There are two good reasons endomorphs should run in the woods. Neither is a body part.
First, as I write in this month’s edition of Inside Dirt, the monthly newsletter of Trail Runner magazine, you can rest without anyone noticing. And second, the forgiving surfaces of most trails are good for our knees.
And then there’s a third reason that does involve a body part. In the woods, no one is scrutinizing my rear.
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The problem with being a fat runner is this: Everyone wants to give you a ride.
No one’s ever around when you’re driving on a back road and run out of gas. But try heading out for an easy three-miler after dinner when you’re my size, and suddenly there’s a Good Samaritan behind every shrub.
When a car slows down, I know what is coming. A silvery head will poke out, and a worried voice will call, “You okay, honey? You need a ride?”
Another day, another PR frustrated. I have to slow down – maybe even stop, depending on the degree of skepticism — to explain that I am, in fact, exercising; thank you kindly, now please go away.
It’s an indignity the skinny runners never suffer. The ectomorphs look like runners. I, endomorph, don’t.
When I first started running 20 years ago, I was a size 16-18, so I couldn’t fault the nice people who offered me roadside assistance. Of course they thought my car had broken down somewhere out of sight, or that I was being chased by an invisible assailant. That was more plausible that the truth, which was that a small human blimp like me could run three miles without stopping.
Over time, I lost a little weight and a couple of dress sizes, which helped deter the random acts of kindness. But what helped the most was getting my oversized load off the road and onto the trail.
I first discovered the raptures of trail running six years ago when I moved to a town infested with horses. Hopkinton, MA., is a perfectly respectable location for road running; in fact, a little race called the Boston Marathon starts here. But there is also a fine network of equestrian trails that begin across the street from my house, and one hot day, looking for shade, I gingerly picked my way through them.
It was all so enchanting. Canopied by hardwoods, I found cooler air and a cornucopia of sights: white birch trees in a cluster, clear streams framed by boulders, a mother turkey and her chicks, a waving gauntlet of tall, emerald ferns. At any moment, I thought, Snow White, encircled by bluebirds, would skip by me in the woods.
A few days later, I went exploring again, and, because it’s my default speed outdoors, I broke out in a jog. A few weeks later, I was regularly running the trails.
Well, okay, maybe “running” is a stretch. In truth, my movement is more of an enthusiastic jog. I monitor my footing closely, watching out for roots, rocks and manure. But like Emerson, I have found “a perfect exhilaration” in the woods. Trails, it turns out, are the ideal track for heavy runners like me.
There are two reasons for this. First, we can – and must – adjust our speed to the terrain. This is a blessing. We can catch our breath, without embarrassment or notice, if the trail demands that we slow.
Second, and most importantly, out there, no one is ever looking with derision at your rear.
True, nature demands compensation for running her rarefied paths. Who knew, for example, just how fat a tick can grow when embedded on a generous hip for a day?
But for endomorph runners like me, mud, poison ivy and an occasional bout of Lyme disease are an acceptable trade-off for the beauty of the trail and its rugged, yielding surface, an unobtrusive kindness for geriatric knees. These things, coupled with the built-in privacy, ensure that at least half of my weekly miles are now run on trails.
Of course, I’m not completely alone out there.
They’re not my personal trails, and I do have company on occasion. But so far, no one has offered me a ride, and next to a 1,200 pound Quarter horse, my own rump looks positively svelte.
