Running Into Trouble

Have you been running again? This is now the first question my grandad asks each time I call. I’m not surprised. Running and me are not the most likely pairing. Ever since the humiliating school-enforced Cross-Country disasters, and my sister years later telling me I run like Phoebe in that episode of Friends, it’s hardly been top of my list when trying to get fit. But a few weeks ago, I opened Instagram to find I’d been tagged in a 5k challenge in aid of the NHS. I couldn’t refuse. And, surprisingly, I was quite excited.

Having spent uni envying the smug lycra-clad runners enjoying the fresh air outside as I hid from view in the small secluded gym down the road, I was fuelled with a new hope that I could banish my running hang-ups once and for all and finally be able to say: ‘Oh yeah, I run.’ So, couch to 5k app downloaded, I pulled on my new phone-holding, bum-sculpting leggings, took a deep breath, and headed out the door.

However, to my surprise, it was not running itself that wound up being the scariest part of the experience. Oh no. I quickly found that while state-sanctioned socially distanced exercising might be protecting me from Coronavirus, it could do nothing to protect me from running (quite literally) into a variety of awkward social interactions. Locked down in the village in which I grew up, running – it turns out – is a minefield of potential meets with people from the past.

On my second venture out into the world of running, I’d just finished my warm-up having avoided any such meetings. Beginning my first running interval – mixed with lots of walking by the app to stop me from keeling over by the time I reached the end of my road – I was bouncing clumsily along the pavement when I spotted a figure in the distance. My primary school PE teacher: irony was alive and kicking. Slowing down as I’d just got started, I waved and stopped to say hi. He’s a friend of my parents, so it felt rude to keep on running – and who knew how far I’d get before being stopped by a stitch, anyway?

After we’d exchanged ‘hellos’, he asked how far I’d been running. With the first bead of sweat already forming on my forehead, and my breath less than steady, I had to admit that I’d only just finished my warm-up. ‘How far could you run if your life depended on it, then?’ he asked next as we continued our socially-distanced conversation across the road. I laughed, nervously trying to hide the pitiful realisation I was having inside my head that the answer was ‘not very far at all.’ So, instead, I mentioned the app. His friend was doing the same thing, he told me – out for her third run of the week yesterday. I was going to be lucky if I made it through my first, I thought.

As I jogged away a minute or so later, I couldn’t help but laugh at how little had changed. My running ability was the same as it had been aged 10, when the same man had asked us all to run the length of the school field and my little legs had trembled, jelly-like at the prospect. But I was also fuelled by a new desire to change that. After all, if I bumped into him again over the following weeks, I wanted the satisfaction of smug success, not another sweaty self-deprecation.

A week or so later, forcing myself out for attempt number three, it got much worse. A couple of months back, shortly after moving home, I’d reignited my Bumble profile in the hopes of filling my suddenly socially sparse life with the excitement of some romance; or, at the very least, a date. Before long, I’d matched with a boy from primary school. Small world. He’d been in the year above, and I felt fairly safe in the assumption that he had no recollection of me whatsoever. Sadly, after some short-lived messaging, it was not to be and ended its life in the ghosting graveyard frequented by many an ill-fated match. And that was that. Until one morning a couple of weeks back. Because, as I was already beginning to learn, it’s a small village after all.

Having once again finished my warm-up without a hitch, I confidently began my first running interval. As I jogged (yes, jogged) out of a side road, I found myself face to face with my failed match as he ran (yes, ran) along the opposite side of the road. He was, of course, a lot fitter and faster than me, and was soon a fair distance ahead, swerving out into the road occasionally to socially distance himself from a dog-walker on the pavement. I told myself it was his superior speed that had him becoming a blurry figure in the distance. But there was still something horrifyingly comical about the image of me plodding my way along the pavement as he seemingly ran away from me as fast as his beautifully toned legs would carry him.

As I continued along my route, worrying that this poor boy might actually now think that I was following him, I prepared myself for the possibility of us crossing paths again. There was no need for awkwardness. I’d just smile, act casual. Somewhere in the back of my head Lizzo cheered me on. Besides, he probably didn’t even recognise me. (My hair-up red-faced running look did not make an appearance on my profile, funnily enough.)

But, when the moment came, all my prepared confidence failed me. As I bumped into him for the second time – him on his way back, me just reaching the halfway mark – the awkwardness was palpable (even if just to me). Eye-contact avoided, head down, I walked (yes, walked) as he ran (yes, ran) hastily past me. If life was a rom-com this would have been the quarantine meet-cute to rival all meet-cutes. But stuck firmly in reality, it was a fleeting moment of sheer awkwardness. The app interrupted my inner cringe to tell me to get running again, and so gladly off I ran – all the way home.

Despite the soul-crushing awkward events of my first few outings, I ultimately found a new love for running. Safe in the knowledge that I’d faced the most embarrassing encounters possible within the confines of my village, I started to let go of the self-conscious judge in my head, and simply enjoy the experience of moving my body in the sunshine. I completed the 5k with the help of the app (disclaimer: many walking intervals were still included). And the fears that once stopped me venturing out into the world of running started to fade. After all, given the run-ins I’d had so far, could it really get any worse?

Image Credit: Dulcey Lima on Unsplash