I’m a casual runner. Who decides the level of someone’s commitment to running? If it’s the person themselves, then I can confidently say I’m a casual runner. If it’s someone else, maybe they would elevate me to something like “novice runner” or maybe even, at their own risk, “intermediate runner.” I’m just not sure what the qualifications are, which is even more indicative of my casual-ness.
So far in my life I have run two races, the kind you have to pay for and they give you a little bib that you safety pin onto the front of your shirt and you wake up early and get all nervous about. Both of them have been 10K’s, but they were also three years apart. In between and before those three years, I’ve kept up with my casual running by casually going on runs.
The first time I ran a 10K was kind of a traumatic experience for me, in a lot of ways that I won’t necessarily get into here. At the moment at least (These are stories for another time.) But, the night before my first 10K I had stubbed my right pinkie toe something awful, the worst stub of my life to date. It was such that the top skin of the toe had been sheared nearly all the way off but I didn’t want to pull it off so after I stopped the bleeding I put the skin flap back over top of it and put a band-aid on the toe. During the ten-kilometer race the next morning, my toe with the band-aid in the sock in the shoe generated so much friction that it opened up the wound again.
My light teal shoe was soaked through on the right outside part with blood, which another runner noticed and called me “hardcore.” I laughed and thanked her, while feeling simultaneously kind of hardcore and also like a liar because the bleeding was due to a non running-related injury. But I relished the praise. Is there something about runners that makes us want to hurt ourselves? Why is it that wearing an injury is like wearing a badge of honor?
Another time a runner who I didn’t know called me “hardcore” was when we were both running in the cold winter rain. I’m actually not a hardcore runner; I never push myself beyond what is comfortable in the moment. I have a soft, mushy core, like the inside of a flaxseed pancake that didn’t get enough water put into the mix and lost the capability to cook all the way through. The mushy inside part of me not being mashed flaxseed but instead mostly intact guts and lungs and heart and things. But again, I lit up and thanked him, and felt somewhat badass the rest of the day. Maybe there’s something romantic in the idea of a runner pushing themselves so hard that it’s actually bad for them.
Since running is a solo sport, encouragement from other people is few and far between. The idea is similar to a hermit on a solemn pilgrimage, fasting and occasionally fainting from overexertion. While the spiritual journey is important to the hermit internally, the external factor of other people noticing their struggles must have played some part in the motivation. You’re hardcore, the townsfolk will say after you traveled miles and miles to worship at the altar of some holy relic.
You’re so hardcore, as you travel miles and miles to worship at the altar of athleticism.
Hardcore.