No joggers here, folks

Article from a Canadian paper, the Whistler Question. Just some light fun & humorous reading on this
Monday ar rr.

whistlerquestion.commadisonOpen ↗\WQuestion.nsf/WQeditorial/33DFCDAE
E71B19E488256DB30072D80B?OpenDocument

No joggers here, folks Letter to the editor Dear Editor,

I read with interest your article in last week’s Question, “Please, folks, don’t call me a
jogger” (Off the Record, Sept. 25). I, too, am a runner, not a jogger, but my definition of that
distinction is very different.

We don’t have much in common with respect to our running experiences, other than what appears to
be the ability to conjure up bizarre death scenarios while running. My favourite scenario lately
seems to be “What if I’m running down this path, that horse trailer hits me, the driver
doesn’t notice, I roll into that ditch, and I get eaten by a cougar; will anyone even know where
to start searching for my body?”

So, how do I know that I’m a runner, not a jogger? Well, some history is needed. I was the chubby
kid in school, the one with absolutely no natural physical ability, and unfortunately no mentor to
encourage me. I was the kid with her head in a book, sitting on the sidelines, terrified of Phys Ed
class and team sports, so uncoordinated that the coach for our hi gh school softball team let me be
the scorekeeper for three years! Only just last week, my roommate finally got me to catch the remote
control (thanks Normand!). So the idea of making an adult decision to run of my own free will,
simply for fun and exercise, seemed absolutely ludicrous. But somehow, about four years ago, just
prior to my 30th birthday, my dear friend Lanita encouraged me to do one of those Running Room
“learn to run” classes. She must have caught me at a weak moment, because somehow I did the
course and it stuck.

At first I was one of those runners that had every excuse in the book not to go: too hot, too cold,
too wet, too many hills, too tired, too hungry, too full, too early, too late, my running shorts are
in the wash, “Friends” is on, I suck at running! I could literally go on for days with all my
excuses. But one day, as I plodded, stumbled and puffed along, something clicked. I got that
“runner’s high.” As I passed other runners on the trails, I started seeing the gleam in t heir
eyes — the recognition and that welcome nod, that says “Hope your run is great today.”

Now my body pushes me to go, I crave that aching feeling during the first 10 minutes when I feel I
don’t have the energy to continue. I can run in the morning, the afternoon or the evening. I pack
my running shoes whenever I travel, and mostly they get used on some new, adventurous path. Through
running, I learned the skill of visualization and can draw on the image of running up a hill, when I
have a tough task in front of me. I have the trust in myself that if I stop running for a while,
that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped forever. Sometimes I run with my Discman, other days just with
the thoughts in my head, the plodding sound of my feet and the beauty of the nature that surrounds
me. Running is the time when I feel closest to God, when my troubled thoughts become clear, when
most times my mood will change from sad to happy or at least to more relaxed.

So although I haven’t run any races or marathons (though one day I hope to), and I certainly
can’t run a six-minute mile, I know I’m a runner, not a jogger. The recognition I get comes from
the knowledge that only I know whether I ran that day or not, and really, it only truly matters to
me. And just when I need proof that I am indeed a runner, about a year and a half ago, two men with
definite runners’ physiques approached me in the Village and gave me one of the best compliments
of my life (so far!) — “You look like a runner. Can you tell us where there’s a good trail?”

Louise Steel, Runner

Pemberton/Whistler