My body is made for running.
This is really the most commonplace statement one could ever come up with since the human body is literally made for running mid to long distances.
Long legs, short toes, a narrow pelvis, and an enlarged gluteus maximus are the unique features that have allowed us to trot long distances in search of prey for millennia. Indeed, I did see quite a bit of “trotting in search of prey” in discotheques, too, back in my day. I won't overwhelm you with scientific facts, but it's fascinating that the gluteus maximus, the largest muscle in our body, is among the most distinctive human features. It's essential for running, but not for walking1. This fact has left me pondering the mechanics and muscle recruitment during twerking. Unfortunately, I couldn't find any scientific literature on that subject.
But I have to insist. My body is made for running. The problem is that I was born into a family of diehard potato couches that only get up to select the next book from the shelf, so my talents have been, sadly enough, unexploited. Now, I am not claiming to be some Jamaican speed goddess; among other things, I am as Spanish as they come. But I was fast. I reached the peak of my talents at the age of twelve, and after the Summer Olympics at Bell House School (BHS) in 1991, I abandoned the track to dedicate myself to lounging with a book.
The Summer Olympics at BHS were the world-renowned games known only to the girls attending the eponymous school and their posh parents. BHS was (is?) the private all-girls school I attended from 1989 to 1991 when my family moved to the UK. I detested it for many reasons, the main one being not fitting in.
June 1991. It’s the 200m race. Here I am, twelve years old, on the track alongside all those other snobby girls. That is fuel enough for me. No doping needed; I am high on hate.
The gun goes, and I start running. My eyes are fixed on the first bend, where I will catch up with and then leave everyone behind. The first bend is gone, and now I see the finish line. The rest, all that lies outside my tunnel vision, is a blur. I hear the unintelligible cheers from the crowd, but suddenly, as if time slows down or as if my legs have caught up with it, I distinctly hear Katie’s voice in my left ear.
“Shut up, I can’t, shut up.”
And I know the crowd is cheering for her, but she cannot beat me and cries out of desperation. Half a split second later, above the cheers of the grey mob, I clearly hear on my right my mum’s voice, and I catch a glimpse of her, with her sunglasses and her white and yellow dress, shouting in her most unmistakable Spanish accent but in loud and clear English.
“Go, Ana, GO!”
And I go, and leave everyone behind: the Katies, the Donnas, the Emmas.
“Bite the dust, bitches”, my twelve-year-old brain thinks in twelve-year-old’s words that I cannot recall, but I know how they felt.
I cross the finish line first. I feel invincible. It feels perfect. It is perfect.
Nowadays, when I run long distances, at around the 90-minute mark, I still hear Katie’s lament in my left ear and my mum’s voice in my right. I think this is what they call the runner’s high—when you are drunk on endorphins, movement, sweat, and life.
“Go, Ana, GO!” So I keep going.
This snippet of my childhood as I remember it was inspired by a snap that
wrote a while ago about a boy she knew who was fast. You should read it because it is good, like everything Deirdre writes.Bramble, D., Lieberman, D. Endurance running and the evolution of Homo. Nature 432, 345–352 (2004).
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For some reason I am just seeing this! Thanks Ana! I love that photo of you from school and running high on hate. Ha! xo
I love when those ‘snobby‘ voices from my past still egg me on . A negative becomes a positive.
‘Take that’( insert name and swear word)______.
They should only know how inspiring their derogatory comments are today. I was fast too. Sadly , my ankle rebelled after too much downhill running . Luckily, my scrawny little body and sinewy muscles work well for hiking and skiing.
Love the post and the photos to go with it. Oh, and your mom, cheering you on.
Like those old cartoons, the tiny devil on one shoulder and the angel on the other 👺😇.
“And I go, and leave everyone behind: the Katies, the Donnas the Emmas.”
“Bite the dust, bitches”