarded not the fastest time, but the best costume. My mum was also (easily) persuaded to participate, which meant we could do a joint costume.
Flash-forward to September 7th – a year after my first five minute continuous run – and into the car piled the whole family, the dog, and what can only be described as ‘balloon-vests’, to transform us into bunches of grapes. After a pre-run gin taster for good luck, we spent an hour in the hazy late-summer sunshine ‘running’, drinking, and chatting to our like-minded competitors. Doing a race was completely different to running by myself: the balloons immediately knocked out my headphones and silenced my ever-faithful running companion (Charli XCX), yet the sound of supporters and steel drums gave me that same faux-club rush. I finished the race invigorated – and not just by the wine. Good for the soul, I thought, but not necessarily good for the body.
The rise in running amongst young people has been touted as a universally Good Thing, the ‘quick-fix’ that will help us outrun our generationally-determined demons – getting us off screens, boosting mental health, and fighting loneliness. All this is true, but I wonder if there’s a darker side to it all, and whether I have fallen prey to some of its pitfalls. As skinny becomes trendy again, celebrity waistlines are shrinking faster than my 5k PBs. Even Serena Williams has endorsed Ozempic. Are we running just so we look better in LuluLemon? Is this the age-old regimen, different set of drills? Run more, eat more protein, don’t drink a drop of alcohol. The ‘clean girl’ who goes to bed at 9pm, works twelve hours a day, tracks her macros and has a 15-step skin-care routine feels like another standard I can’t possibly keep up with. I’m a vegetarian! I’m a student! And even if it makes me desperately uncool, I don’t want to live in a world where wine and cheese is not a girls-night staple.
Another big driver of Gen-Z’s love of running is social media, exacerbated by influencers and inducements to spend more time and money. Even for people like me trying to reduce their time on social media, there is Strava. It started so innocently. It tracked my progress, and held me accountable by displaying my success – brilliant. But I inevitably became addicted. I followed all my friends. I followed my local ‘Str-influencer’. And I followed my fellow ‘athletes’ into this new facet of our online identities. Snapping photos as I went, keeping my bad runs private, over-thinking the witty caption: running just got delightfully performative, and perform I did. I perfected my make-up and hair routine: mascara, concealer, and a half-up pony that would look artfully windswept. How natural! Once, I waited until golden hour so my mid-run selfie would be perfect.
I Strava-ed my ‘Bacchus’ run, but those photos will certainly not be added to my Hinge profile. 20 balloons and a ridiculous headdress are hardly appropriate for dating apps. Even worse, my average pace was nowhere near what I had aimed for; the hills, crowds, and ten-minute wine-breaks saw to that. But I’d run next to my mum, at a conversational pace – this is part of what made the experience so special. Without pressure, without trying to quantify the outcomes in weight lost, speed gained, Strava-likes achieved – running for the sake of running was brilliant. I could drink like a Millennial, exercise like a Gen-Z, make cringe-worthy wine o’clock jokes like a Gen-X. My mum and I may not have won the race. We may not have even won the best costume category (a travesty). But I got to clear my mind, spend time with my family, and have a bit of fresh air. Wasn’t that what Sarah Millican had promised me in the first place?
When I first started, my running-mad brother would inundate me with clichés: “You’re lapping everyone on the couch!” “Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional!” I’d rolled my eyes. I hate clichés. I hate people who like sports. I hate unsolicited, badly-phrased advice. But whilst I was looking up wine marathons, I came across a phrase that stuck with me: “it isn’t about getting a good time, it’s about having a good time”. We are reminded everyday that only the extraordinary goes viral, that running the centre course amounts to running nowhere. But doing something averagely, surrounded by average people also doing it averagely, turned out to be the highlight of my summer. Talent and hard work can race it out between them: I’ll be going at my own pace round Florence Park, stopping to pet dogs, smelling the proverbial and actual roses, and following it all with a glass of wine (or, at least, a pastry).
