I’m One of Those Runners Now

Hi, not-so-long-ago Past-Self,

Remember when you’d watch runners glide by? Those neon-shoed, stats-obsessed, and think: ugh, running people?

How you’d sip your coffee, raise an eyebrow, and wonder why they’d choose to suffer on purpose, comparing pace and cadence like it was a secret club (Strava) you’d never care to join?

Yeah. About that.

Here I am now, three weeks deep, 8 sessions in, lacing up my fresh Mizunos while my Garmin Forerunner beeps impatiently at me to get moving. Guess what? I am one of them. One of those runners you secretly judged.

I know, you’re probably rolling your eyes at me right now and saying: “What you too?”

Except… they’re not who you thought they were. And neither am I.

So here’s what happened.

Runners have always surrounded me: my partner, my friends, my colleagues. Over coffees and lunches, they’d compare kilometers, talk splits, and rave about new shoes. I’d nod politely, throw in a quip here and there, curiosity masquerading as critique, while telling myself: Running is just… running. Get over it.

But deep down? Perhaps I was just a little envious of the sense of belonging. The way runners talk. The glow on their faces after a good run. The collective we of it all.

Then one fine June day, I caved. What if I give it a try? That’s what good anthropologists do — they join the tribe to understand it. So, I asked M, my runner colleague turned coach, to take me on one of her legendary lunch break runs. I almost bailed, too. The excuses lined up: bad weather, my period, the slight inconvenience of leaving my comfort zone. But accountability won. I showed up in my decade-old shoes and sports gear that hadn’t seen daylight in four years.

We ran. Or rather, I shuffled behind her for a little over 2km in less than 30 minutes, soaked by the Fontainebleau forest drizzle... and my disbelief that I was doing this. It was hard. It was humbling. It was weirdly… good. Not during, oh God no, but after.

And that tiny post-run high? It made me want to feel it again.

Next thing I knew, I was in a running store.

Thank you, universe, and colleague P, for that random lift to the train station one Monday in June that got me home early enough to rendezvous with B at iRun in the city center in Paris. I stood there, one hour before closing, deciding between Mizuno, Hoka, and Brooks, trying to make sense of what a “good” running shoe even felt like.

No Asics? I asked. Isn’t that what real runners wear? The store lady shrugged. Try them. Pick what feels good.

So I did. I jogged a little awkward loop in each pair, marveling at how springy my steps felt, like my feet finally trusted the ground again. Mizuno won my rookie heart that night.

Then came the gear creep. Eeeh, cringe.

I downloaded the Decathlon Coach app, which gave me a beginner running plan designed for absolute newbies like me. I told B my game plan, who saw it as the perfect excuse to upgrade his gear. Here, he said, handing me his old Garmin watch.

Past me would’ve laughed. A watch? For what? I already have the app. But here’s the thing, Past Me: data is addictive. Seeing progress, no matter how small, makes the next run feel possible.

And here we are.

Three weeks in. Eight runs done. From 2km to 4km. From “maybe I’ll run once” to “I run 3x a week, thank you very much.” From dreading sweat to craving that moment when my legs find their rhythm and the city blurs around me.

When I told my friends, “I started running”, they replied, “So you’re a runner now!” I hesitated. No, no, I’m just someone who runs. They laughed. Isn’t that the same thing?

And why the shame? Perhaps I simply need to admit that I was wrong to misjudge them runners, for when I didn’t understand what the gears, the races, and the discussion were all about.

So yes, I’m a runner now.

A baby runner. A slow runner. A runner who stops mid-run to stare at the sunlight peeking through the trees at the park, or to greet the lady neighbor who gives a thumbs-up. A runner who listens to her body, respects her feet, and embraces her heavy legs on hard days.

Some runs feel great. Some feel like I’m gonna trip or vomit any moment now. But every single one reminds me I can do more than I think I can.

And Past Me, listen up: the right shoes do matter. The fancy watch? Surprisingly useful. The supportive coach, the gentle program, the post-run stretch — they matter. But what actually matters is showing up.

So here’s to us, the non-runners who run.

To the rainy Francilien streets, the new shoes that carry me farther, the morning runs that remind me my body is capable, my mind is resilient, and my excuses are no match for that runner’s high.

One day, I might sign up for a 5k or 10k. Maybe I’ll get another running shoe, or not. Maybe that doesn’t matter as long as my shoes give me the right support. Maybe I’ll buy that running belt I swore I’d never need. Maybe I’ll nod at another newbie on their first awkward shuffle and think: Oh honey, just wait.

But for now, my goal is simple: keep showing up. Keep running, not away from something, but into the best version of myself I never knew was waiting.

Past Me, trust me, you’ll lace up too. And you’ll love it.

See you on the road,
Your now Running Self

Disclaimer: Parts of this content were refined using AI support.