Born To Run

From mad dashes to outpacing an eating disorder, running has always been a part of Ruby Tandoh’s life. But she still doesn’t consider herself a true runner. So why does she always decide  to jog on?

- Ruby Tandoh

I am not a runner. That’s not to say I don’t run: I’ve jogged back from nights out, cutting a weaving path down empty streets, phone in one hand, pilfered beer coaster in the other. On the last day of Year 6, I ran home through pouring rain, half crying, half gasping for breath. I’ve done a run-skip shuffle to the supermarket in pyjamas and a coat for a carton of milk. I’ve run cross-country races and pounded pavements. I even planned to run the London Marathon.

But still, I’m not a runner. A runner is a strange thing – a neon-lycra-clad, grilled-chicken-and a-salad type of person. They’re light-footed and competent; I recently discovered I’ve been incorrectly bending my knees my whole life. What kind of person can’t even bend their own knees? Running has been part of my life since I was 11 or 12. The reason I started was to be good at something. I was ungainly and lanky and I didn’t have many friends, so the more activities I could be good at, the less I had to worry about feeling good. I’d go running after school, slink into the gym at lunchtime and even do laps of the field. I was the only person sick with excitement, not dread, on cross-country days. I’d always finish with a ferrous tang of blood in my mouth and my lungs burning, but I’d still want more.

I wanted to win. I never did, of course, but I couldn’t stop myself from pulling on my trainers and setting off around the track. I loved the feeling of it, no matter how average I was. I’ll never forget turning up to a cross-country event after a summer of training and being effortlessly lapped by a girl called Naomi, who had not trained once. I hated her, but I was still proud of how far my body could take me, and how fast.