Running Like a Girl Read Online Free
Author: Alexandra Heminsley
source of such fun, was now more of a straitjacket. When I wasnât fretting about how it looked, I was worrying about what shape it might be next.
I did have a fail-safe weapon in my arsenal: humor. Too proud to let anyone know I cared and too young to worry about lack of fitness, I goofed around during sports. I became the class clown on the sports field. Take a funny pratfall, and no one will mind if you lose the team a goal, I realized. Or mess around enough during tennis lessons, then the girls who can really play wonât pick you anymore.
These were easy lessons to learn, and soon I turned those years of loathing into fun. Here began my tacit acceptance that sport was not for me. I was one of the funny girls, the clever girls. I didnât have time for earnest sorts and their sweaty enthusiasm. Sport had slipped, sandlike, from between my fingers.
Now in my thirties, I realized I was paying the price for twenty years of playing the clown. For every pratfall I had taken to prevent anyone taking me seriously on a sports field, therewas a giggling e-mail from a friend or colleague, complete with wiseass query about how many vases I might have knocked over stretching, or whether my place for the London 2012 Olympics was confirmed. I might have decided I wanted to be taken seriously, but no one else seemed to be on board with that plan. Despite these reactions, there remained a dusty, barely used corner of my mind where I knew I wanted to prove to everyone what I could do. I wanted to be treated like a grown-up, to be believed when I said I had set myself a goal. I wanted to be respected, not just liked. With a marathon, I saw my window of opportunity. It was just going to take a lot of running.
The acceptance of my marathon application meant there was no turning back. I was committed to running regularly, despite having little or no idea what I was doing. Pushing aside the practicalities, I focused on the marathon as a goal and used it as a motivator. I had cheered on friends in the past and been moved by the sight of so many humans trying their very best to do something. I ignored the memories of men running by with chafed-to-bleeding nipples, and feeling quite faint from the heat of a particularly hot Aprilâs day despite being a spectator, standing entirely still. I would cross the finish line proud, I was sure of it.
It was this tiny, gritty speck of determination that kept me going in those early days. My running diary from the autumn of 2007 is filled with entries that say little more than âWell, it started fine but then I got INCREDIBLY TIREDâ or âMy legs felt like actual lead until the last ten minutesâwhy bother?â or the charmingly pragmatic âThis run was so awful I donât want to record it.â
Perhaps I kept the diary because I wouldnât believe I had done the runs otherwise. My father had recommended it as away to remind myself what I thought I was capable of and seeing it change.
This was before the advent of smartphones and running apps, so I would map my runs online before leaving the house, having scribbled up my arm the order of the street names I needed to follow. I cared less about getting lost than I did about being seen. There were too many jokes. Phoebe from Friends, Forrest Gump, and The Littlest Hobo . They all haunted me as I scuttled through side streets, residential roads, and the shadiest corners of local parks, convinced that all passersby could spot my rookie status from five hundred meters. Avoiding eye contact at pedestrian crossings, I kept my cap on and my eyes down, lest I see one of those women summing me up.
It wasnât that I wanted to be one of themâthe lean, toned women who resembled those in the sportswear catalogs, their golden limbs glinting and their ponytails swishingâI just didnât want to exercise anywhere near them. I would lose concentration when one ran toward me. I would feel the edges of my running
I did have a fail-safe weapon in my arsenal: humor. Too proud to let anyone know I cared and too young to worry about lack of fitness, I goofed around during sports. I became the class clown on the sports field. Take a funny pratfall, and no one will mind if you lose the team a goal, I realized. Or mess around enough during tennis lessons, then the girls who can really play wonât pick you anymore.
These were easy lessons to learn, and soon I turned those years of loathing into fun. Here began my tacit acceptance that sport was not for me. I was one of the funny girls, the clever girls. I didnât have time for earnest sorts and their sweaty enthusiasm. Sport had slipped, sandlike, from between my fingers.
Now in my thirties, I realized I was paying the price for twenty years of playing the clown. For every pratfall I had taken to prevent anyone taking me seriously on a sports field, therewas a giggling e-mail from a friend or colleague, complete with wiseass query about how many vases I might have knocked over stretching, or whether my place for the London 2012 Olympics was confirmed. I might have decided I wanted to be taken seriously, but no one else seemed to be on board with that plan. Despite these reactions, there remained a dusty, barely used corner of my mind where I knew I wanted to prove to everyone what I could do. I wanted to be treated like a grown-up, to be believed when I said I had set myself a goal. I wanted to be respected, not just liked. With a marathon, I saw my window of opportunity. It was just going to take a lot of running.
The acceptance of my marathon application meant there was no turning back. I was committed to running regularly, despite having little or no idea what I was doing. Pushing aside the practicalities, I focused on the marathon as a goal and used it as a motivator. I had cheered on friends in the past and been moved by the sight of so many humans trying their very best to do something. I ignored the memories of men running by with chafed-to-bleeding nipples, and feeling quite faint from the heat of a particularly hot Aprilâs day despite being a spectator, standing entirely still. I would cross the finish line proud, I was sure of it.
It was this tiny, gritty speck of determination that kept me going in those early days. My running diary from the autumn of 2007 is filled with entries that say little more than âWell, it started fine but then I got INCREDIBLY TIREDâ or âMy legs felt like actual lead until the last ten minutesâwhy bother?â or the charmingly pragmatic âThis run was so awful I donât want to record it.â
Perhaps I kept the diary because I wouldnât believe I had done the runs otherwise. My father had recommended it as away to remind myself what I thought I was capable of and seeing it change.
This was before the advent of smartphones and running apps, so I would map my runs online before leaving the house, having scribbled up my arm the order of the street names I needed to follow. I cared less about getting lost than I did about being seen. There were too many jokes. Phoebe from Friends, Forrest Gump, and The Littlest Hobo . They all haunted me as I scuttled through side streets, residential roads, and the shadiest corners of local parks, convinced that all passersby could spot my rookie status from five hundred meters. Avoiding eye contact at pedestrian crossings, I kept my cap on and my eyes down, lest I see one of those women summing me up.
It wasnât that I wanted to be one of themâthe lean, toned women who resembled those in the sportswear catalogs, their golden limbs glinting and their ponytails swishingâI just didnât want to exercise anywhere near them. I would lose concentration when one ran toward me. I would feel the edges of my running
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