200: Not a runner

When I was finishing up my run on Monday, I passed a young couple crossing the street. The girl observed “wow…there goes another runner.” And the guy says “yea…but real runners don’t wear black socks.” I turned my head and said “Then I guess I’m not a real runner.” She looked embarrassed, and he looked like I had spoken a language he had never heard.

I have no idea what the motive was behind his comment; he could have been being sarcastic, although he looked and sounded quite serious. Maybe he was just being observant, based on his own experiences with what one could only surmise were “real runners”. Or, more likely, he was being a dick and showing off in front of his girlfriend.

None of these really matter to me, because whether he realized it or not, he was actually raising quite a valid point: “who am I?”

Am I a runner? Well, I joined the XC team in high school because I got cut from every other fall sport that involved a ball. I learned that I was not a soccer player, a lacrosse player, or a basketball player. I struggled through high-mileage weeks, ran with the middle pack in practice, and at the peak of my career I placed 25th at the League JV Championship meet. Not exactly what one would call a “running pedigree”. When the weather got nice outside in the spring and we moved to track season, I headed for the high-jump pads and never looked back. Even had a reasonably successful high school career as a jumper, enough that I was able to continue the sport at the collegiate level. But I never ran again, unless I had a baton in my hand when we were short a man on the mile relay squad. And I wear black socks. So it appears I am not a runner.

Am I a cyclist? After college I spent two years being a twenty-something. At some point, I looked in the mirror, didn’t like who/what I was becoming, and decided to get a bike. I rode probably 1000 miles on that hybrid before I realized I liked riding enough to get a road bike. Once I bought my first skinny-tire bike, I was quickly on the slippery slope from cro-moly to super-lite aluminum to carbon fiber. In four years, I went through three bikes, countless parts, and logged thousands of miles. I wore spandex, got weird tan lines, and was more comfortable drinking beverages out of a water bottle than a cup. But I didn’t line up at a local criterium or stage race, and I always rode alone instead of in a pace line. A cyclist, surely I was not.

Am I a swimmer? This one barely needs an explanation. Unless you grew up as a swimmer (owned a speedo before age 12, had green hair because you spent too many hours in chlorinated water, and practiced both before and after school each day) then you will never be a swimmer, no matter how many hours you put in at the pool or what classes you take. There are just some things best learned at a young age, like how to speak a foreign language, or how to ski…and swimming is one of them. Definitely, I am not a swimmer.

So who am I? It seems that it is easier to define who we are not, rather than who we are. Sometimes you can’t explain certain things, but you know what it feels like when you get there, and that is good enough. It has to be.

What I do know is that 200 days from today, I will be an “Ironman”. Is that an arbitrary term? Certainly…just like a 2.4 mile swim, a 112 mile bike, and 26.1 mile run are arbitrary distances. But everyone walks a different path to get to the same destination, so everyone’s definition of “who am I?” will be different. I know exactly who I am…but it’s not something I can explain to anyone else.