Two Decades of Running Later, Here is What Matters to Me Now
There’s a spot exactly two-and-a-half kilometres from my apartment where a little orange A-frame house sits next to the river. Behind it, mountains stretch up towards the sky. This marks the halfway point of my five-kilometre out-and-back running route—a riverside stretch where the water glitters in the sun or pools like black ink depending on the weather. Usually, I pause here for a moment before continuing. This is a route that I run regularly. The distance isn’t impressive and neither is my pace, but this is where I run for a mid-day reset, an evening wind-down or to enjoy the sunshine on a pretty day.
Not long ago, I was running between the eucalyptus trees here when I recalled something my high school coach once said: “A lot of our students become life-long runners running well into adulthood. Maybe that’ll be you some day.”At the time, barely able to picture life beyond high school, I was skeptical. Maybe even a little resistant. But, at 34, as I run alongside the current, I see he was right.
I started running as a gangly 10-year-old kid in 2001. A friend asked me to join the cross-country team. I agreed, though I had no idea what that was, stuck to my word and took to the sport instantly. I turned out to be quite good at it which gave me confidence, a competitive outlet and some of my favourite childhood memories. Plus, running through the woods near my house was one of the rare times my dog Jake—a cross between a border collie and Satan—called a truce and tolerated my company.
From the early 2000s on, I spent so much time in track clubs and running through the woods with my friends. What began as a childhood interest was already becoming part of my identity and laying the foundation for a healthy physically relationship with myself. But, in 2001, I just thought I was trying to beat my good friend to the finish line.
I grew up in Kitchener-Waterloo, which, unknown to me at the time, has a significant running culture. It has beautiful tracks, a rolling countryside, is home to some talented elite runners and has some amazing running clubs—one of which I stumbled into in the first week of high school. The next four years were easily—and gladly—consumed by running. My friends and I ran past corn fields and through the woods, crunching crisp fall leaves underfoot as we hit our target paces. We trained all winter while Ontario was in a deep-freeze and ice hung from branches. We went to train in Alabama one winter. We also ran high-level races in North Bay, Thunder Bay (freezing) and New York. I met my first boyfriend through running. It was such a major part of my life.
Running gave me a sense of identity when I was younger—something stable as I was navigating my place in the world. I moved to Toronto when I was 19, studied journalism and became an editor at a running magazine where I got the opportunity to write about the running scene within Canada and internationally.
It’s easy to point to some of the big wins when a childhood hobby takes off like this (as I’ve outlined here) but honestly, it turns out that the real wins are the things that seem like no biggie—or even mundane. Like a slow and short run on a nondescript Wednesday. Like moments of deep appreciation along my riverside route which I’ve done hundreds of times. Like realizing that it’s a beautiful sunny day and I’ve seen mountains, cows, kids playing soccer and kale crops before starting my work mid-morning. The truth is that while I wasn’t looking, running grew my confidence, shaped my identity and gave me a strong connection with the outdoors.
For this story, I searched to find someone who shares these values. Brendan Carpenter is a content creator, runner and former coach who gets it. At the beginning, running was about weight loss for Carpenter, eventually turning into strict training plans, paces and marathon results. Now? His reasoning sounds a lot more like what I’m talking about.
“I love the space it gives me. It gives me time off my phone to listen to nature, catch up on a podcast and immerse myself in the run rather than focusing on what’s next,” he says. “Lately I’ve done a lot of runs without a watch to free myself of pace anxiety. It frees me to focus on the fact that I’m moving my body. It doesn’t matter how far or how fast.”
The river near my apartment that I talked about runs through Ecuadorian highlands and across the country’s third largest city, Cuenca, where I live. I moved to the country in 2018. Ecuador’s landscape, namely in the Andes, is… intimidatingly beautiful. Some of the mountains here stand well above 5,000 metres and as a 5’3 woman, their summits seem like they should be absolutely none of my business. But I made it my business a few days after I arrived, when I climbed to the top of a volcano overlooking Quito. I’m from sea level (another reason why Andean summits should be none of my business), but I was curious.
Facing the towering Andean peaks, I looked to the trail ahead. I won’t lie, when I looked at the peak, I felt an impending sense of doom. Its peak, black against the blue sky, looked like a witch’s hat, and I wanted to turn back but my ego wouldn’t allow that. Besides, running had given me ground to stand on—I knew I was strong, scrappy and perhaps most importantly, I knew how and when to push through discomfort. When I stood at the top of that peak, which hits a few metres shy of 5,000 metres, I felt a strong sense of accomplishment and the will to explore Ecuador’s mountains even more. So, I stayed and that’s exactly what I’ve done: solid type-two fun in rugged Andean spaces.
On the hardest outdoor adventures, I’ve cursed (loudly) the mountains, the trails, the rain, the sun, roots, my tent, the temperature of lakes, hell mud and myself for continuously committing to hobbies that bring discomfort. On my 33rd birthday, I got stuck in thigh-high mud in the rain on a two-day trek and swore that was the end of it. It wasn’t. I’ve had several adventures since (I literally climbed a mountain just yesterday) because at the end of the day, I love it. I love an active lifestyle. I love outdoor challenges.
If running has taught me one thing, that’s physical gratitude. My body is strong above all else, and I trust it to take me where I love to be. That’s a pretty big achievement and a middle finger to a society obsessed with ozempic, before-and-after workout photos or running as a means to shrink to—if you’re lucky—the width of a ramen noodle. There is *frustrated sigh* so much more than that!
A thing that I started doing when I was 10 became a lifelong habit—one that shaped my identity, built my confidence, supported my life abroad and deepened my gratitude for my body’s abilities. We get to run in really stunning places because we’ve trained our bodies to be strong enough to do so. We get to climb mountains, trail run through national parks or just get out for that mediocre run on a favourite route mid-week. Isn’t that the point? Shouldn’t it be?
Sadly though, this is so often not what we tend to talk about. When I talk about running, I notice some give my body a quick glance (Are they fact checking me? And if so, what’s the verdict?). Or sometimes, conversations focus heavily on times, weight loss, fodder for social media, trendy activewear or the race that flopped. I’d love to hear more about its deeper rewards. The ones that metrics can’t measure: identity, confidence, strength, a calm mind, a way to explore the world and an appreciation for what our bodies can do.
When I contacted Carpenter, it’s like we’d already had this conversation. Without knowing it, he repeats my thoughts exactly. “I lost a lot of weight at the start of my running journey but as I progressed, I learned my ‘why’ was so much more than that. It was actually just the sense of space and freedom that it gave me and realizing my body was so much more capable than I ever thought it was,” he says. He notes that he went through the burnout of lowering paces, running back-to-back marathons, ignoring limits and eventually getting sick before coming to this conclusion. “I re-found my reason for running and suddenly a 5K wasn’t just a 5K anymore—it was a celebration of my body and knowing that I can still overcome the obstacles that remain.”
One awful night about a year ago, I lay awake in a hospital with a tube through my rib cage draining excess air that caused my right lung to collapse. I wondered what was wrong and if this was part of a larger problem. I anxiously stayed awake all night bargaining with a higher being I’m not even sure exists. Please, let me be able to continue doing the things I like. Even if it’s just slow, four-kilometre routes or simple hikes. Please, let me stay here where I live, don’t let the altitude become a problem. Three months later, I healed and was cleared to go back to higher-elevation places again. Soon after that, my fitness returned. Sometimes, I hear my inner critic judging pace, distance or some other frivolous detail, and I remember the compromises I was willing to make that night in order to keep the main parts of my lifestyle intact. It’s funny how a traumatic health incident really clarifies priorities…
These days, I run when I want, how I want and as fast or slow as I feel fits the day. If you ask me, that seems to be how you maintain the same fitness hobby for nearly 25 years. A past version of myself would shudder to know that 44-minute 10Ks are probably a thing of the past. She’d hate to know my pace-per-kilometres, that I don’t have a single goal in mind or that I’m not immune to injuries like I egotistically assumed I would be. If I met her now, I’d have so much to tell her about the bigger picture—even though I know she wouldn’t listen. She’d probably say something sassy and then leave me in the dust running sub-five-minute kilometres on a stomach full of 75 fish tacos and a water tower’s worth of post-run beer. Whatever girl, you do you; that scrappiness will come in handy.
If you’ll listen, know that I’m not completely dumping on running goals like completing a half-marathon, losing weight or running a new personal best. Those goals are respectable. They can offer incentive, self-improvement and a way into a community and lifestyle. All good things. But they can also be a recipe for burn-out if you’re not careful.
Disclaimer: I’m not judging anyone’s reason behind their running… mostly because I don’t actually have the capacity to care. What I’m offering is the perspective of a woman with screaming calves and a broken toenail from yesterday’s summit. After almost 25 years of doing this thing in lots of different ways, what I’m saying is that this is so worth it. Looking at the bigger picture, in my case, offered a greater, albeit quieter, kind of satisfaction.
The Yanuncay River that worms its way past country fincas, farms, eucalyptus trees and red-roofed houses is pretty far from the little forest in Kitchener, Ontario where I ran with my friends and my snarling wolf-dog. When my coach planted the idea of running past high school and into—gasp!—adulthood, I couldn’t imagine that. I scoffed and shook my head. A life-long runner? Me!?
Yes. You. Your coach is right again. And when you need a new thrill, you’ll look up and start moving toward the clouds. Because you want to and, importantly, because you’re able.
Lovely piece! I’m not a runner myself, but I can appreciate the sentiments about a lifelong habit. Especially about one that ebes and flows with your body’s changing needs and your mind’s changing goals. Thanks, Sinead!