#115 The Year I Learned I’m a Terrible Runner
When I wrote “Run a marathon in under four hours” as number 43 on my list of “50 things I want to learn before I’m 50,” I thought I was being clever. A marathon is tough, sure. And four hours? Respectable but doable for someone over forty who runs regularly. I’d done it before—decades ago—but hey, how hard could it be? I was already running. I just needed to do more of it. Easy. One of fifty, in the pocket!
The “50-things” list started a few years ago, when I turned forty and wrapped up my 15-year career plan. I needed a new project. Something daunting and appealing. So, I channelled my irritation with being bad at a million things and my love for long-term goals into a list of self-improvements. Then I let it marinate in overconfidence for a while.
After two years of procrastination, I decided it was time to knock out a couple of easy wins. I started to memorize the first 20 Roman emperors (number 42) and pulled out my running shoes. With a few months of training, I figured, I’d bag three victories: a marathon under four hours, Roman bragging rights, and a smug sense of accomplishment. I signed up for the Amsterdam marathon and found a trustworthy-looking training program online.
For a while, it worked. I clocked 1,100 kilometres of runs. Then, one Friday, one of my legs hurt so badly I couldn’t finish a session. Two days later, I ran a race in record time—and could barely walk afterward. It was September. The marathon was a month away. A physio told me I could probably still do it if I rested. I took a six day rest. Then, I ran a half marathon (also record time) and could not walk afterward.
The physio wasn’t amused. They found a muscle tear and gave me the bad news: Amsterdam was off.
Shit.
After a month of rest and some yoga (number 47, “Start a yoga routine”), I tried running again. A massage therapist—our household’s go-to for injuries—pointed out my legs are different lengths. Five millimetres, but still enough to warrant a special sole for my shoes. Meanwhile, the physio threatened dry needling if I again didn’t stick to their plan to get me back on my feet. My overconfidence had by now killed my marathon-dreams and cost me hundreds of euros in specialists’ fees, but I convinced myself I had just been unlucky.
Then came the running analysis.
My physio was curious to see how I ran. The app he hooked me up to didn’t mince words: everything about how I ran was a disaster. My posture? Bad. My rhythm? Terrible. My movements? Messy. Every score was in the red zone. I didn’t even do this badly in my first driving exam. The physio, now my running coach, spelled it out for me: the injury wasn’t bad luck. It was the inevitable result of me being a fundamentally terrible runner.
Since then, I’ve been relearning how to run. I bought a book on running technique. My YouTube algorithm has pivoted from magic tricks and Ed Sheeran guitar tutorials to a relentless feed of running advice. On Strava, I meticulously study my cadence and heart-rate zones. Conditionally, I’m back to where I was a year ago. Minus the bravado. I also still mess up the order of the emperors.
What I’m amazed by is how mouldable the body still is after four decades. This is probably the greatest gift the “50-things” plan has given me so far. E.g. I’ve built from scratch the muscle memory to find every fret on my guitar and make some bar chords sound acceptable. I can now control multiple cards while shuffling a deck. I guess I can learn how to run again.
The 2024 running debacle has turned into more than ticking off number 43; it has become a study in retraining the body and the mind. I used to believe that self-improvement meant adding more. More runs, more speed, more grit. But learning is as much about unlearning, forgetting and breaking habits that have developed over a lifetime. Instead of ‘fun’ or ‘aspirational,’ the “50-things” plan may evolve into a reckoning with how much I’ve been getting wrong, and whether I can fix it. Learning to run again is only the start.
Have a great Christmas and Hannukah and overall wonderful days,
— Jasper
