Clumps of dirt crumbled beneath my feet as I pounded through the first kilometre of my forest run. Beneath the canopy of trees, I was safe to indulge in my secret hobby. My shoes struck the ground rhythmically, leaving tiny dust clouds in my wake. Up ahead, I spotted a clearing and propelled myself toward it.
Big mistake. As I burst through the break in the forest, the thick smell of barbecued meat hit me. Oh, no. Other humans. At least 10 pairs of eyes turned away from their table and focused on the amateur runner who had just invaded their family picnic.
I’d been discovered.
My insecurities gripped me. I began to notice the blotches of sweat on my cotton T-shirt. I was a walking inkblot test. My face grew red as I smoothed out the halo of frizz above my ponytail. I thought I was safe here. I slowed my pace, looked in the opposite direction and hurriedly walked past them.
In that moment, paralyzed by anxiety, I remembered why I always ran in secret.
Runners were, to my understanding, an enigmatic tribe of people who wore Lycra jumpsuits and guzzled protein shakes. They existed in a parallel universe, collecting marathon vests and terry-cloth wristbands.
The runners in my neighbourhood darted past my house at the same time every day. They travelled in a pack – an elite clan of people whose bond was forged over a love of pedometers and energy gels. Every member of the running clan had long, willowy limbs and moved with a gait so graceful it would make a gazelle jealous.
I have nothing in common with these people. I am a bookish woman with a doughy belly and wide feet. Despite all this, I love running.
I find nothing more satisfying than dashing along a 10-kilometre route with nothing but willpower to move me forward. But I was convinced my clumsy strides would be mocked in public. Too self-conscious to join the running universe, last year I decided to create my own. And so I established an underground movement where I was the only member.
My strategy was simple. I would run alone in secret locations where no one could see my short limbs and awkward stride. At the time, I considered myself a renegade in old sneakers. In reality, I was a wimp without a cause.
First, I attempted running before the sun came up. No one could see me bounding along the pavement under the 5 a.m. cover of darkness. When I ducked under a streetlight or avoided eye contact with the driver of a passing car, I’d silently congratulate myself.
I’d managed to go undetected for about 10 minutes when I spotted a figure hurtling toward me. Like a cartoon anvil, I dropped to the ground and pretended to tie my shoe. The figure ran closer. It was a real runner. Followed by another. And another. Apparently, I wasn’t the only person in town who knew how to set her alarm clock.
Running incognito required an ability to scout isolated locations. Whenever I did errands, I kept an eye on the surrounding area. Every possible spot had a drawback – too many people, open spaces, traffic.
Just when I thought I’d never find a new route, I discovered the track at the local high school. On weekends, the 200-metre stretch of gravel was deserted.
For weeks, the abandoned track was my refuge. With an imaginary starting gun prompting me, I’d sprint off one of the lines and pretend I was Donovan Bailey at the 1996 Olympic Games.
My track-and-field daydreams were interrupted on a late Saturday afternoon. En route to my secret location, I heard grunting in the distance. As I rounded the corner, dozens of young men in striped uniforms came into view. A soccer team was using the high school’s field. My beloved track encircled their practice.
It isn’t easy being a closet runner.
Exiled by embarrassment from all my favourite routes, by mid-summer I grew desperate. There was only one other place in town remote enough to suit my needs – a makeshift track suspended above the skating rink at the local community centre. Accessible only by key, it was alarmingly close to the ceiling and the threat of hitting a rafter or air-conditioning unit was enough to keep most runners away.
To use it, I had to reveal my hobby to one person. Steve, the front-desk attendant at the community centre, held the keys to every spot in the building. For months, I avoided eye contact while mumbling, “Could I have the key to the track, please?”
Then, one day, Steve spoke to me. I was returning the key when he looked at me and said, “How was your run?”
Suddenly, I saw that behind his head, a giant television broadcast security footage of the building, including my “secret” track. For months, my runs had been available to the entire community centre, and in high-definition, no less.
There was no use denying it now. “Yes, I did have a good run,” I said. With that small admission, my two worlds converged.
My name is Vanessa, and I am no longer a closet runner.
Vanessa Greco lives in Vaughan, Ont.
