Before the pandemic, I’d always been a casual runner, popping for a quick jog every so often and feeling like I’d climbed Everest when I achieved that rare 5K. But once global lockdowns hit in 2020, like many women, running became my lifeline to the outside world. Whenever I could, I’d muster up the emotional energy, put on my running shoes, lock in my headphones and venture out on to the streets of South London.
Some days, it was a great adventure. A heron at the local pond. A PB on a tough segment. A cute dog deciding I was its new best friend.
Other days, not so much. The quiet streets of London were a harsh reminder of what the world had lost. Suspicion hung in the air. People avoided eye contact more than just the usual London detachment. Whenever it hit me that running was literally the only thing I was doing outside, all I wanted to do was cry. Yet, slowly but surely, as the pandemic progressed, I went from having to walk the last few minutes of every 10K I attempted, to running my first halfmarathon distance, to completing my first 100-mile month.
Facing my fears
In the depths of winter, I accepted a challenge from my partner to run 10K a day, every day for a month. My friends thought I’d gone insane. I think I just wanted to feel something – anything – other than the tedium of lockdown.
It was one of the toughest challenges I’ve ever taken on, but I came out the other side a stronger person. I learned I could run through my period, something I’d avoided like the plague. I mastered the art of not caring about speed, especially on the days I had to walk to get it done.
And, after years of chasing a thigh gap, I embraced my fast-growing tree trunks; they were signs of my strength. Most of all, I had a newfound trust in my mind and body to keep me moving forwards.
Unfortunately, it also solidified some questions I already had about running. I often ran alongside my partner, a white man. The differences quickly became apparent. He had limitless options of where to run at night, as long as he had a head torch. I watched helplessly as the sun set earlier every day, closing the already-small window for my daily 10K. He proudly posted all his runs on Strava, whereas all of mine were hidden for fear of being followed. He’d always get – in his own words – ‘people randomly smiling at him’ and compliments about his tattoos or running gear. When I ran on my own, I’d get cat calls, weird looks and once a man even casually shoved me out onto the road as I ran past. I’m still processing that one.
What stood out in particular, was that, despite living in a very diverse area of south London, I almost never saw any Asian people running, let alone anyone who looked like me. Even after doing 193 miles in 31 days, I still didn’t feel like a real runner. It wasn’t like I felt actively ostracised – after all, I wasn’t part of any running groups, nor had I run any races. So how could an activity that consisted of just me and the open road feel so non-inclusive?
Is the outdoors really free?
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