With limbs that didn’t quite land where I wanted them to and an awkward gait that attracted less than generous observations from my classmates, I was certifiably a gangly kid. Towering over even the boys in my class, measuring 5 ‘11’’ by the age of 14, I was self-conscious and wanted to do everything in my power to blend into the crowd, made difficult by the fact I was a head taller than the rest of my year group. And so began my perpetual absence from PE. I couldn’t be stared at for my gracelessness, or have my 100-metre start practice, and the sprained ankle that came with it, observed by others, if I wasn’t even there to participate, so I swore off sport, believing myself to be a reader rather than a runner. Now I run 15k for fun - oh how times have changed. If my year five teacher, with whom I had many a discussion about my preference for the music room over the hockey pitch, could see me now, he would be beyond bewildered.

My apprehension towards exercise only heightened in secondary school, where cross country day would see me sitting with the largest knot in my stomach as the most public display of my lack of athleticism approached. But now I regularly traverse the towpath of the Cam with ease, spending every other afternoon or evening striding down the cobbled streets chatting with my boyfriend as we rack up the miles together.

“I was terrified, not least because of the lack of Britney Spears to motivate me”

While I’m not unathletic (my long legs do prove helpful), I wouldn’t describe myself as a natural runner, and so there is something beautiful in my distinctly amateur abilities. So disparate from my many other pursuits, for the first time I am a part of something where there is just no pressure. Unlike the hamster wheel of school and university exams, or the ladder climbing of extracurriculars and CV-building societies, I was never expected to run, let alone be any good at it. One of my proudest moments, more so than any formal examination, was being handed my medal at the finish line of my first 10k race, something I had been too self-conscious to do for so many years. I was caked ankle height in mud, water pooling out my feet as I squelched triumphantly to where I’d dumped my bag, immediately texting a screenshot of my time to everyone who had ever had the misfortune of making my acquaintance.

Cambridge Town and Gown 10k soon followed, made more interesting by a recent knee sprain and having lost my headphones two days before the much-anticipated event. Standing on the start line surrounded by swathes of seemingly professional runners, people whose personal bests are the stuff of dreams, I was terrified, not least because of the lack of Britney Spears to motivate me around the course. But who needs music when you have people clapping you at every turn, girls holding signs saying, “Hot girls run 10k’s” (true), and your friends screaming your name as you sail past? For the first time, I had to have such a radical self-belief in my own abilities: that I could do difficult things.

“I long for this joyous approach to sport to be the pervading rationale”

Running for me is a test of my mental resilience rather than lung capacity, made obvious to me in my reluctance to run after facing down successive essay crises, but it is in these moments that I need it the most, however much I may resent that fact. I run to prove to myself that I can do difficult things, things that seem impossible (like getting to the end of Paradise Lost) and I use this self-assurance in my academic life more than I would like to admit. If I can make myself finish a punishing 15k in the freezing cold I can probably get my medieval essay in on time. But again, being supremely average is so incredibly liberating, as I have so much room for improvement, and incredible amounts to learn, but I am also not competing for anything. I will never run an Olympic qualifying time or win anything more than a participation medal; however, I still get the medal, my growing obsession with them making me more akin to a magpie than an athlete. Medals are tangible reminders of the imperceptible wins I get from every hour I pour into running, and commemorate the time I spend with my partner and friends as we pace our ways through side streets, with nothing to do but talk.

I reside on Instagram’s equivalent of ‘run-tok,’ inspired by the likes of Celina Stephenson and Savannah Sachdev whose ethoses centre around the mental and personal benefits of running; it is all about getting out of your head and into your body. The further I move away from the secondary school iteration of myself, the more I long for this joyous approach to sport to be the pervading rationale. If exercise had been about decompression, spending time with friends and getting some sunshine, maybe I would have skipped it far less, although even without the social pressures of PE, the scarlet football socks and black baggy shorts were probably enough to put me off all on their own! Being average is such an incredible joy, even if it doesn’t stop me from talking incessantly about my latest speed session.

My training block for the Cambridge half-marathon is well underway, and now all that stands between me and the finish line are muddy river runs and pavement plods. I have swapped my truanting for tempo runs, and shouts from PE teachers have become motivational speeches from my boyfriend, my ever-supportive running partner with whom I have shared so many laughs and joyous running adventures. I am now, certifiably, a runner (even if I am a little bit insufferable as a result).