I Am Not a Runner (And Yet)

An English and Econ major who doesn't run (nor particularly enjoy it) walks into a running book

club. Except I'm the one who started it. I'm Julie, a senior at the University of Oregon, graduating

this spring, with an enormously complicated relationship with running that angles itself, at its

most generous, toward mild unwillingness.

Four years in Eugene will do imperceptible things to you. You'll acquire Carhartt jackets in nut

brown. Buy astronomically priced hiking boots that feel justified. Get a hold of a bright yellow

umbrella with a duck shaped handle you never actually use despite the constant rain because,

somehow, you've made peace with being slightly damp. And one completely inexplicable day

some granola-coded force reaches up through the soggy Oregon soil and insists that you run.

So I started a running book club. My fantastical inventiveness, I like to think, holds some reality

because a decently sized group of people said they'd join. Not die-hard runners, not

running-averse either. Just people who, like me, were maybe a little susceptible to a charming

idea on a cold morning.

We met where the trails around Autzen start on a morning that was still slightly dark, and

genuinely very cold. I spent the walk over catastrophizing about whether anyone would show.

Three people were already there and the rest filtered in quickly. We swapped New Year's

resolutions while we waited for the stragglers, and then we were off.

I led, which was its own particular kind of nervous spirit given my relationship with distance

running. But we ran when it felt comfortable and walked when it didn't. Near the river we

stopped, hopped over reflective puddles in the mud, dragged sticks through the sludge, and joked

about plunging into the water as if any of us would. We agreed unanimously we'd return in

spring.

The pancake house was packed when we arrived, except that we somehow got there perfectly on

time and were seated before the Sunday morning rush blew through the doors. I ordered biscuits

and gravy. Allison's pancakes looked incredible when they arrived. I experienced approximately

four seconds of regret before deciding I'd just order them next time.

We talked about Akiko Takeyama's Involuntary Consent over our plates. Our table was round,

and we sat in a circle like knights. Everyone had read carefully and had a lot to say, and I sat

there shoveling food into my mouth with genuine happiness, listening, smelling the toasted bread

and syrup and flipped batter curling off every plate, thinking about how oxygen was circulating

through all of our brains from the run and that this was exactly the kind of morning Eugene had

been building in me for four years.

We paid separate bills, which with nine of us took a comical amount of time. Those who finished

first sat outside on a bench. People kept saying how glad they were they came– and I could tell

they meant it. My stomach was full. My heart was fuller. Two Sundays from now, I really hoped

I'd see the same faces.

I am not a runner. But I think I might be becoming one.