This column by Simon Gear first appeared in Runners World SA in January 2010
Have you ever noticed how only the good people run? There’s long been a debate around our training group as to whether we are all similar people, and so are attracted to running by some common strain of character, or whether running shapes us into a personality type instantly recognisable to other runners. If I look across all the folk I’ve run with over the decades, there is certainly a common thread. Everyone is imbued with a quiet confidence, a certainty that things will turn out alright. But there is also an air of the introspective, tempered by a strong appreciation of the value of a cold beer shared.
Although everyone will try running at some point in their lives, there are fairly few for whom it bites, but then it bites hard. The bitten have to be people comfortable in their own skin, but outgoing enough to easily enjoy two and a half hour Sunday morning long run conversations. Folk who are unafraid of discomfort and not overly sensitive to minor issues. If you are the sort of person who disintegrates at the site of a traffic jam, or a broken nail, or a last minute change of plan, you’re always going to be able to find an excuse not to get out for your morning session. Even the simplest training run is an ongoing exercise in adaptation. It’s always going to be a tad too cold at the start and a little too hot and dry at the end. Your shorts never seem to sit perfectly and you’ll always have the odd niggle or two before you get fully into stride.
I also suspect that if you’ve tried running and stayed, that you are fairly difficult to impress. There really is nowhere to hide on the road. Every one of my group know every one of the others’ abilities. While you can buy performance in cycling and golf, and you can focus on your strengths in most team sports, running requires a true baring of the soul. Every runner has their numbers, and the numbers never lie. You’ve either broken 40 or you haven’t. Do or do not. There is no try.
The upshot of all of this is that runners develop a thoroughly enjoyable mix of humility and arrogance. We revel in a confidence born out of knowing that if everyone in this room had to suddenly flee from a sabre toothed tiger, chances are, I wouldn’t get eaten first. I’ve spent years sitting around conference tables thinking, ‘Yup, no matter how much you know about spreadsheets, to me, you’re just so much catfood.’ Like Tibetan monks, we don’t consciously think we’re better, it‘s just the way that the universe is ordered. The sky is blue, the grass is green, and runners rise above the rabble.
The flip side of this is that every runner has been beaten. Every one of us has lost out to other athletes, to the course and at least once a week, to our own selves. It’s pretty darn hard to maintain a smug, superior demeanour when every time you lace up those shoes, you invite the universe to put you back in your place. I’ve heard 100km-a-week guys describe themselves as lazy. And I’ve heard their mates agree wholeheartedly. Any idiot can rack up the miles, but if you aren’t man enough to whip yourself into submission every now and again, who’s the loser?
And so we saunter through life with a self deprecating swagger. We dominate social gatherings, boasting to each other how appalling we are. We have to be dragged off the dance floor at 2, knowing that when we crack open our next cold one at 9am the next morning, we will have already clocked another dozen miles, while the band will still be in bed.
Research shows that runners drink more beer than the average punter. We’re better lovers. We eat with more relish and are not known to frequent health spas and beauty clinics. And yet we shine more, live longer and laugh louder than anyone else around. Are we the chosen people or does running make us so? Or have we just lucked upon the holy grail of true happiness: everything in moderation, especially moderation. And 6 miles before breakfast.