I’ve always thought that people who actually achieved the New Year’s resolutions they set out for themselves, hungover on the first of January, were deeply annoying. What do you mean you go to the gym now? Are you actually more positive? And no, I don’t want your fresh bread that you now make every day, thanks.
Oxford has somehow made each January even worse. Full to bursting with overachievers, students stroll around with ambitions tightly zipped up in their college puffers. Just existing breeds insecurity, something I don’t think people talk about enough. I’m a finalist, and I’ve still never quite managed to overcome the freshers’ week-imposter syndrome entirely. You don’t have to be competitive to feel it; everyone’s clever, sporty, successful, and got some kind of side-hustle going on. January sees the overachievers excel – and the rest of us are left all the more conscious of the ways in which we’re supposedly lacking.
This year, I even made the resolution that I WOULD NOT MAKE a resolution (a bit of an oxymoron, I know). I even failed that somehow. Crying into my cup of tea on a wet January afternoon, I signed myself up for the Oxford Park Run. I hate running, I thought to myself; “you hate running”, my dad said, as he pulled my account QR code from the printer. My sister just laughed. She’s seen this before: I usually give up on my athletic ambitions after one red-faced waddle around the local park.
Lungs burning, legs burning, face burning while I’m overtaken by Barry who retired from finance ten years ago. I’m not even sure what it was about the run that appealed to me. I certainly didn’t think I’d enjoy it – this was a challenge to endure once, knowing that I’d at least given it a go, before slinking comfortably back into my Saturday morning lie-in. I dragged some unwitting friends along with me, knowing that if I waited for the fresh-facedness of week zero to wear off, I’d never get them out of bed before 9 again. 8 A.M. on Saturday of week zero dawned, and I drowned my reluctance in several hastily chugged cups of tea. I managed to squeeze into the leggings previously banished to the back of my drawer. I brushed the dust from my trainers, and greeted my running chums with a bleary “bit early, isn’t it”. Bright eyed and bushy-tailed, we were neither, but off we went to Uni Parks.
Upon arrival, I quickly realised what I’d gotten myself into. At 20 years of age, near the prime of my physical health, I was the broad bean in a garden of runner beans. Reassured briefly by the sea of people who claimed ‘beginner’ status, I was horrified to learn these people were ‘beginners’ only to this specific Park Run. I thought trekking across Oxford to Uni Parks from Cowley had been an expedition – these were people who had travelled across the country to put themselves through voluntary torture. As the whistle blew and a crowd of 1,000 people took off, I thought – well, at least I only have to do this once.
I’ve since done every Park Run this term. Admittedly, it’s not many – but it’s safe to say that the Eleanor from a month ago would have been disgusted by my developing enthusiasm. I am by no means the fastest runner – indeed, regularly placing around 800th in the Park Run stats (I didn’t even know that many people did it), it’s safe to say I’m decidedly tortoise-like. And yet, I am now completely addicted. I ran 15 km over the course of last week. I ran to Lidl to do my weekly shop, and I broke into Magdalen in the early hours of the morning to run around the deer park (and thankfully, not away from the porters). I somehow feel more refreshed by the time I’m scrounging for seats in the RadCam at 10:30, when I’ve woken up early and gone for a speed-waddle around Christ Church Meadows, than when I’ve rolled out of bed at 9:30. As much as a thigh-gap would be gorgeous, it’s my own, genuine happiness that has been keeping me running over this last month.
I have become utterly insufferable to those unlucky enough to share my company or witness my BeReals. It’s not my fault I’ve become such an incredible athlete in such a short space of time… I thought somebody was going to (justifiably) hit me when I rocked up to Saturday brunch, the morning after a night out, announcing to the bleary-eyed table that I’d already hit my step goal for the day. To give you a fuller picture of my insufferableness, I’ve turned into a loud and proud Strava baddie. I have become exactly what I sought to destroy; someone who set a New Year’s Goal and, to no-one’s greater surprise than my own, stuck to it.
However, to say that goals can only be set (and met) at the start of the year is, I maintain, complete rubbish. As a great believer in the toxicity of New Year’s resolutions, I encourage you to channel that toxicity elsewhere – namely, in the thrashing of your athletic opponents in the Park Run. We underdogs might not have ability, competence or skill, but neither does Donald Trump, and he’s (somehow) the President of the United States. They say your only competition is yourself and the clock – I say bollocks. I’ve seen a man with a buggy take a final corner so that only two wheels remained on the ground, sending at least three of the competition flying and nearly losing his passenger in the process. You thought this article was going to end on an uplifting note. Think again. As the ultimate beginner, here’s my advice on how to take down the rest of the field in the Park Run, and emerge, against the odds, victorious:
- Hitch a lift with that man with the buggy. I’m serious – he was out for blood.
- Invest in a sports top. I don’t mean any kind of gym top. I mean the ones that brag about finishing a 10k, a marathon, a three-peaks challenge. Nobody needs to know you didn’t actually do any of this. This is psychological warfare; people will think twice about overtaking you.
- Employ an accomplice. Aside from running being much more pleasant and easy when there’s someone to struggle along with you, they can be used for a variety of manoeuvres. A personal favourite is asking them to invest in a high-vis jacket and impersonate a Park Run volunteer. Enthusiastically redirecting the competition away from the finish line could just give you the edge, so long as nobody gets prematurely suspicious.
- Don’t be shy with tripping people up. I usually get lapped by the front runners about halfway around, and am always amused by the slightly freakish nature of their running. The standard style seems to be arms flailing, legs akimbo – apparently, flopping about as you move seems to help you go faster. Use this to your advantage. A small move to your left, an outstuck leg – oops, sorry – they’re down and nobody is any the wiser how it happened.
- Be vocal. Hollering “ON YOUR LEFT”, “ON YOUR RIGHT”, “WATCH OUT” at random works wonders for breaking people’s concentration. They wind up confused, veering left and right, panting over their shoulder as they try to work out why nobody’s overtaken them yet. Once you’ve mastered this, try branching out – I’ve found “DUCK!”, “FIRE!” AND “BEAR!” work quite effectively. It’s not illegal. Unethical, maybe, but it’s a cold, hard world out there.
Best of luck out there, soldiers. Let this be a genuine reminder that you’re capable of so much more than you think you are – and I don’t mean in an essay context. Pierce the Oxford bubble and find something that gets you out of the library, and achieve something non-academic, however small. Running might not be for everyone – but for what it’s worth, before this month, I didn’t think it was for me either.