rant: running is just the worst

There is nothing that fills me with a greater sense of dread than a friend suggesting we do sweat-inducing exercise together. Specifically, that we run together. It’s private! Leave me alone. While this attitude does have a little bit to do with a hip problem I’ve had since I was a teen, it’s also just the vibe.

Look, I get it. For them, it’s an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone – a chance to socialise and boost their heart rate for an extended period of time. For me… please just kill me with the stone.

Most exercise invitations from mates annoy me, for a moment, until I tell myself off for being an infant. Laps? Hot yoga? A pump class? I know you mean well, my strong and self-assured friend, but cease and desist – I am a little piggy who likes to splash about in the water and take leisurely strolls. But ask me to go for a short walk with a coffee (or a tinny) in hand? I’ll make you a friendship bracelet. I’m pro-walk. I love walking. I am Christopher Walkin’ of my inner-northern Melbourne suburb. But running can go and proverbially jump in a lake, thanks.

I’m not anti-exercise, either. I frequently take myself to the gym and stream RuPaul’s Drag Race while I walk uphill on a treadmill. I (very self-consciously) use the machines. Weights? I understand the concept. Sometimes I attempt to follow a YouTube tutorial on how to use them. But I just don’t want anyone to see.

Like a phrasebook for getting around a foreign city without too much trouble, I too possess some of the language necessary for communicating with avid runners. For example, when a person recently told me they were training for an upcoming marathon, I asked whether it was a half (21 kilometres) or a full (42 kilometres). Not only were they impressed by my feigned knowledge, they were also utterly delighted to tell me it was a full marathon. Then, to avoid exposing my knowledgeable façade, I leave these conversations as swiftly as I enter them.

The fact that people who run seem so productive and accomplished only adds to my frustration. Famed Japanese novelist Haruki Murakami, for example, is a freak about the whole thing. When he sold his jazz bar in 1982 so he could write, he got into running to keep fit and then just a year later ran from Athens to Marathon (42 kilometres). In 2007, he published a memoir about his love for it all. We get it; you’re a fit smarty-pants!

The thing about some runners (read some), is that they love to talk about running. They love to post screenshots of their trails or routes, about breaking their PBs, about the communities they’ve found, about their upcoming marathons, about their feet. Honestly it actually sounds nice to have other people care that much. To feel held and understood by the safety net of an athletic community. Maybe I’m just jealous.

I don’t think so, though. Running, and proposals to do so, make me feel a particular sort of anxious-angry. It’s probably because the repeated pounding of ball-and-heel on pavement causes my hip issues to flare up. But also, I think running and the culture of talking all about it is, for many (me included), tied to difficult body stuff we tried to leave behind in our early 20s. It’s everything I’ve had to unlearn about ‘good’ and ‘bad’ behaviour under the male gaze. So, yeah, maybe it’s that … or maybe it’s just that I’m unfit.

Regardless, I’m grateful to anyone who wants to hang out with me even when we’re both sweating our balls off. But nipple chafing? Enjoy that alone, my swift gazelles. I’ll meet you afterwards for a beer.

This rant comes straight from the pages of issue 117. To get your mitts on a copy, swing past the frankie shop, subscribe or visit one of our lovely stockists.