Thoughts I Had While Running With My Boyfriend

By Erin Deborah Waks

He sure takes a while to get ready, I thought, watching my boyfriend munch on a piece of toast, stretch leisurely and put on his various layers of proper running gear.

I, meanwhile, lay half asleep in bed, getting as much rest as possible and certainly not eating - and digesting - before being hauled out of bed by a far-too-eager man at far too early on a Saturday. 

Remind me, why did I agree to this?

Thirty minutes later and I’m tying my shoelaces and pushing my hair back with a neon sweatband adorned with my boyfriend’s corporate logo that he picked up on a company sports day (because, as I’ve discovered, boys don’t have an endless supply of hair ties on hand. Note to self - don’t run 5k with your hair in your face).

I should preface all of this, lest anyone thinks I have been subject to manipulative tactics in order to partake in one of my partner’s favourite pastimes with him. I do love running.

I’ve spent the last few weeks training for a half marathon, regularly run the 5k distance from my flat to my office and almost never skip my three weekly training sessions. I have a running app, a typed out plan and various matching sets of gear, all with ergonomic pockets for my gels and energy sweets. I’m far from a novice.

But - and it’s a big but - I’ve rarely run with someone else, least of all my relatively new, super-fast, running-fanatic boyfriend. Last time I ran as a duo, it was with a friend whose 5k time, much like my own, was closer to 40 minutes than my partner’s personal best of just 20.

I’m fitter now, I told myself. It will be fine. He promised he won’t care that you’ll be a sweaty mess.

I am not blessed with the lucky genetics of those who can pop out for a jog, wipe their brow and return to the day. No, after a mere 10 minutes of running I will undoubtedly be bright red, absolutely dripping and covered in a mild sheen of sweat. Delightful. 

Oh no, he’s started way too fast, I think.

‘Babe, can we slow down a bit? I don’t think I can keep up this pace,’ I ask sweetly, trying to pretend I am not (already) out of breath.

Thank God, that’s better. At least I can talk to him at this pace.

Are we nearly halfway yet?

At what point can I ask if we’re halfway?

‘Can you tell me when we’re halfway?’

I wait, it seems, an eternity before being told we are, indeed halfway.

Okay, that works. I can do that distance again.

Why does it feel like more effort running with someone else? 

Also, why is it so much harder when you don’t know where you are? On my normal route, I know how much I have left based on markers (corners, shops, park gates). Here in no man’s land, we could be 1k in or 3k, I have no idea.

‘Okay, Erin, there’s a big hill coming up,’ he says, totally blase. 

Hill? I don’t do hills. I usually run in Queen’s Park, it’s totally flat. Eek.

‘Sure, can we slow down maybe?’ I ask, and he nods encouragingly.

As if, I’m far too competitive with myself for this. I’m maintaining my exact pace up the entire hill even if it kills me.

I let my boyfriend take over the conversation as I struggle to keep our pace going up what seems like a never-ending hill. It is worth it. My pride at the very top lasts as long as the flat section before the next hill - in other words, not very long.

He informs me we have two small hills to go before a final downhill to the end of our route. 

Got it. I am confident we can complete this. 

God, this must be so slow for him. At least I haven’t had to ask him to stop.

The final hills seem insurmountable, and yet he seems to think it’s easy for me - somehow, I maintain my breathing pattern, add quips to the gossip he is spouting while we move, and keep up with the pace I begged for at the start. 

Surely we’re done by now? I can see his flat…

‘Just 300 metres to go!’ 

His enthusiasm is almost as good a motivator as my own expectations of myself.

This is the longest 300 metres of my life.

Can I stop now?

‘And… we’re done!’ my gorgeous, wonderful, kind, fast boyfriend informs me.

I check my fitness tracker: a total of 5.3km has been accomplished. I try not to think about the fact that those final 300 metres were totally unnecessary. I’d rather share a sweaty kiss and head straight out for brunch.

I might not be as fast as him, nor as fit - indeed, he’s built much more like a runner than I am.

But despite the fact I only agreed begrudgingly, and because it seemed to be the only shared hobby we hadn’t yet enjoyed together, I found myself actually rather enjoying it. 

Maybe we could, after all, become one of those sickening couples who get up early on a Saturday to run? Would that be so bad?