Seven weeks ago, I took up running. In that time, I have gone from a bacon-sandwich guzzling sloth to someone with a fragile grip on reality. One sign of this was my over excitement about the Ethiopian athlete Tigist Assefa’s stellar women’s marathon win in Berlin.
Ah yes, I hear you say – a victory for womankind, a moment to contemplate the grit and determination it must have taken to run 26.2 miles in 2 hours, 11 minutes and 53 seconds. Alas, none of that immediately entered my head. No, my first impulse was to Google her shoes.
Never mind that I had already forked out for a coral pink pair of Asics a week into my running “journey”, after the heel disintegrated on one of my eight-year-old relics mid-run. I seized the opportunity to tumble down a rabbit hole of rearfoot and forefoot cushioning, midsole foam, energised toe-off and other impenetrable jargon. Even as I complained about creaky knees and tiredness, I became obsessed by anti-blister socks, sweat-wicking fabric and over-engineered headbands.
Now I am coveting Assefa’s £400 supershoes, cited as a key factor in her performance. Obviously, I really need them because, in my mind, I am an elite athlete who, in time, will rise above my tortoise-league speed of 6km an hour. How has this happened to me?
I blame the NHS Couch to 5K app, where you select a coach to guide you through nine weeks of hell – sorry, I mean interval running. Designed for those with little to no experience, last year more than 6m runs were completed using the app. The idea is that you track progress by doing three runs a week with commentary from a celebrity coach of your choice. I chose former heptathlon star Denise Lewis, and now, somehow, I believe that she is personally mentoring me for greatness.
The seductive thing about running is that it is possible to make spectacular gains in a short period of time. Assefa is a shining example of this – she ran her first marathon last year, scoring a modest time because of health problems. Last year, I had health problems of my own. A fractured shoulder in November meant I barely left my sofa until July except to go to physio. Thankfully, I made a full recovery, but it was only then that I realised that focusing on mending one part of my body had turned the rest of me into blancmange. That is what got me on to the treadmill, known by detractors as “the dreadmill”.
Seven weeks ago, I wouldn’t have dared to race for a bus. Now I can run for 25 minutes without stopping. I feel better than I have done in years, I have loads more energy and I am sleeping better. No wonder running provokes such borderline obsession. There is also the fact that it is measurable. Online running groups are hotbeds of geekery concerning gait analysis, pronation, breathing patterns, playlists and, of course, footwear.
Then there are the endorphins, those “runners highs” that can kick in after nine minutes, 44 seconds, according to one study. I am happy to blame this brain chemistry on the inexplicable high five I gave to a passing runner on the street outside my gym. This was mortifying for two reasons. One, I was wearing work clothes and not even running, and two, I am Scottish and high fiving is illegal, according to ancient Caledonian law.
There is something else about running, beyond the gear and the runner’s highs, that explains its appeal, especially during tough times. Despite the supershoes, it is wonderfully democratic. It doesn’t really require much; unlike yoga, no one gives you side-eye if you go out for a run wearing a greying tracksuit. You can do it anywhere and, strangely (because you usually do it alone), it seems to foster fantastic communities. Parkrun is one national success story, and the Couch to 5K Facebook group is one of the most supportive online forums I have ever joined.
In the group, people don’t just share their speed hacks but also stories about how running helped them to recover from illness, love, loss, and everything in between. Running offers the hope that you have the potential to make a tiny bit more progress every day, and if you don’t … well, you can always restart your marathon masterplan tomorrow.
Anita Chaudhuri is a freelance journalist
