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Here is a scene that happens in movies: An actor goes for a run, and they run like they’re fleeing, breathless, the pound of feet on pavement an existential rattle. They’re not wearing headphones; nevertheless, you hear a song, an echo of their emotions. The actor is sweating, fists pumping up and down in stride, their hair tendrils stick to their temples like syrup. As the music crescendos so does their speed. They’re running faster and faster, full tilt until they bend over, buckling at the knees. Usually there s something scenic behind them, like a river or the yolk of a sunset.
Sometimes, when I run, I pretend that this actor in a movie is me. I’m Rocky, trailed by cheering children. I’m Clarice, crunching orange leaves at Quantico. The music piped through my earbuds reminds me I m flying, a cinematic sprint. In the back of my mind, I know I bear little resemblance to this mosaic of movie scene runners. That’s okay. Even adults need to play pretend.
I’m not like the actors in the movies because when I run, I do so at an unhurried pace. I’m molasses. I let the minutes roll into miles without glancing at my watch, my thoughts filaments in a whirlpool, circling into the emptiness until I forget I exist. If my legs or my lungs require it, I’ll slow to a walk, my sternum rising and falling like the tide until I catch my breath, allowing myself to take in the world around me. A vibrant half moon glowing like God. The smell of soil and sun and rebirth.
“I run in order to acquire a void,” writes Haruki Murakami in his memoir, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. “As I run I tell myself to think of a river…. But essentially I’m not thinking of a thing. All I do is keep on running in my own cozy, homemade void, my own nostalgic silence.” Like Murakami, I prefer to exist in this void, the somewhere between thinking and not-thinking. Though when I force myself to run too fast, it’s hard to find my way there.
In our culture, adopting a slower pace is considered easier than speed. That was never the case for me. When I was a college athlete, a soccer player, I’d run so rough on the treadmill my knees cracked like kernels. I’d follow the lead of climaxing choruses, pace and heart rate rising in tandem with the music. I’d press buttons shaped like shooting arrows, incline up, pace up, puffing my chest, in fight or flight, running for my life, one more minute, one more step, an acrobat on a moving plane of hard plastic.
If I stopped, I was a failure. That’s what I thought, testing myself in the basement gym of my childhood. I was pushing myself for the sake of soccer and, of course, to be skinny, that old foe. It was as though I was training for the end of the world, running from lava or locusts or frogs. My team did fitness tests where we sprinted so much we’d wet ourselves or vomit. While the intensity made for success in matches, in the long game of life, it injured my relationship with my body. I associated exercise with the promise of pain.
College ended, time passed, and my outlook didn’t adjust. But when the pandemic shut us in, jogging beckoned me, a solitary activity I could enjoy in the open air. I need not explain the necessity of contemplation and movement during this time. At first, I tried to run the way I did when I played soccer. My boyfriend, cautious, suggested that I needed to relax. A college runner himself, he encouraged me to run easy, at whatever speed my body felt like going. Because I love him, I listened. A slower pace felt like a treat, sneaky and sweet. I grew to love it.
Pandemic restrictions loosened. My mileage increased. Races opened and I attended, running half marathons until I felt, perhaps, I could double the distance. My first full marathon was in Philadelphia. I crossed the finish, and the medal placed around my neck was a little Liberty Bell. A chorus of gentle rings tinkled in the air like wind chimes as runners behind me stepped across the line. It felt like magic.
The following year I was granted entry into the New York City Marathon. As I trained, people asked me over and over about my goal, about how much I wanted to shave off my Philadelphia time. My body, in their minds, was a razor blade. I found the focus on fast grating. Finding the void, giving myself up to the process of running, already felt like a feat. My goal was to finish and to enjoy the route.
In today’s racing culture, it’s radical to believe that a runner is worthy regardless of their time. Slower paces are often underserved and undervalued in the running community—especially when those mile-times creep into the 18 to 20-minute range. Through veteran ultrarunners like Latoya Shauntay Snell, I’ve learned that back-of-the-pack participants are often forgotten on race day, organizations closing hydration and fuel stands, bathrooms, mile markers, medal distribution, and more, all before the final runners finish.
Race organizers’ exclusionary treatment of slow runners has inspired the creation of new communities and resources meant to dismantle long-held bias. Most notably, Martinus Evans, a leader in the space, authored an all-inclusive manual for running, Slow AF Run Club, which is also the name of his popular running group. Coach Kelly Roberts trains the Bad Ass Lady Gang, a team founded on anti-diet culture and fostering inclusivity in the sport. Across social media, runners around the world are embracing a slower-paced practice, honoring themselves when the establishment refuses to acknowledge their existence.
I finished New York. I did so over an hour slower than Philadelphia, the unseasonable heat urging me to walk the city’s bridges and sip water and stretch as much as I wanted. During these pauses, I would lock eyes with smiling spectators, and found myself moved by our city’s capacity for fraternity. When I opened The New York Times the next morning to the page listing the marathon finishers, I ran a finger down thousands of names, looking for my own. I didn t find it. I was too slow to be included in the round-up. That hurt, but with my growing awareness of the slow running community, I knew I wasn’t alone.
“The point is whether or not I improved over yesterday. In long-distance running the only opponent you have to beat is yourself, the way you used to be,” writes Murakami. I know that in the context of his memoir, Murakami means beating times, becoming quicker. However, because art is subject to interpretation, I prefer to perceive his words differently.
I’ve beat the way I used to be: In relinquishing the need to be fast, I am free.