After slagging it off a decade, I think I love running?

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My friend and I have a shared love of watching people falling over on TikTok. We’ve shared so many of these videos back and forth that we’ve become experts at knowing which videos are genuine and which have been staged for likes. Of course, only the genuine falls are funny. Usually, the faller is grumpy and embarrassed. They make wild, jerking movements with their limbs. Their eyes widen, they bare their teeth, and then they go down wonderfully like a sack of potatoes. 

Usually, I watch these videos with a doting, affectionate mirth. As a serial faller-over myself, I am not above such embarrassment. I have been there: bottom coated in mud and slime, handprints left in the earth, face siren-red. It actually runs in my family to fall over a lot—especially the women. But this is also why, as I recently watched a woman fall face-first onto (thankfully soft) beach sand, her Costa coffee exploding on the silt, my laugh faltered as I read the comments. “What age do you lose all athleticism and not even realise it?” asked one blunt TikTok user. I scrolled on, feeling a touch uneasy.    

Weeks later, I was back to my old habit of reading regrets of the elderly—something I like to do now and again to make sure I’m not living a completely regrettable existence. “I regret not moving enough while I had the chance,” said one elderly lady. “I would give anything to be able to run one more time.” This time, there was no amusing splatter of coffee, no laughter in the background. I felt forced to take stock. I never move my body faster than a brisk walk. I have these wonderful, capable legs, and I take them very much for granted. One day, I might look down at them and wish wish wish that I could get them to run for me one last time.  

In my twenties, any time I’d attempted to start running, it was always with the intention of losing weight. I might’ve told people I simply wanted to get healthier but - honestly - the shape and feel of my body was the real prize. This is almost certainly why my running career never took off, because running doesn’t transform a body overnight. In fact, many runners actually gain weight as a result of increased muscle mass and appetite.

Now that I’m in my thirties, however, I think I might’ve finally found two genuinely good reasons to consistently move my body faster than a walk: 

1. Because life is short

2. Because I love my body for what it can do—not how it looks   

There are many myths about turning thirty. You don’t, for instance, suddenly look old, gross and covered in scales. You don’t automatically have your shit together. In fact, I’ve taken a hearty step back from the career and salary success I had in my late twenties. But one thing that does appear to be universally true is your improved understanding of time. If you’re lucky, at thirty, you’re a third of the way through. This will terrify you, but it will also galvanise you.

There’s a reason why so many people in their early thirties sign up for marathons, join book clubs, or pick up a new hobby. We’re beginning to comprehend that life is not an unlimited road that stretches off into an orange horizon, but more like a verdant walled garden. There’s finite space in which to grow beautiful things, move through the world, and feel at home. So we start. Whether panicked or inspired. We try to start.

It was with this uneasy enthusiasm that, in December, I bought some running trainers and set off along the banks of the River Ouse in East Sussex near where I live. The goal was to run five kilometres without stopping, but I was allowed to do it at the pace of a funeral march if I had to. It turned out that, after years of daily trekking over the South Downs, running this distance was not so different. I was bemused. Running was - if not easy - perfectly doable.  

The views through my silly, shiny sunglasses

Instead of mirroring my former futile attempts to enjoy running, I avoided the thumping Spotify playlists and opted for an audiobook instead. This worked wonders for taking my mind off what I was subjecting myself to. I also chose a secluded route so I wouldn’t constantly think about how people were perceiving me, jogging along slowly and red-faced as I was. And it made me happy. After a year of battling with near-constant feelings of dread and sadness, this silly little jog was making me happy. It made me want to laugh and whoop and punch the frosted sky. 

I don’t want this newsletter to make anyone feel like shit by comparison. Historically, my bouts of fitness have always peaked and troughed, my enthusiasm waning circumstantially. And I expect the same will happen to me again at some stage. Instead, I’d rather like my point to be that you are never too old - or too proud - to eat your own words. You are allowed to try new things and love them. You are allowed to try new things and hate them. The reward is in the trying itself.

There are plenty of reasons to move your body, stimulate your mind, or create something homemade. But, for some reason, we’re programmed to focus on the visible, tangible benefits. Rippling abs. An enviable Goodreads account. A pretty trinket to share online. All too often, we forget the most obvious reason to do anything: joy.

If we imagine once again that our life is that walled garden: it doesn’t stay the same. Every year, we plant new flowers, trees and vegetables. Some take, blossoming beautifully, and some fail, rotting back into the soil. One year, we might add a bench or greenhouse, the next we might take them down. And - just sometimes - we might plant something that we consider so beautiful, that makes us so unexpectedly, inexplicably happy that we choose to grow it again and again. 

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Alanna Duffield