What comes after C25K?

Another first for me this January was not putting on the RunVerity Beginner’s Running Course, a staple in the local yearly calendar. I oddly miss having to leave the comfort of a warm, cosy house to brave all weathers; the cold, wet, snowy, sub-zero and icy conditions, I stood in them all, in the wind tunnel of a dimly lit car park trying to convince groups of strangers that they too would soon be runners.

And every snowfall, raindrop, and pair of drenched, squelching underwear was worth it, because I learnt so much about people, about behaviour and motivation, but mostly about how nerves often masquerade as impatience, defensiveness, self-deprecation, arrogance, or comparison.

As the years went on, familiar faces often returned, slightly embarrassed faces of people who’d previously completed the beginner’s course. Embarrassed that here they were, yet again, having fallen off the wagon somewhere in the deserted wasteland between the success of completing a previous course and not quite making it to the next step.

At the end of every 8-week course, we celebrated with graduation parkruns, medals, certificates of achievements, and pub drinks with other members who had once been where they were; scared, excited, and proud of themselves that, at last, they too were runners. Stories and achievements would be shared, and newbies would excitedly sign up to club membership with the promise and hope that they too were runners.

For me, they’d done the hard part, turning up on the first night of the course, and subsequently getting out of the front door every Tuesday night from January through to March, listening to my bad jokes whilst smiling politely, waiting for me to shout “RECOVER!”

But as the years passed, I realised that the hardest part wasn’t completing a beginner’s course, or the C25K app, the challenge is somewhere in-between the

“Yes, I’ve done it” and the, “This is who I am now”.

Because this is when people quietly disappear, after they’ve already proved they’re runners.

As I’ve written before, I don’t believe it’s about a lack of motivation, or because anyone thinks they’re a failure. I think it’s in part to do with the quietness of these moments when progress slows, guidance fades, and questions appear

“What the hell am I supposed to do now?!”

So what happens in-between the completion of a 5km and the leap to a 10km? I mean, technically it should be easy right? It’s just another 5km. But is there an equivalent of the C25K app for a 10km to guide people through this transition?

When I started running, parkrun didn’t exist, there wasn’t a middle rut to get stuck on. I went from running locally to lining up to a 10km (my first 10km was Feet Beat 2002), because that was the norm. Races felt smaller, cheaper, and so less visible, they never felt like a test of my legitimacy.

But now races are a public declaration- more expensive, more exposed, so much more loaded with expectations and a side order of a war and peace explanation if you don’t make it to the start line.

I really do understand that opting out of this step up can feel safer than this whole new level of exposure that comes with continuing running.

When you sign up to a parkrun or race event, you technically are signing away your anonymity. Now, participation comes with a huge bucket of public traceability, your name on a start list, a result that can be searched long after the event is over and unflattering photos (see below!), so your grimace and wobbles can be scrutinised by your worst enemy. Thinking about it, why would anyone new to running sign up to all that scrutiny?

A friend sent me a photo after spotting it on a parkrun Facebook page. I’d chosen this event because it doesn’t usually have a regular photographer. Visibility can be vulnerable when you’re still finding your feet.

And don’t just take my word for it, studies on parkrun retention show an interesting “One and Done” rate, that while there is a healthy return rate to a parkrun (64%), those first timers who finish over the 40-minute mark, are less likely to return.

I always used to use our local parkrun for the graduation 5km for our beginner’s course, but sadly I stopped doing these in the end as the perception, and the real pressure was just too great for some people.

Even after the dedication of turning up on cold, wet and dark evenings for 8 weeks, on a bright Spring morning, when the birds were singing, snowdrops were blooming and it promised to be the perfect running temperature, my graduates either just wouldn’t turn up or if they did, they wouldn’t finish, jacking it in half way through the route (this usually happened on lapped courses, being passed by other runners, some shouting “keep f***ing left”; understandably soul destroying and a bit scary), and this always made me sad.

As I think about this, I wonder if sometimes we’re not allowed to be human, that it’s not cool to show any vulnerability in the not knowing how to do “something”. Maybe the drop off rates are more about what happens when any effort starts to feel exposing.

Visibility is vulnerable when you’re just finding your feet, again.

We forget how far we’ve all come, from beginners willing me to shout RECOVER in week three after two minutes, to believing that still run-walking a 5km after nine weeks is failure. I always used to break this down and try and give people permission to not know everything.

I’d talk about how chronologically you might be 57 years old when you start running, but if it’s been 45 years since you ran around a hockey pitch in PE, your “training” age is significantly lower. And what would we realistically expect of someone that young in their sporting journey?

But, somewhere along the way, running culture has convinced people that they should already be all grown up.

Starting out is often sheltered and supported, but increasingly, staying isn’t.