Fuck run clubs
The bane of my existence.
I’m back. But I’m not necessarily better. Not kinder either, that’s for sure.
I’ve been on a writing hiatus these past few months because life has gotten in the way. And I know that’s what people say when they get lazy. Or after having their heart ripped to shreds and ego stamped on by a narcissist, which pushes them to reclaim their sense of self by revisiting their passions (oddly specific, I know—just trying to create an immersive reading experience.)
But that’s not the case at all.
Truth is, I moved back to Turkey from Portugal, started a new job, and am working on my new freelance business.
What can I say, I’m a #BossBabe.
So these past few months have been full of corporate shenanigans while working on my website, positioning, and—unfortunately—becoming a LinkedIn warrior for traction and visibility.
(I can feel each root canal pulsate with cringe under my shuddering teeth every time I hit post. But it’s a necessary evil. And honestly, a great form of exposure therapy to public embarrassment.)
Oh well.
Today’s post is about none of these things, which require separate, lengthier, and possibly more heartfelt posts that I don’t have the emotional bandwidth to write about right now.
Today’s article is about run clubs.
I woke up today and wouldn’t say I chose violence, but bullying for sure. Because I cannot, for the life of me, understand run clubs.
I should preface this by saying, unless it’s a joint sport—basketball, football, volleyball, you name it—I think working out together is the stupidest form of social activity. I wouldn’t even call it social interaction since you’re out of breath half the time.
You’re just glancing over at each other, panting, red in the face, eyeballs popping out of your eyesockets, grimacing as you pretend you’re fitter than you are while your muscle fibres twitch and convulse—all while trying to find the will to live and avoid ending it all right there in the name of “healthy social activity.”
Genuinely the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.
The way I view working out is akin to how I see going to the bathroom: It’s not pretty. It’s not fun. It just has to be done.
I don’t personally enjoy working out. I think it’s tedious. The concept of picking up dumbbells, counting reps, and tracking sets while being mindful of “progressive overload” is mind-numbing and unnatural.
Kind of like holding the lunge position—except at least that gives you some gratification because of that delicious inner thigh stretch.
Anyway, back to the run clubs. I hate them with a passion so raw, so deep, so visceral, you’d think they’ve wronged my entire ancestry.
They’re like a swarm of bees, except they’re useless, oppressive (yes), and they leave a trail of putrid must that’s unshakeable for about 15 seconds.
And because I live by the beach, I get the short end of the stick. It’s a hotspot for those eager to show off their collective calf elitism: around 20 people hoarding the boardwalk to themselves, with a speaker (because, of course, how else would they fulfill their goal of being their utmost insufferable selves?)
On occasion, the pacemaker (read: self-appointed Head of the Pests) feels a runner’s high, endorphin rush, or a sudden burst of excitement and shrieks out a “woo!”
Motivational, they say. I call it the bane of my existence.
They’re ruining something that for me is supposed to be therapy: long walks by the beach, listening to the waves roll in, the distant shriek of a seagull, the occasional laughter of a child. The beautiful, wholesome parts of life.
Now ruined. Obliterated. Gone.
When I see them huffing and puffing in the distance running in my direction, I feel my will to live slip away from me. I know what’s coming. And I hate it. I hate them for who they are and for putting me in the position of accepting this as my reality.
Okay, I get it, sure, some people need a social push to be active. But for God’s sake, do anything but join a run club and contribute to my drawn-out demise. What’s wrong with, I don’t know, a yoga class or playing ping pong?
As I sit here and fume over the idea of run clubs, I can’t help but wonder why they’ve become so normalized, why no one bats an eye at this atrocity.
I don’t think it’s socially acceptable to invade public spaces with such crude selfishness, such a lack of spatial awareness that comes with hogging an entire boardwalk. What baffles me is that, on top of being such an unbelievable pain in the ass, they also have the audacity to get annoyed at you for being an obstacle in their way.
Like I’m the problem.
And it pains me that there’s no solution, no global movement I can join to stop them from persevering in society. No petition I can sign to eradicate them entirely.
But when there is—because it’s not a question of if, but when—best believe I’ll be the first to sign. Full name, signature, and headshot on display if they let me.