Yes, I run. No, I didn’t run the New York Marathon. A guide to keeping your friends while mentioning GPS splits and negative splits.
- Running is amazing — but becoming *that* dinner guest who preaches about it takes about three seconds.
- The parallel universe of “non-runners”: a strange world where if you run, you must do marathons. Every Sunday.
- The interrogation is always the same: “Isn’t it boring?”, “What about your knees?”, “Why do you even do it?”
- There’s a weird obsession with 42.195 km. Explaining to your aunt that happiness can live in a 5K is harder than actually running an ultra.
- ‘Garminese’ is not an official language. Talking about Z4 and VO2max over dinner is like reciting a phonebook — in Klingon.
- The golden rule of running talk? Don’t do it. Or at least, wait until they ask (spoiler: they won’t).
The Halogen Lamp Interrogation
You’re at dinner. You’re relaxed. The wine is just right, the conversation flows, you almost feel like a normal person — the kind who doesn’t go to bed at 10 PM on Saturday to prep for a long run.
Then someone (there’s always someone) points at you — sometimes literally. “Wait, aren’t you that person who runs?”
Silence. Everyone turns. It’s like they just outed you as a member of some secret dawn cult.
And just like that, your night is over. You’re no longer “Alex, the chill friend.” You’re “Alex, the weird one who runs.” The tone isn’t curious — it’s inquisitive. The Inquisition is here to understand your deviance. And the first question is always a classic litmus test: “So, you’ve got a race this Sunday?”
Because in the public imagination, runners are sharks: if we’re not racing, we die. The idea that you’d go out at 6 a.m. just to enjoy a sunrise or earn a custard croissant? Unthinkable. No bib number, no sense.
The Greatest Hits of Confusion (and How to Survive Them)
Once you’ve confessed (“Yes, I run”), the interrogation turns philosophical. Non-runners try to make sense of the senseless. Their toolkit? A list of questions straight out of a Human Perplexity 101 handbook.
“Don’t you get bored?”
Usually asked by someone whose weekly movement maxes out at couch-to-fridge. Apparently, boredom only counts if you’re wearing a heart rate monitor. How do you even answer this? “No, I usually plan world domination” is solid. Or the honest version: “Boredom is a luxury I prefer to enjoy sitting down, not while sweating.”
“Doesn’t it mess up your knees?”
Ah yes, the knees. And the “cousin.” There’s always a cousin — part urban legend, part cautionary tale — who “used to run but destroyed his knees.” Don’t bother citing studies or biomechanics or progressive loading. The Cousin’s Knees are the absolute truth. Best response? Go mystical: “My knees made a deal with the devil.” Or: “They’re fine. I also use my ankles, believe it or not.”
“Why do you even do it?”
The million-dollar question. The existential canyon that opens between you and them. They see suffering, sweat, early alarms. You see… well, how do you explain it? The honest answer (“Because it keeps me from murdering you all”) is frowned upon. So you settle for: “It relaxes me.” They nod — but you can tell they don’t believe you.
The Obsession With 42.195 (a.k.a. Your Aunt)
And then comes *The Question.* The one that defines your worth as a running human.
“How many marathons have you done?”
And there it is: to the outside world, running equals marathon. 5Ks don’t exist. 10Ks are warm-ups. Half marathons are “almost.” If you haven’t run 26.2 miles — preferably in New York — you’re not a runner. You’re a jogger.
Try explaining to your aunt, over Christmas lunch, that your greatest moment of joy was breaking 40 minutes in a 10K, lungs on fire. She’ll give you a look of pity, offer you more ravioli, and say: “But you’ll do a marathon one day, right?”
It’s a fetish of distance. A belief that only prolonged, brutal suffering makes the act meaningful. They’ll never understand that sometimes pure joy lives in 30 slow minutes, no goal, no GPS — just you and your footsteps. But go ahead, try explaining that.
Don’t Speak ‘Garminese’ — Speak Human (If You Must)
Let’s be real — we mess this up too. Fueled by endorphins and enthusiasm, when someone dares to ask “How was your run?” we… answer.
And we answer badly.
“It was great! Average pace was 7:38, HR stayed in Z4, and my VO2max ticked up a point!”
To them, that’s: “Blarg-fizz 7:38 Z4 VO2something.”
You’re speaking ‘Garminese.’ It’s an alien language full of acronyms and numbers that mean zero to anyone whose main daily stat is how many episodes they’ve binged.
The second you say “negative split,” you’ve lost them. Their eyes glaze over. They’re thinking about groceries. They’ve reached for their phone. It’s over. If you absolutely *must* (and we mean must) talk about your run, speak their language. Talk feelings: “The sunrise was insane.” “I felt wrecked, but afterward I felt like a god.”
Or, even better, talk food: “I ran 12 miles. That means I earned carbonara.” Food is universal. A cultural bridge.
The Dead-Eye Indicator (a.k.a. When to Stop)
Surviving socially as a runner requires one essential skill — more important than lactate threshold: verbal self-restraint.
How do you know when it’s time to stop talking about your latest interval session?
The hard truth: right away. Probably before you even started.
The Dead-Eye Indicator never fails. When the person stops asking questions and just says “Ah” and “Wow” with the enthusiasm of someone watching roadwork, it’s time to pivot.
Running is ours. It’s internal monologue, sometimes therapy, often unspeakable joy. And most of it is untranslatable. Don’t try to convert people. Run, be happy — and at dinner, talk about soccer, politics, the weather. Or, at most, that epic beer you had after the run. That, at least, they get.