i am a distance runner
by elisa matalon
When I tell people I run cross-country, some common responses I’ve gotten are often along the lines of “God, why?”,“I can’t imagine doing that,” or my favorite, a bewildered and genuine “You run on purpose?!” To all of these replies, I have no doubt that any reader with experience running distance is smiling in remembrance of receiving reactions similar to these, and is also quite aware that these reactions are completely understandable.
Long distance running has given me immense physical pain in a way that nothing in my life has matched. Sometimes it is so hot that your running body feels as if it is melding with the 96-degree heat of the air around it (and I’m a pale, freckled redhead known on the team for constantly sunscreening whilst running our warm-up, so I especially do not enjoy this). Additionally, distance running isn’t remotely a socially impressive sport, like football or basketball--watchers of track and cross-country meets usually consist of irate younger siblings, camera-bearing family members taking shaky pictures, and the occasional best friend or significant other. Running, but particularly distance running, isn’t a spectator sport. Often, when I get questions concerning why I run, I jokingly reply that I don’t know why I do it either, and then the question will resurface in my mind later in the day or week or month or when I’m standing on the starting line, already sweating, panic unshakably clutching my stomach and mind “Hey, why do I run again?”
These redeeming qualities driving the sport of long distance can be difficult to discern instantaneously, or at the very least, accurately, without plenty of time spent reflecting and articulating a response. But you can be sure there is a driving reason for why long distance runners run. There has to be, or the costs surely wouldn’t outweigh the benefits, and thus there wouldn’t be any distance runners. Something must be bringing my sore body out of bed and back to practice day after day. So to put it simply, we run because of social pressure. We show up to practice each day because our friends and teammates and coach show up to practice every day and experience that pain and heat alongside us. We run to release all the day’s feeling and weight, wiping the earlier day away and welcoming the fresh and new collectively with sweat and the joy of post-practice relief. We run for personal pride, to feel powerful in our own bodies and be in awe of what our drive, our minds, our bodies can do. As our coach Gordy, who the team refers to as our dad, tells us before a meet, after a meet, and at various intervals during practice, “We run as a team.” We run because it makes us a team and a family. Running gives us a collective purpose: to be a family that improves together, gives itself strength, uplifts one another, and cheers each other on. We as a team are collectively our own and our only source of strength, motivation, and resolve enough to run and to keep running.
Any challenge is conceivable when faced as a group: with the grievance and comfort of several other pairs of moving elbows brushing at your sides, I know I’m not alone on my endeavor into, as one of my coaches likes to put it, “the world of pain.” Just the thought that your friends and teammates are with you, doing this too, experiencing what you are, maybe thinking similar thoughts (“This is so painful,” “Everyone around me is going so fast!” “Whoa, that one felt different than the rest so far”) grounds you and gives you the confidence to continue.
Personal pride is absolutely a factor of your tenacity too. The (at times, frequent) thought of giving up during a workout or race is instantly quelled with visions of the uncomfortable anticlimax when you sit, feeling almost guilty, as you watch the rest of the team finishing relieved and proud, so you continue with your renewed resolve and a sense of purpose in each step. You do things you never thought you could accomplish and witness yourself breaking your previously conceived limits. Many of my teammates remember the race where we encountered a certain fateful hill. As I tiptoed up this hill, my calves burning, nearly overcome with my imminent task, I remember seeing other people around me start to walk. My legs were crying out for relief from this insanity, but I saw a teammate’s back ahead of me, watching how she stayed strong and powered up the monstrosity of a hill under our feet. Witnessing her strength and perseverance gave me no choice but to continue.
When I think about my past races, I’m always amazed at the sheer power of encouragement from the team, and what it’s done for me during some of the most painful moments of my life. One particular moment comes to mind, and I will never forget my success that day because it was my teammate who made it corporeal. Just as I thought my legs would give out at the penultimate and steepest section of the hill, I vividly remember someone on the team, standing among the strategically-positioned flock of cheering teammates and our coach, reaching out his arms as if he was pulling me up with invisible ropes, his face telling me he knew my pain as he’d run the course not twenty minutes ago. With that shared strength I was able to push through. I remember after the race, telling my friends that I wouldn’t have cared in the least if my time for the 5k had been fifty minutes, two hours--the fact that I didn’t stop on the hill was enough.
The power of the team is what allows this to happen. Numerous other teammates excitedly shared stories similar to mine, dramatic recollections of their near-defeat and subsequent perseverance and conquest. Underneath it all is gratitude for the team, pride in the events of the day, and powerful hope as they wonder what they can achieve next.
Long distance running is incredibly mental. After a race, you’ll hear things like “I couldn’t have done it if it weren’t for seeing -teammate name- at the finish line.” Seemingly oversimplified, percieved reasons for success like these tend to be shockingly accurate. Running is mental. The team’s support and family mentality tremendously affects each individual’s preconceived notions of their own physical limits.
It’s not all about the feeling of the team’s support and love, although that plays a central role in our perseverance. I’ve noticed that one of the feelings I hate the most is coincidentally one I find myself experiencing constantly, the feeling of being turbulent and not in control of my life. Even if it’s just running five times a week, or powering through that “really sucky hill” in my neighborhood instead of walking, running provides me a chance to hold myself accountable, and be proud of myself for following through. I’ve actually never trained during an off season--historically, I’ve gone for the “stop running for three months and then complain about feeling slow next season approach,” but quarantine has me running regularly on my own for the first time. Each previous off season, I definitely noticed a change in my mood (and my work ethic, interestingly enough) but apparently not enough to get me running. During these times, running has just become a mode of survival for me, one constant I can latch onto in my life that’s plagued by unknowns and grows stranger by the day.
At the end of the day, race, or run, the best thing is the pride in simply being a runner. Our coach tells the story of showing up to his first track practice because he thought a girl on the team was cute. His coach told him that he was a distance runner, and he ran a race he describes as absolutely terrible and recalls being lapped several times. As you may have predicted because he is our coach, he ended up becoming an incredible marathoner and ranking competitively in every type of race he ran. Now, before races or workouts, he tells us: “You are distance runners. You can do this. This is our chance to show them what we can do.” I am a distance runner. This statement alone is an enabling badge of pride, and the validation of a core part of my identity. I have my cross country posters and race bibs on my walls, and my track race number stickers stacked atop one another in the back of my phone case. I both intentionally and inadvertently surround myself with these reminders of who I am, because I am a distance runner.
On an individual level, simply knowing I’m a distance runner is immense, but the mutual acknowledgement of every teammate’s role as a distance runner is a key part of the family dynamic we have. If we run, we are distance runners, independent of speed or anything else. We respect one another’s individual progress and are proud of each other for working hard each day. With other sports it’s easier for people to be judged socially based on their speed or skill, but on distance everyone truly is viewed holistically and judged by their personality because regardless of speed, the act of running a long distance is admirable and worthy in itself. Kaelani Adcock, a leader on the team and one of my closest friends, adds that “distance is all about personal growth. No matter if someone is faster or slower than you, you understand how hard they work to PR [get a Personal Record] in that next race. We respect each other because we all know how hard distance running is mentally.” The entire sport focuses on personal bests, meaning success is individually defined and therefore not up for external comparison. If success is decided personally and is different for everyone, there is no failure, and thus everyone is respected and celebrated regardless of their speed.
With a good amount of, as Gordy calls it, “adult-supervised pain and suffering,” it’s crucial to have humor. We aren’t glory-struck athletes so much as a bunch of people complaining about our voluntary agony. On any given group long run, you can bet there are some people discussing the run’s drawbacks in length and giving detailed descriptions of their current ailments. I am fully and admittedly one of these people. But complaining about the run passes the time, and it’s really fun. I would venture to call creative complaining the unofficial, universal distance team pastime. Our team group chat after an especially agonizing race included some memorable comments describing the race’s hill as deserving of an “ entire horror trilogy” documenting the suffering experienced that day, to which another teammate added that looking back on the race, she “would’ve rather had her limbs chopped off and fed to her.”
To us, “creatively and thoroughly describing the run” is just how we pass the time and find support in collectively acknowledging that what we do is difficult. It’s comforting to know you’re not the only one having a hard time running, and that the self-inflicted pain you’re experiencing extends well beyond you. The unspoken phrase after every complaint is “but we did it.” Despite the pain, we were able to persevere and that’s specifically why we’re proud. Complaining is necessary to show why what we did was so impressive.
The formative pain and pride we share makes us each distance runners, and collectively a family. While we often can’t run together during these times, our team group chats are full of memes, motivation, and daily descriptions of personal highs and lows--it almost feel like being at practice. I miss running with my friends every day dearly, but I look forward to my nighttime runs as an hour of peace, good music, and self-discipline. Long-distance running’s pain, perseverance, and most principally, its family dynamic make it a prime and unique example of a group bound together by hardship and resiliency. I feel very lucky to have become a part of this family, and I take comfort in knowing that my commitment to it and place within it will be lifelong.