Who's Babysitting the Running Boom?
I’ve come off social media. I’m fed up with being told what to do by complete strangers. Apparently, I could be living “my best life”, all I have to do is fix myself by eating more protein than my already tried and tested 101 Things To Do With a Pound of Mince could ever deliver. And if I just tried a bit harder, I’m sure I could transform myself into a trail runner with a fighting chance of winning ultras.
Fat chance. My adult children still need picking up from the disco.
Here’s a snapshot of a recent weekend. My usual Friday on childcare duty with my grandchildren was extended to me staying overnight at my daughter’s. Her and her partner were going to a wedding. To compensate, she told me kindly, I didn’t have to be at her house until 10.30am on Friday. Excellent, I thought, I’ll head to QE for a run.
That was until I got a text the night before asking if I could possibly make it by 10am instead. I immediately replied saying I had plans, I did, I was going for a run. But then I faltered, I felt guilty, it was only a run so I made the mistake of saying I’ll try to get there as near to 10 as I can. But there’s no fun in running against the clock. So, I binned my run and packed my running kit for the sleepover instead. I had every intention of heading out on Saturday morning.
After a fun day with the kids and the usual routine of bath, bottle and bed, I settled down for the duration. But the evening was interrupted by my husband phoning to say he was going to pick our daughter up from the wedding. It was 8.30pm. She’d had enough and wanted to come home, so she phoned her dad. She’s 31.
I was going to go home too, but it was nice being there, and I’d promised my three-year-old granddaughter I’d be there in the morning.
“Nanna, I’m here! I’m awake?” It was 5.15am. She snuggled into bed with me and we made up stories together. It was precious.
Saturday. Free at last, after 24 hours of continuous grandchild care, I headed to the trails and felt myself relax. I was still enjoying my own smugness when my daughter’s name popped up on my phone. I really thought about declining the call. I picked up. “Hi,” I said brightly, but sensed her panic before the words arrived: “Have you got the car seat in the back of your car?”
I did. In the back of the car that was heading out for a run. Fuck, fuck, fuck, I thought. “Yes, yes I have — why do you need it?” I said breezily, though I already knew the answer as I flicked the left-hand indicator down. “YES. I need to take Elissa to dancing”.
I’m not bossing it as a nanna or a runner.
When did running get so hard? I’m the parent of a parent, and somehow, I’m back where I was 30 years ago, under the thumb of my two children, except I don’t remember it being this hard? I’m sure I had more time. I’m still a runner but am I in danger of becoming someone who runs?
Grandparents doing unpaid childcare outnumber the country’s entire paid childcare workforce by six to one and economists have started calling us an invisible pillar of the economy. Nobody puts that in the running boom coverage.
And two things can be true at the same time because I’m delighted that my daughter is running; she’s literally the poster girl of this running boom. Her age group entered the London Marathon ballot in record numbers and her running attire looks like it belongs on a catwalk. I can’t even talk about her well-fitting and supportive sports bra because I’ve regressed to wearing two bras on the start line again. I’m invisible to the manufacturers. There’s that word again, invisible.
Thirty years ago I negotiated for my time to run, with a husband away at sea and family miles away up the M1, I called in favours from friends, I’d watch theirs if they’d watch mine. I entered races and I trained for marathons, hoping one day I’d be a role model to my children. It was good enough because I thought my time would come, I’d heard something about an empty nest?
On Father’s Day last month, my daughter suggested a run by the sea, perfect I said, picturing the enviable scene, living “our best lives” with blue skies and blue water, just as social media had suggested. But her run had to be negotiated, her partner and children would meet us, her dad was to drive over, and our run was interrupted with café stops to book the table for the brunch that was scheduled to follow immediately after.
We had a lovely run, on our final mile, after she’d drunk all my water, she said “right, I’m off, I’m going to finish fast” And I watched her go.