Trying New Things, Part II: Solo Running as a Social Act
By Karen Sternheimer
During the stay-at-home days of the pandemic, like many others, I got into running. I had run decades in the past but had mostly set it aside when my knees always seemed to be sore. But in 2020, when COVID closed my local gym and pool, a nearby hill served as my primary cardio workout. I’d run up and down this hill for an hour or more at a time, and I had built a surprising amount of endurance, much more than I ever had when I was younger. And my knees didn’t hurt.
I love this hill: it is challenging, scenic, and quiet. While harder on the body than the cardio machines in the gym, there is no waiting for a machine to free up, and no pressure to finish a workout because someone else is waiting. No social comparison when someone next to you goes much faster and harder.
For nearly a year, I have been getting up at daybreak once a week to run up and down a portion of my street, which is not as steep as the COVID hill, but it is less isolated. In my neighborhood it’s not so much humans that one needs to worry about, but there are coyotes, the occasional fox, bobcat, and even more rarely, a mountain lion sighting. This largely kept me from considering trail running, which would combine my decades-long love of hiking (which I do once a week, and more often on hiking-centric vacations) with my return to running.
But in the last few months, my husband has taken up mountain biking, and although we run and bike at different paces, I have felt comfortable enough to get into trail running while he rides. I even found a newly opened park where I can do some easy trail runs during the week and bought new gear to support my new habit.
We coordinate our bike/runs so we will pass or catch up to one another a few times. The first time we passed each other, I was curious: did I look like a runner? “Um, yeah...?” he said, kind of confused. “If you’re running, you’re a runner.”
On several occasions I have passed groups of hikers—my usual social role on a trail—and am still a little surprised to hear one call out to the others, “runner!” which is the signal to move over and let me by. Okay, I tell myself, I am “passing” as a runner.
This is an example of how identity is social. Do others identify us in a way that we see ourselves? If not, why not? The concept of “master status” is helpful here, the notion that one social role can dominate how we see ourselves and how others see us.
For example, Representative Jasmine Crockett recently spoke about how assumptions about “DEI (diversity, equity, and inclusion) hires” often negate people’s qualifications, including her own. As she said during a Congressional hearing:
There are those that would make some people believe because I happen to be Black and a woman that even though I can rattle off all the qualifications in the world, my blackness makes me unqualified.
This is an example of master status—that a sitting member of Congress who is also an attorney with decades of experience, among other qualifications, is viewed by some as a Black woman first. "It did not seem as if my colleague understood that someone can be diverse and qualified."
Perhaps my feelings of runner imposter syndrome—albeit far, far, less consequential than the experience of master status Representative Crockett spoke about—stems from some family members viewing me as a middle-aged college professor who was once a bookish honors student--the opposite of what we might think of as an athlete. More than one has intimated that I might get hurt running, so I should give it up.
I recently signed up for my first trail running race. I never thought I would do anything like this because I like to run alone. My primary motivation came years ago after hiking on a trail that was part of an ultra trail running race. I saw people of various shapes and sizes running, and thought it was the perfect way to run alone without actually being alone. I also thought I was in as good of shape as some of the runners (there’s the social comparison again), and if they could do it, I could do it.
But I don’t like crowds, and the entrance fees were a deterrent; if I can’t “win” and I enjoy running on my own, why enter a race? Why pay to run?
My reasons are personal and social. Personally, I’m looking forward to running on a trail that I would otherwise avoid because it can be isolated. As a hiker, this route is a bit too much of a slog (hiker speak for something that can be long and boring), and running the route seems more interesting, especially the flat parts that offer great views.
Socially, I acknowledge that entering a formal event is a form of credentialing, a process where an organization bestows legitimacy on an individual who has completed the necessary requirements. Race participants register, get bibs with numbers, and memorabilia like t-shirts and medals as physical proof of their participation. I have come to learn that even solo running can be very social. Runners use apps like Strava to “follow” other runners, especially high-profile runners, as well as find out information about trail conditions and routes.
I’ve watched many beautiful videos by filmmakers who are also trail runners (most notably Jeff Pelletier’s channel) to get a sense of the camaraderie and laid-back experience of trail races. I’m curious to see first-hand what sociological lessons are part of the trail race experience. Stay tuned to find out….
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