Running is not the hardest thing

On motivation and choice

In 2015, Rob and I met in a council swimming pool, where the alarm for unidentified floating objects plays out far more often than it should. It was a swim club of sorts. I was training for my first triathlon and Rob for an Ironman. I watched with curiosity as this man, who turned up week after week, seemed only to cling like cliffhanger to the lip of the pool. For two months, all he said was, "You go" as I swam length after length. The elephant, or perhaps the camel in the pool, remained, but we were all thinking it. Who enters an Ironman if they can't swim?

And that was the thing. The truth was the bit none of us saw. Rob had epilepsy, and epilepsy and swimming are a bad combo.

Rob learning to swim is one of the many hidden stories that won't ever make it into the wider adventure or sporting world. However, this seemingly ordinary yet life-changing decision proved to him and others what was possible. In the absence of knowledge or reports of other’s experiences, Rob knew that the reduction in stress resulting from exercise lowered his risk of seizures. Yet still, the only writing he could find about water-based sports and epilepsy came in the form of a chlorine-eroded poolside sign that read. 'Those who suffer from seizures should notify reception before entering the pool.'

In recent years, a plethora of books have hit the shelves, telling us that mental fortitude can be confirmed through adventure or sporting success. Inspiration is sold in records of extreme distances and fastest times. Adventure and running are big business, and that is rarely inclusive. Commerciality, explicit or otherwise, sweeps away nuance and sucks the soul from stories. It wipes away the tales of grace, joy and courage. It blacks out belonging from those who need it most, those who feel they don’t fit.

During chemo, I searched online articles for snippets about those who chose running or cycling, something other than succumbing to the sofa and daytime TV. I was looking for ways to back up my fundamental refusal to give in to the physical effects of treatment. I read running books, memoirs, magazines and blogs, not one mentioned the thing that I felt in my bones – the need to run to hold on to a sense of myself.

Like so many others, my story of running is not one of greatness. It is not even one of achievement. It is hidden in the mundanity of one foot in front of another. My running story is not even about running. At its heart, it is an exploration of self and landscape. There is no shiny, publishable story of hardship that has become the standard narrative and yet it has value, not just to me, but to others searching for a different way.

Two weeks ago, we arrived in Chamonix on the last day of the UTMB, a 100-mile running race that circumnavigates Mont Blanc. We drank coffee and watched runners stumbling over the carpeted finish. The elite runners were long gone, yet the cobbled streets thronged with the vibration of 1,000 clapping hands. Each one celebrated the ordinary and extraordinary. Each finisher had a story, and yet the ones we are told, focus on the hardship on the trail or the success of the end goal. But if we care to look, the truth is more subtle, it is the thing we haven’t chosen, it is hidden in our motivation.

When I question what lights me up or makes me run, it is learning and growth. I love to see people push beyond their perceived limits, not to win or achieve but to experience something more profound. This is endurance, but not the sporting kind.

On the trails around Chamonix, I met finishers easing off tired muscles in glacial lakes. "How was it?" I asked.

"The hardest thing I have ever done."

And that is the thing, despite what we are sold, running is not the hardest thing in life; that is reserved for the things we don't choose, for the reason we turn up. Those are the stories we need to share.