As a teenager, I was very much a “don’t put me down for cardio” girl. At school I would volunteer to be the goalkeeper as it required the least amount of movement. When it came to sports day, if I couldn’t blag a sicknote, I’d reluctantly sign up for long jump, since the long-jump pit was tucked away behind the bike shed and drew no crowds. The idea of running on the track in front of the whole school felt like a nightmare brought to life.
Unlike lots of my male friends who played football or rugby for fun, I only saw exercise as punishment. Diet culture in the 90s dictated that thinness – and subsequent “goodness” – was a simple case of calories in versus calories out. Exercise was a gruelling way to stay slim and nothing more. I knew nothing of the feelgood effects of exercise, since I only ever experienced feeling as if I was going to pass out.
As an adult, my attitude began to change. I tried running and found that I didn’t hate it, but I could never shake the feeling that I was bad at it. It often made me feel as if I was back at school, coming last in the relay race and embarrassing everyone, especially myself.
That was until, at the age of 38, I agreed to go for a run with my five-year-old daughter. My husband had been a runner for a few years, and I was trying to get better at it. As a result, we talked about running a lot at home and my daughter started showing an interest. She said running sounded fun, which reminded me that was the point – it was meant to be an enjoyable hobby that made you feel better, not worse. Her attitude made me realise that running was now something I chose to do, rather than something I was forced into.
My daughter liked running races with her brother but wanted to try going further. Friends with children suggested we try junior parkrun – 2km runs for four- to 14-year-olds, which aim to get kids active and make running accessible. Adults can run with their children, and events are focused on having fun, rather than pushing for a personal best.
Bright and early one freezing Sunday morning, we headed to junior parkrun on a local running track. My daughter was one of the younger runners there and, running alongside her, I was amazed at her attitude and ability. She did not complain. She did not try to bunk off early. She appeared to be genuinely enjoying herself.
Afterwards, we headed to a cafe by the running track for a snack, where my daughter told me she had loved the run – and to my surprise, so had I. We weren’t there to compete with anyone else or fret over our finish time – we were simply there to enjoy the experience of running together. I didn’t track the run on my usual running app or notice our pace.
Later, I went out to run alone. When I started to get tired, my usual inner monologue kicked in: why don’t you stop? You’re terrible at this! Then I remembered how I had spoken to my daughter just hours earlier, encouraging her and praising her capabilities. You’re doing great, I told myself. Just keep running.
To my surprise, it worked. Instead of berating myself, I tried to talk to myself like I would to a child who I adore. My daughter looks very similar to how I did when I was five, so it had been easy to imagine I was talking to a younger version of myself. I knew I never wanted her to feel like running was a punishment; I wanted her to experience the runners’ highs and feelgood endorphins, not think of exercise as something to be endured.
Since then, junior parkrun has become a regular occurrence. I’ve stopped focusing on how “good” or “bad” my runs are, and resisted the urge to compare myself with others. Instead I follow my daughter’s lead and relish the moment, grateful that my body is able to propel me around the track alongside her. I don’t think about calories burned or kilometres covered and I don’t worry about how bad I might look; instead, I concentrate on how good I feel.
These days, cardio is no longer the enemy. I often go out for longer runs by myself and I’m training for my first marathon – but a Sunday morning 2km with my favourite running buddy remains an absolute joy.
