Running a 5k

The most expensive way to get free bananas

I ran my first 5k last weekend. The humble 5k, too slight for many, too aggressively type 2 fun for others. I hovered somewhere in the middle for a long time. Signing up for one both seemed like not that much running and too much work to be bothered with.

The vague “for a good cause” couching most 5ks always rubbed me the wrong way, too. In the name of a cause so inoffensive as to be questionably impactful, hosted by corporations to get charitable tax deductions. A handful of from-the-hip skepticisms that came in handy as a more pedantic way of saying that, in my opinion, 5ks do not sound fun. The crowds, the port-a-potties, the ritualistic bequeathment of a t-shirt destined for the rag pile. Wading through all that and a $40 registration fee to do something as unremarkable as running 3.1 miles – who needs it?

The first time I started thinking about taking up running, I bypassed the idea of running a 5k immediately. Not enough of a challenge. Too corporate. That running attempt petered out quickly, the grandiose ambitions of running a longer race with it.

Having a goal at all in terms of running was, for a long time, anathema to me running at all. Goals of mile times, set distances to run. If I set expectations, I would set them too high, and then what was the point? In my adult life, I’ve tried to introduce exercise into my routine as anything but a chore or guilt trip. In the thick of 2020, my daily exercise routine was a series of stretches off an app meant to help its users achieve a split. I did the exercises daily for well over a year. I never fully got the split, but I got a habit out of it. A good routine couched in something silly. Peanut butter to mask the taste of the pill.

Taking exercise too seriously feels embarrassing. It’s a strange mix. Vanity and necessity swirl together. Taking anything too seriously is embarrassing; it’s also a way to extract a sense of meaning from life’s terrible swirl.

So I found myself in Michigan, signed up to do a local 5k with Mads and their mother. The starting line was clogged with people, runners and onlookers and college cheerleaders (?) lining the path. A generic electronic beat blared out of speakers, the kind that might soundtrack a motivational workout video with 20 million views on YouTube. A baby on the shoulders of the announcer babbled into a microphone.

And then we were going. I like to run by myself, typically, so we all separated into our natural paces. For me, this meant being passed by hundreds of people in a matter of minutes while trying to tamp down the natural instinct to keep up and not get left behind.

I was passed by children, parents pushing strollers, and people who, judging by their jackets, had run the Boston Marathon just six days prior. The indignities continued. About a half mile in, an rustling sound behind me served as a prelude to the greatest humiliation yet: being passed by someone in an enormous blow-up dinosaur costume, on track to run miles at least a minute faster than my own.

By the first mile marker, though, the crowd thinned out. I started passing some people who’d started too fast and were now walking, winded. The novelty of not having to stop for traffic lights or weave around pedestrians began to sink in. A speaker was blasting 2000s pop and the college students behind me were hyping each other up.

At the finish line, a giant clock showed the time elapsed. I hadn’t been checking my mile times on my phone, despite the itch to do so, and was pleasantly surprised at my speed. Mads had mentioned that often people PR at races, hopped up on the excitement of the event, but part of me heard that and went ok, sure, but not me.

Most sporting events along this vein in my life thus far had felt like near-religious trials of the spirit. A ritual humbling meant to accentuate the shortcomings of the flesh and the sin of pride. Tears, failure, the company of people easily navigating something impossibly hard. I signed up for this 5k knowing I wouldn’t like it but wanting to be a good sport. And then I liked it.

I PRed and a child handed me an enormous participation medal and I ate a granola bar. I placed 1,848th in the race with an 11 minute pace. Both objectively slow and the fastest I’ve ever been.

I signed up to do another one through my job in June. Another 5k with a vague charitable cause at a location that is sure to be crowded and hot. I’m not sure if I’ll make a habit out of it; not sure what role the humble 5k will have in my running journey; but I’ll see what happens next time.