My life as a (running) groupie

Finding the right running group is kind of like dating: there are the ones that aren’t good enough for you, the ones that act like they’re too good for you, the ones that have questionable personal hygiene, and the ones that never call you back. The other problem is that I go into every interaction with impossibly high expectations—thanks a lot, Ryan Gosling—thus setting myself up for constant disappointment. So it’s really easy to get discouraged and convince myself that I’m better off going it alone.

My first foray into the world of group runs occurred a couple of months ago. I saw the announcement on Twitter, and after waffling about it for the better part of an afternoon, I finally resolved to suck it up and go. Yes, it could be awkward. Yes, it could totally suck. But I would never know if I didn’t try, right*? Plus, they were giving away free socks to all attendees on that particular evening, and my inner George Costanza simply could not pass up such an enticing freebie.

I knew within five minutes of showing up that things weren’t going to work out, as the high volume of running skirts made it immediately clear that this was a group for joggers, not runners. I don’t mean to sound like an insufferable asshole, but there is a difference. Out of politeness, I slogged through four painfully slow miles, which I considered a more-than-fair price for the complimentary socks. To go back to the dating analogy, this experience was the equivalent of enduring 90 minutes of agonizingly boring conversation with a horribly incompatible date for the sole purpose of acquiring free food and cocktails. So yeah, it was pretty much a disaster.

Then there was the super-duper serious group. I met them at the finish line of a local road race. Actually, I didn’t so much “meet” them as I was “aggressively approached” by them. I had barely caught my breath when they cornered me by the post-race refreshment table and launched into a terrifyingly enthusiastic pitch for their group. Although I had a sneaking suspicion that they were all addicted to crack-spiked espresso, they seemed cool—and definitely much more legit than the jogging operation—so when I got home, I looked them up online and sent them a message expressing my interest. Not only did it take them almost a week to respond to my inquiry, but when they finally did, it was basically a “sit tight, we’ll get back to you” kind of message. So, I sat tight. And they never got back to me. They were basically the Guy With an Inflated Sense of Self-Importance Who Feigns Interest but Then Blows You Off Because Hey, a Dude Bro’s Gotta Keep His Options Open.

But, as the old saying goes, sometimes you have to kiss a lot of Jon Gosselins before you find your Hank Baskett. So I pressed on, clinging tight to the hope of one day finding the group with which I was truly meant to run. Then one day, by complete happenstance, I spotted a crowd of runners circling the track near my apartment. At first glance, I thought maybe it was the high school track team. But as I got closer, I realized that a few of the runners had gray hair and mustaches. So either they had been held back for the last 45 years or this was, in fact, an adult running group.

I didn’t have the guts to crash their workout right then and there—plus, I didn’t want to seem too forward. Instead, I checked my watch and made a mental note of the time. When I got home, I made a beeline for my laptop and proceeded to Internet-stalk the crap out of them. My detective work turned up a number of promising leads. Apparently, they were a local group open to anyone, and they met every Tuesday evening at the local high school track. I resolved to attend their next workout—no excuses.

Of course, by the time Tuesday came around, I had a million excuses in my back pocket. I wasn’t in track shape. I didn’t want to push myself to the point of injury. The cookie I had at lunch would give me a side ache. I really needed to start my taxes. I was still too emotionally compromised from the season finale of Orange is the New Black. Obviously, I’d been jaded by my previous experiences. It was akin to having a couple of bad dates in a row and entering all subsequent dating experiences with the expectation of getting a detailed lecture on the evils of gluten and a guided tour of a Facebook album dedicated exclusively to gym selfies.

 Finally, I settled on a compromise: I would start running toward the track, and if I didn’t like the vibe I got, I’d bail. Simple as that. When I got there, I immediately spotted a woman in normal** running attire stretching by the fence. I drew in a deep breath and approached her. “Excuse me,” I said. “Do you know if there’s a running group that meets here?”

“Yep,” she responded with a smile. “The workout starts at six, so everyone just kind of warms up until then.”

“Great!” I responded.

Now, I knew the worst possible thing I could do was jump in and hijack the whole production. If I wanted to make friends, I had to play it cool and keep my track skills on the DL. So, I nodded my head and bit my tongue as one of the other runners explained the workout, gave me some pointers on pacing, and made sure I knew that a “400” was track-speak for one lap. On tap for that night: 3x400, 4x800, 3x400.

Admittedly, I’m a bit rusty when it comes to speed work, so I was more than willing to start out conservatively. As we took off on our first 400, I slipped in mid-pack. This also allowed me to assess the caliber of the other runners. When I realized that I was actually in the company of some pretty legit athletes, I felt comfortable enough to move up and run with the leaders.

I felt like we were flying. For real, you guys—I thought we were freaking sprinting. Our first lap was about a 75, which is fast by most standards. But considering that I used to be able to run four laps at that pace, it’s actually not that impressive. In fact, I found the disparity between my perceived effort and my actual speed to be quite hilarious—so hilarious that I couldn’t help but chuckle out loud. This made me look insane, and I stopped immediately.

Apparently, though, my five-second fit of laughter was enough to invite conversation from one of the other runners—a very fit-looking woman who appeared to be around the same age as me. “Hey, you’re really fast,” she said. “Did you run in college?”

Oh, God. I’d given myself away.

“Yes,” I replied quietly, hoping no one else had heard.

“Oh, cool. So did I,” she said. “What events did you do?”

This initiated a friendly exchange of collegiate running bios and wistful memories of bygone track days. My new friend and I ran together for the remainder of the workout, and at the end of the evening, she asked if I was going to come back again the following week.

“Yes, I think I will,” I said, trying not to sound too excited.

“Good,” she replied with a smile. “See you then!”

With my “second date” secured, I couldn’t help but grin all the way through my cool-down jog. Now, if only I had something to wear!


*#YOLO!
**No running skirt

Reckless racing

A couple of weeks ago, I received some very concerning news.

Don’t worry, it’s not cancer or anything. Although if I’m being perfectly honest about my health, I will divulge that a recent routine health screening revealed that I, Brooke High-Strung Andrus, suffer from high blood pressure. Shocker.

No, this particular bombshell came not from a medical professional, but from the infinite Internet time-suck known as BuzzFeed. The undisputed king of trivial lists, laugh-out-loud GIFs, and snarky commentary recently ventured into new territory: interactive quizzes.

Now look, I am fully aware that these quizzes are the epitome of meaningless frivolity—a digital metaphor for everything that is wrong with America. But like KFC, Lunesta, and Here Comes Honey Boo Boo, these silly little questionnaires are habit-forming. Eventually, you simply won’t be able to go on with your day until you know BuzzFeed’s opinion on which Girl Scout cookie you are or why you’re single. They’re basically the Generation Y equivalent of newspaper horoscopes, and most of the time, the results are pretty harmless. You might think, “You know what? I am a Tagalong. Thank you for enlightening me to this very important analysis of my personality, BuzzFeed!”

But every once in a while, you’ll get a result so horrifically appalling that it will stop you dead in your tracks and force you to completely reevaluate your life. Such was the case when I took the quiz titled “Are You Ready to Have Kids?” Here’s was BuzzFeed’s advice to me:

 Image courtesy of buzzfeed.com

Yeah. Scary. Obviously, I had to take BuzzFeed’s two cents on this particular matter with a grain of salt. I mean, let’s be real for a second: I live in an apartment with a hot water heater the size of a beer keg and shoddy electrical wiring that prevents me from running the dryer and the microwave at the same time. I put off removing moldy, rotting leftovers from my refrigerator in hopes that a tiny fridge fairy might come along and take care of it while I sleep. Perhaps worst of all, I believe it is 100-percent acceptable to wear socks that look like this, because come on, the rest of the sock is still totally fine:

 As you can plainly see, approximately 99 percent of the sock remains intact.

Also, I have to question the accuracy of any quiz that doesn’t offer “Every Taylor Swift Song” as possible answer to the question “What’s your relationship status?” Still, even with such glaring fallacies, I knew the quiz couldn’t be completely devoid of meaning. I just had to read between the lines a little bit.

Clearly, the BuzzFeed powers that be didn’t just take my quiz answers at face value; they used them as a series of tiny windows from which they caught a series of tiny glimpses into my very soul. And from the sum of those glimpses, they drew the only logical conclusion they could: “Here’s a woman whose idea of a great Friday night is a bottle of Yellow Tail and a shitty David Duchovny movie on Netflix. Seriously, could she be any more uncool? Jeez, lady, go lease a Dodge Grand Caravan already!”

After noodling on it a bit, I concluded that the quiz geniuses at BuzzFeed weren’t actually telling me to have a baby; they were merely telling me to stop acting like I’m about to have a baby. To stop being so predictable and responsible. To go out on some limbs and take some risks more daring than buying clearance meat or parking in a spot marked “For Jimmy John’s Customers Only” before walking straight through the doors of Chipotle. (To be fair, I really did feel like I was living on the edge of the law. It said violators would be towed at the owner’s expense!)

So, as an answer to BuzzFeed’s desperate plea for me to stop wasting my youth, I pulled the most insanely reckless move that a straight-laced distance runner could possibly pull: I signed up for a 5K race mere hours before start time. Okay, okay, look: I’m never going to be Justin-Bieber-drag-racing-crazy, or even Tom-Cruise-couch-jumping-on-Oprah-crazy. But check this out: I didn’t taper at all, I drank multiple beers the night before the race, and I ate a pre-race dinner most competitive runners would consider pure suicide: spicy Italian sausage pizza.

If I still haven’t convinced you of how coco-bananas my spontaneous race sign-up truly was, take a look at this flowchart depicting my normal decision process for race entry:

But I didn’t limit my new, more carefree lease on life to the registration process. Oh no. When I arrived at the race to find that there were approximately 12 available toilets for a crowd of nearly 2,000 runners, I made the quick—and spontaneous—decision to forego my warm-up in favor of evacuating my bladder. When I caught myself waffling over whether to wear my long-sleeve top in the race—chilly morning, no warm-up jog—I promptly shut down the internal debate that was raising my blood pressure more and more by the second and spontaneously ditched my pull-over. And when, about a half mile into the race, I noticed that my forearms were going numb from the cold, I shrugged it off and thought, “Meh. Give ’em another mile.”

With about 1,000 meters to go, I zeroed in on a woman in the distance—the female leader, as far as I could tell. Instead of hemming and hawing over whether my legs had enough gas left in the tank to catch her—as my former, baby-ready self might have done—I picked up the pace without allowing a single “Should I?” to cross my neural pathways. And when I surged past her with the finish line in sight, instead of stressing over whether she would come back to edge me out in the end, I thought, “Let’s wrap this thing up so I can get my free pancakes.” (Yes, there were free pancakes—I didn’t throw the decision chart completely out the window.)

And as I consumed said pancakes while enjoying a bit of entertainment at the expense of the poor soul who was conned into wearing a plush pancake costume—again, the decision chart still applies here—I felt content with both my performance and my newfound personal philosophy of spontaneity.

Even during the awards ceremony, when I found out that I not only did not win but was, in fact, beaten by nearly a minute, I just shrugged my shoulders, nodded my head, and clapped my hands for the badass runner lady who was so fast that I didn’t even see her during the race. (Hey, at least I didn’t take yet another page from my girl T-Swift’s book.)

To be honest, I was kind of impressed with my own maturity. No wonder BuzzFeed thought I would make an excellent parent. Clearly, any children of mine would be perfect pictures of poise and sportsmanship—even if they had a few holes in their socks.

Foot-gloves: the new sock-shoes

I grew up in a pretty athletic family, which meant we spent a substantial portion of our weekend shopping excursions perusing the aisles of stores like Gart, Foot Locker, Academy Sports, and Dick’s.

My brother, unlike me, was blessed with the gift of hand-eye coordination. His sports gear needs, therefore, were diverse and constantly changing. In the fall, he needed football pads, cleats, practice jerseys and mouth guards. In the winter, it was basketball shorts and high tops. Spring was the season for baseball bats, mitts, and another pair of cleats—because hello, you can’t play baseball in football cleats. Just ask the shoe salesman at Sports Authority.

I was never very good at sports that required hitting, shooting, throwing or catching, which eliminated pretty much everything except cross country. So for the most part, the only equipment I requested was a simple pair of running shoes.

Fast forward ten years—I know, it’s a big jump, but stay with me. This is the crucial part of the story. A few months ago, I started noticing a disturbing trend. People were wearing—and running in—shoes shaped like feet.

I know what you’re thinking—duh, Brooke, of course shoes are shaped like feet. That’s the point.

But these kooky kicks took the idea of a snugly fit shoe to a whole new level. Imagine dipping your foot in liquid rubber, letting it harden, and then using the resulting product as footwear. Welcome to the “minimalist movement.”

Before I knew it, I was seeing these glorified water shoes (actual name: Vibram FiveFingers) everywhere—on running trails, at road races, on the track, and at the gym. There is no way you could fit a sock inside those suckers. Every time I saw someone exercising in them, I couldn’t shake the image of the hot, sweaty, stinky mess that was surely brewing underneath that thin layer of rubber.

I never once considered jumping on the minimalist bandwagon—that would only guarantee me yet another notch on the old injury belt. Besides, I’m already sweaty enough. My minimalist footwear would have to be light and breathable—like a sock, but with a protective sole.

That’s when it hit me: I was a running shoe minimalist way before people started squeezing their tootsies into rubber foot-gloves.

Okay, now let’s rewind a bit—back to the world of my brace-faced, fuzzy-headed 14 year-old self. I had just started practicing with “the high schoolers,” which was a pretty big deal for a lowly eighth-grader.

To help me prepare for track season, my parents took me shopping for new running apparel. I picked out ten pairs of Soffe shorts in assorted colors (all the rage circa 2002) and of course, new running shoes: a bright red pair of Nike Prestos.

For those of you who don’t remember Nike Prestos because you were either too young or too smart to run in them, let me bring you up to speed: this first-generation minimalist shoe was, for all intents and purposes, just a thick sock attached to an utterly worthless foam base.

But forget about function—when you’re a nerdy middle schooler trying to make an impression on the cool high school runners, it’s all about fashion (as you can tell by looking at this photo from my early competitive running career):

Prestos became my signature. Everywhere I went, people asked me about them. At track meets, I was known as “the girl with the sock-shoes.” It never occurred to me that this nickname might have been intended as a diss, which was probably the case.

I began to think of myself as a pioneer of cutting-edge running technology. I was convinced that a more conventional shoe model would be too heavy and bulky. My Prestos made my feet feel light and fast. When I started winning races, I became even more certain that my featherweight footwear was giving me a competitive edge.

And then I got hurt.

It was my first of many foot injuries, and my doctor was appalled to learn that I had been logging 100% of my training miles in a pair of fancy slippers disguised as running shoes.

“But they’re so light,” I argued, desperately trying to change his mind.

“I know. And do you know why they are so light?” he asked in a slightly condescending tone. He paused for effect. “Because THERE IS NOTHING THERE TO SUPPORT YOUR FEET! YOU MIGHT AS WELL WEAR SHOES MADE OUT OF RECYCLED PACKING PEANUTS!”

And just like that, my blossoming minimalist tendencies were nipped in the bud. When my injury had healed and it was time to purchase a new pair of running shoes, I opted for the Asics Gel Cumulus model.

By normal running shoe standards, they were relatively light. Still, compared to my old Prestos, they felt like cinderblocks with shoelaces. Gradually, though, I got used to them. Soon I refused to run in anything else.

If it hadn’t been for the exploding popularity of the minimalist FiveFingers, I might have lived my entire life without the slightest remembrance of my fleeting love affair with Nike Prestos.

As an older, wiser—some might even say sagely—runner, I cannot think of a single argument for running in a shoe that is basically a modified scuba fin. People will say things like, “Oh my gosh, they are sooooooo comfortable.”

Well, mukluks are comfortable too, but would you want to wear them on a hilly five-miler? That’s a rhetorical question.

Today’s mainstream running shoes are the product of decades of scientific research. They have been carefully designed to accommodate the subtleties of human biomechanics. And best of all, they are super soft and cushy.

If running is your preferred mode of exercise, running shoes are really the only piece of specialty equipment you need. In fact, I would argue that running itself could be considered a “minimalist movement”—with or without stinky foot-gloves.