The runner I used to be…
Accepting that I’m not the runner I used to be is hard, but not without hope…
A Facebook memory from nine years ago flashed up in my feed this week, reminding me of the time I won a five-mile race.
It was the New York Canal Race, which sounds impressive. Except it wasn’t in New York in the United States, but New York, Rotherham, home of Rotherham United. We raced out and back on the Sheffield to Keadby Canal on a cold November morning.
In the photos, I’m holding up my winnings—an envelope with a tenner in it and a box of Cadbury’s Miniature Heroes—smiling like I’ve just won Olympic gold.
Seeing the memory took me by surprise. Was it really nine years ago? It couldn’t be. I checked the date—2014. That was only a few years ago, wasn’t it?
I did the maths and, once again, the passing of time and my advancing years confronted me.
I stared at the photos and my first thought was it’s almost a decade ago and I’ve still got that jumper, followed by and I’ve still got those tracksuit bottoms, followed by doesn’t Chris look young.
And then, look at me—who is that woman? She was amazing. What happened to her?
I was thirty-five in 2014 and in athletic terms classed as a veteran runner. I’d been so annoyed. A veteran at 35! I was the fittest I’d been in my life and getting fitter.
I always remember the quote from one of my favourite writers, Nora Ephron. She said: “Anything you think is wrong with your body at the age of thirty-five you will be nostalgic for at the age of forty-five.”
At the time, I didn’t even think about the impact ageing would have. I was determined to keep running and racing and pushing my body to be the best runner I could be. Surely, Nora had it wrong.
Now, aged forty-four, I understand.
I am not the same person I was nine years ago. I am older, wider, and significantly slower (in all ways, not just running). My knees click when I walk upstairs, my muscles have turned to mush, and don’t even get me started on my oestrogen levels.
I am nostalgic for my former self.
Seeing the photos, my mind drifted back to that chilly November day when I’d achieved something that I never thought was possible. How had I done that?
I remember on the morning of the race, the official taking my entry fee joked about my name. ‘Champion,’ he said. ‘With a name like that, you should win it.’
And I’d laughed because the thought of me crossing any finish line in first place was utterly ridiculous.
Then, half a mile into the race, I found myself in the lead. It came as a surprise, but once in front, that’s where I wanted to stay. I upped my pace, pushing myself to run harder and faster.
This was my chance of finally being a champion—and not just in name.
Throughout the five miles, I worried that the other runners would catch me, that I’d take a wrong turn, or struggle in the latter stages. Somehow, I held it together.
Chris was waiting for me at the finish line, looking more shocked than me.
‘You won,’ he said. ‘You won!’
Still not believing it, I checked my watch to make sure I’d not missed out any miles by mistake.
Five miles. I’d done it.
As a child, I’d been overweight and hapless at sport, so winning a sporting event was momentous and nothing short of a miracle.
I used to avoid physical activity at all costs. I didn’t even try to run; I didn’t think I could. Running was something that sporty people did. I wasn’t like them. I didn’t have a sporty gene in my body. Reading and writing were much more my thing.
I became a runner by accident when I was living in London. I was 22 and had just broken up with my boyfriend and was feeling very sorry for myself. My friend persuaded me to join him on a run. I walked and jogged and complained my way around London’s Victoria Dock, and somewhere on the way, caught the running bug.
Running has been a big part of my life ever since.
I’ve taken part in races of all distances from 3,000m to marathon, but it was never about winning, that never seemed a possibility. I just wasn’t fast. It was about bettering myself, completing races, trundling along in the middle of the pack, and enjoying it.
On a couple of occasions, most of them at the Doncaster Half Marathon, by the time I got to the end of the race, the finish line had been dismantled and everyone had gone home. But being there and doing it was amazing.
The drastic improvement in my performance came when I was going through a difficult time in my life. Just like starting running helped me to get over my relationship heartbreak, it also helped when I was at rock bottom.
The Facebook photos only tell part of the story. Behind the smiles, I was struggling. My granddad had been diagnosed with terminal cancer (he died a few weeks after the race), I was burnt out at work, feeling a failure in my career, and had just started a master’s degree in writing, feeling overwhelmed and unsure of myself.
I channelled all my grief, sadness, doubts and fears into running. I worked hard, training consistently six days a week, focusing on speed, endurance and strength.
Physically, I was fit and healthy, but mentally, I was broken. The training helped me come to terms with my granddad’s diagnosis. And when I started picking up prizes in the veteran categories in local races, I started to feel better about myself and less of a failure.
At that point in my life, I needed the New York Canal Race win—not for the ten quid and box of chocolates—although they were nice. I needed it for myself—for the confidence boost it gave me and the belief that, somehow, I could piece my life back together.
It was one of the proudest moments of my life and made me realise that if someone like me could win a race, anything was possible. When I first started running, I couldn’t get to the end of the road without having to stop to catch my breath. It took a lot of years, but eventually, I’d won a race.
All my life, I had been putting boundaries around myself about what I thought I could and couldn’t do or achieve.
I didn’t run as a child because I thought I couldn’t.
I didn’t think I could win a race because I thought I was slow.
I didn’t think I could write a book because people like me didn’t do that.
What running made me realise is that with hard work, consistency and determination, we can all achieve things that are beyond our wildest dreams. Rather than staying within our limiting beliefs and what we think is possible, it’s important to push beyond these and go for it, whatever age we are and whatever we are doing.
The racing period of my life is fading into memory now, but what I learned from that time will stay with me.
It’s changed how I approach my writing career. Rather than thinking that I’m not good enough and won’t be able to achieve my goals, my mindset is much more positive. The energy I put into training, I now put into my writing. I show up consistently; I work hard, and I dream big and take small steps every day to get closer to realising my ambitions.
Just like with my running, small actions and improvements done consistently over time build up. Before you know it, the wins start to happen and suddenly the impossible is within reach.
Although running isn’t my priority anymore, it is still there for me in the spaces in between the writing, helping me to relax and think.
Being a runner changed my life and my outlook on life and for that I will be forever grateful. I may not be winning races, but I am still a runner. And that’s what matters.