Less than one week until the Broad Street Run, and Saturday’s training was pretty dang good for me: 9.03 miles at an 11:50/mile pace, for a total of nearly one hour and 47 minutes of running. No major muscle issues, no cramps or creaks or potential blowouts. No wishing to die, no feeling like it’s too easy. I added in some gummies to keep from feeling too famished during the run, and by the end, while my legs felt a little gummy themselves, I was able to move about without much trouble the rest of the day.
In other words, the training is working.
When you’re out running for that long, it’s easy to let your mind get to you. If at any point you start to think too hard, or you start to do math, the run gets infinitely harder. That was mile three, you think, and if you’re not careful, you’re starting to add up just how much running you have left, how many landmarks you still have to pass, and how you have to pass them all again once you turn around and head back home. The more math you do, the longer the run feels—and that can make a long run seem interminable.
The trick, I’ve found, is to think about something, anything else, whatever it happens to be. Sometimes I’ll narrow my focus to each step, raising my cadence by shortening my stride length, making sure my posture is right, trying to relax my hands so my fingers just brush my hips instead of holding them in rigid 90-degree brackets. Other times I’ll try and disappear into my music, focusing on the lyrics and the tones and the craftsmanship.
On Saturday, I focused more on watching other people run.
It’s a delicate thing, people-watching. It’s a challenge I often face while working out, especially at the gym. I like watching other people lift, both because I like seeing people better themselves and because I’m interested in seeing what they’re doing. Do they have a trick I haven’t learned? Are they doing interesting variations on lifts that I could incorporate myself? Most importantly, did they wipe down the equipment? Because that’s gross. Wipe your nasty sweat off the benches. Just do it.
But the catch is that you don’t want people to know you’re watching, because that’s also kind of gross. No one wants to feel like they’re on display, and that goes double for those vulnerable moments when we’re working out. We tend to dress differently, and the activities tend to emphasize the parts of the body we’re working on, whether it’s running, lifting, or any other exercise. It’s embarrassing to think that someone is watching us, and it’s hard not to imagine that there’s a lascivious edge to their gaze.
And so I try to be both discreet and discrete. I try to only glance when I see something interesting, and as I watch I try to make it clear that I am interested only in the exercise they’re doing, not in the shape they take while doing it. Most of the time, the discretion is enough to save everyone from feeling uncomfortable. And in those moments when someone does feel you watching, a quick nod of the head is usually enough to defuse potential conflict.
But Saturday’s run wasn’t so much about learning new tricks as it was trying to distract myself from the long haul. As I passed (or rather, was passed relentlessly by) runner after runner, I started thinking about how differently we can go about doing the same activity. No two runners were exactly alike, of course, but I found myself grouping runners together into some recognizable categories, most of them drawn from my experiences as a runner over the last…holy shit, over the last decade plus.
And so, without further ado, here’s the list of runners you’re likely to encounter running on a weekend morning. To be clear, *almost* none of these categories are about judging people as either good or bad runners, and therefore good or bad people. The only folks I do judge bring it on themselves, mostly by being assholes to other people, runners and pedestrians alike.
Anyways…
The Perfectionists
I have nothing against people who want to do something right. I mentioned earlier in this post how often I think about my form, looking to correct any flaws or errors that might be costing me extra energy. These adjustments have been learned over years of experience, mostly in response to challenges that have arisen as I’ve run longer and farther, and as the years have accumulated across my bones and joints. So no, it doesn’t bother me when I see runners out there who are far more concerned with the perfect form than I am.
The Perfectionist definitely tends to have a look. They’re the folks who are decked out head to toe in a single brand, like Lululemon or UnderArmour or Oiselle, all meticulously coordinated not just for color, but for style and fit as well. But it’s not the shoes and clothing that set these runners apart—I often wear UA clothes and Brooks shoes because they currently work the best for me. No, what separates these runners is their precision.
The precision starts with the clothing, which as I mentioned earlier is precisely, almost laboriously curated for overall effect. But the true test of a Perfectionist runner is their form. These runners tend to move with almost perfect erectness, standing almost perfectly vertical no matter the slope. Their arms and legs move in tightly coordinated rhythm, arms bent at a perfect 90 degrees, swinging with the meticulousness of an anxious clock. They’re working hard, and every ounce of that work shows on in the intensity of their expressions.
Even more impressive is the precision of their breathing. I suspect that if one held a stopwatch and timed every breath over the course of their run, the length of each inhalation would match the duration of every exhalation, no matter the pace or terrain. Where these runners learn that kind of diaphragm control is beyond me. It’s like they trained in some kind of runner’s Lamaze, a style of breathing that lets them focus so intensely on their run that they’re able to shut out any pain or discomfort they might experience. It’s impressive, if a little scary.
The Rookie
I love seeing people out for what looks like might be their first run. Any time I see someone who looks like they’re really excited to be trying out this running thing, or who looks like they’re struggling to keep going after they’ve clearly spent everything they had, I feel encouraged. Not for myself, mind you. How petty would I have to be to feel better seeing other people struggling? No, I feel encouraged because I know where they’re coming from.
My journey to running has been long, much more than the past twelve or so years I’ve been a more active runner. I tried time and again to find something that stuck, and usually after a few fitful starts, I’d revert to my sluggish natural state. It wasn’t until I listened to my then-girlfriend and now-wife’s approach: just go out and run, and when you can’t run any more, run a little bit more then stop.
That was what it took for me to start running regularly, to stop being afraid I was going to hurt myself by going too hard, too fast. She basically gave me the motivation to push past what I thought was failure and into actual effort while simultaneously giving me permission to “fail,” to not do so well on a given day and have it be okay. Since then, I’ve been following that same path: listen to both the voice in my head and the voice in my body, but also to sometimes tell those voices to shut up and listen to me.
When I see the rookies out there, I get the same feeling as when someone tells me they’re watching a movie or reading a book that I loved. I know what they’re in for, and I’m a little jealous. They get to experience this wonderful, potentially challenging thing for the first time, and a part of me wishes I could go on that journey with them.
Rookies come in all shapes and sizes. Some of them have brand-new designer gear, some come in old and worn sweats and t-shirts. Some have great natural form, some move with an awkward gait not unlike a baby gazelle. Some tear along the path at speeds that make me nervous, some move so slowly that they’re frequently passed by walkers.
And all of them are absolutely, totally, 100% fine.
They may start with crazy enthusiasm and end up walking half a mile later. They may pace themselves so slowly that they could go for hours without breaking a sweat. They may get halfway through and decide this is for the birds and take an Uber home. They may stop after mile two, strip off their running gear, chuck their shoes into the river, and run screaming for the hills. Whatever. The important thing, to cite that horrible cliché, is they got out there and tried, and for that I respect them. The only way to get to your second run is to go out for the first one, and I will never shame anyone for taking that step.
The Dudebro
God, I hate these guys.
I’m guessing that most of you probably know the dudebro. These guys have a plan, and that plan involves running where they want, how they want, and when they want, and if you’re in their way, then you better fucking move. Their path is the path that you’re on, so you’d better be prepared to give way, because they’re on a run, and nothing is going to get in their way.
These fellows, who may or may not be wearing a shirt, talk a big game. You’ll probably hear them talking shop, expounding on their macros and their tech shirts, perhaps loquating on the best pace or shoe, or the right technique for burning the right calorie at the right time. They will run too close to you, especially if you’re a woman, and the sweatier and more shirtless they are, the more they will invade your personal space.
Be prepared, too, because as fast and as forcefully as they pass you, they will come to a dead stop directly in front of you the moment their run is done. Just last weekend, as I was heading back along the Schuylkill River Trail towards the Philadelphia Museum of Art, a group of three dudebros complaining about how their hangovers were hurting their pace passed me in a gigantic hurry, only to stop directly in front of me at a narrow bend in the path. When I expressed my displeasure, I received three angry glares, as well as the most disingenuous “Sorry” I’ve heard not uttered by a toddler.
Seriously, dudebros are the worst.
The True Athlete
In 1964, Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart wrote a concurrent decision in a case pertaining to protected speech. He determined that hardcore porn was not protected under the Constitution. As to what constituted “hardcore” pornography, Stewart could only say, “I know it when I see it.”
While that definition is laughably vague in a court of law, the idea that you “know it when you see it” can be a useful way to describe something on a personal level—you know, as long as you don’t use it to justify racist, sexist, or otherwise hateful beliefs. I’ve found that you can identify the really athletic runners, the ones who have either run competitively or who use running as a way to train for other sports, by watching how they run. In essence, you can tell who they are when you see them.
Visually, there’s not much that separates these runners. Sometimes they have fancy gear, but most times they’ll just be wearing a t-shirt and shorts, often with thoroughly worn shoes held together with sheer cussedness. There’s nothing prepossessing about their appearance, beyond the sheer smoothness of their effort.
True Athletes are the runners that make running look easy. Often moving at the fastest pace you’ll see during your run, these runners move with an easy grace, a smooth power that makes their speed all the more surprising. They tend to be well-aware of the accepted trail etiquette, which is especially important as they will spend much of their run passing other people on the trail.
True Athletes move with a quiet confidence that I find impressive and at times a little intimidating. In most cases, that intimidation quickly shifts into inspiration. I know I will never move that fast or smoothly or confidently, but it’s a model for the kind of runner I could aspire to be. If I could capture even a little bit of that kind of running, I’d be a much better athlete for it.
One of Us
This last category, the running group, is not technically a single runner; however, they tend to move and act as a singular entity, not unlike the Borg from Star Trek. They are a collective whole, moving and acting as one, although that singularity can also be misleading.
I respect the idea of running groups. Being a runner can at times feel a little isolating, especially on those long runs when you’re alone with your thoughts. Frankly, that’s kind of why I like it. But I also recognize that it would be fun sometimes to have a group you share your runs with, people who would talk shop about running, or who might not talk running at all but who will engage with you on a personal, friendly level because you’re sharing the same experience.
The problem for me, as a runner who is not part of a running group, is when I come into a group that either doesn’t understand or respect running etiquette. These groups seem to view their numbers as power, and sometimes they can be very powerful indeed. When I’m out running, few things make my heart sink more than seeing a gaggle of 10 to 20 runners all wearing the same t-shirt, usually with some running-related pun sprawled across the chest. I know these runners are going to feel free to assert their will, stringing out in clumps for the next several tenths of a mile, with no compunctions about pushing pedestrians and fellow runners off to the side of the road because, hey, they have to keep up with their group.
If you’re part of a running group, I hope you’re not feeling attacked. In fact, there’s a good chance that you recognize this in other running groups. If you are in a running group and you haven’t noticed this, it’s probably because you’re in one of the bad groups. You’re the baddie. Stop it.
Me
Who am I as a runner? I guess I’d say I’m probably somewhere in between. I’m not an athlete, that much is obvious. But I’m also not a rookie. I like to be precise in my running at times, but I also know I tend to get sloppy because my brain just doesn’t work like that over the long, draining haul. And while I’m not a dudebro by any means, I get really defensive about people not respecting others on the trail, to the point that when I get disrespected by other runners or pedestrians, I have to spend actual effort to not feel personally attacked.
I guess you could say I’m a little of The Weirdo, a group of runners I thought about including but one that encompasses so broad a range of running behaviors it would end up being meaningless. While I try to keep good form, I know there are times when it gets a little, um…loose. I go a little akimbo, and I have to rein myself back in. But I also don’t mind getting a little weird. I mouth the words to the song in my earbuds, and I don’t care how weird I look. I like to weave in and out of lamp posts, for no other reason than because it’s fun and gives me something short-term and unimportant to focus on. I like wearing bright, ridiculous colors while I’m running. I mean, I have yellow and orange running socks because they make me feel fast.
In short, I’m the kind of runner that has—for the most part, at least—decided the only way to keep myself running is to not care how weird I look. I mean, I don’t want people to think I’m a freak. But if they do…so what? I can’t control them, I’m not in their heads. I’m just out there doing my thing, and taking whatever steps I need to get through my work. It’s taken a while for me to get there, especially from those early days when I doubted my own ability to push past my feelings of failure and exhaustion to find what it meant to work as a runner. But I persisted, and as of now, I feel pretty confident.
Which, I guess, is a long way round to saying this. These categories? They aren’t real. It’s just one man’s way of organizing the world around him while he’s running. It’s like finding a way to organize books or records in your home. Alphabetically? Chronologically? By genre? By color? By purchase date? It doesn’t matter, as long as you remember why you’re doing it in the first place. It’s an exercise, a little bit of fun, all with the intent of being able to find something later.
I’ll let you know next week if I find myself on Broad Street.
MetaFrizzics 