I have a confession. I am a transrunner.
There. I said it. I feel better. I have been living a lie, misidentifying myself in an attempt to appropriate a lifestyle I love but wasn’t born with.
I started out as a baseball player. But I was allergic to grass and couldn’t hit a curveball, or a fastball. And I wasn’t much of a fielder. I was a left-handed catcher and routinely beaned the batter when throwing back to the pitcher. Mostly I enjoyed wearing a baseball cap and long stockings.
I found myself searching for something else. That something else being, of course, scantily clad, sweaty women. And I found it in running.
So I began to present myself as a runner. Sub-4 shorts, Ron Hill singlets. Nike waffle trainers. I would go to races, run the distance, drink Pearl Light afterward. I subscribed to The Runner and Running Times and Ultrarunning. I actually started to believe I was a runner.
For 35 years, I lived this lie. Even today, as I toodle along, I still present myself as a runner, even though I have no evidence that I am. And then, the photo surfaced. Showing me in my childhood. In my uniform. Playing baseball.
Yes, I was born a baseball player. My dad was a baseball player. But that’s not what I am in my heart. In my heart, I’m a gazelle. Can I be a runner just because I say I am?
Shouldn’t we be able to reinvent ourselves? I don’t know. transgender. transrace. transrunner. It’s a tough debate.
Today was 3 miles at 14:11 pace in 90 degrees. The same pace Barry Bonds used at spring training when going to the outfield. But still, I love to run.
Even if i’m not a runner.
But I still wear my baseball cap. And I miss my stockings …