A Race to the Starting Line

It’s never too late to become a runner, I tell myself, lacing up my discount sneakers and drowning out my discomfort with the steady beat of Bill Withers “Lovely Day.” 

It’s never too late to become a runner, I tell myself, huffing up a hill and trusting that the ache in my right calf was just that, an ache, and not a sign that my blood vessels were about to spontaneously combust, along with my lungs, and maybe my right rib. 

It’s never too late to become a runner, I tell myself, when one mile seems impossible, until it becomes two, which becomes four, which becomes double-digit trail runs and celebrating new distances with a latte, and maybe a pair of shoes that actually fit. 

It’s never too late to become a runner. 

That mantra stayed with me while I trained for my first half marathon. Even after I’d crossed the finish line, victory banana and medal in hand, being a “runner” felt a long way off. I wasn’t finding myself on any podiums, I wasn’t trying to break any PRs. Achieving a Boston qualifying time sounded like an absurd pipedream. I’d grown up a music nerd and bookworm who liked hiking on the weekends but who thought kids who ran in circles for fun were a little delusional. I hadn’t considered making running a hobby until the pandemic closed the gym and pushed me outside. 

As a newbie, being a “runner” felt like a title that had to be earned- and one I had little chance of deserving. 

In the three years since starting, I’ve had an odd running career- that is to say, I’ve had a normal one. I’ve had moments of elation and moments where I’ve doubted my sanity. There’s been months of consistent training blocks, months running just for fun, and some spent not running at all. I’ve taken time off for injuries, hit peak mileage training for marathons, and, in the last year, found community in running groups, like Trail Sisters. My love for running grew exponentially once I realized I could combine the sport with long bouts of time outdoors, getting muddy and hungry before slamming brunch with other cool running folks in my area. 

At some point along the ride, it clicked; this messy, amorphous, personal journey I was on was exactly the thing that made me a runner. Not a pace, or a weekly mileage, or a training plan. 

I was a runner because I ran. And everyone, and I mean everyone, is welcome to join that club, at any time. 

All of our journeys will look different, and there isn’t a right or wrong way to begin. Whether you’ve been running since Middle School or picked it up in your twenties like me, your running is whatever you make of it. I realized that once I started running with others. Every time I joined a group run, I felt empowered and inspired. I couldn’t care less if the people I met had been running for years or for months- their willingness to show up with a headlamp in the dark of winter to charge uphill was criteria enough to be a runner in my book (shoutout Trail Sisters Marin). 

If I can look around a community like ours, and know without a doubt that everyone is a runner, why not call myself one, too? 

It’s never too late to become a runner. Chances are, if you’re reading this, you already are one. And if not? 

Welcome to the starting line.