I am not running much right now.

Obviously, because I’m writing this newsletter. But even when I’m done writing this, I will not be running. Because my Achilles tendon has other ideas about how I should spend my time, which are apparently, slowly, deliberately, eccentric-heel-dropping my tendon into compliance.

Injury always feels like an emotional mechanical bull ride. On a scale of one to emo, I’m the entire 2008 Warped Tour lineup whenever I’m hurt. Partially because at 32, any reminder of my own mortality, my impermanence, the fact that the meat sack I spend most of my time throwing up and down mountains is actually a delicate tapestry of tissue, liquids, and cells threatening to shatter the second I skip my mandatory 11 minutes of clamshells, sends me into a spiral, one leather jacket and a convertible Camaro shy of a full-blown midlife crisis.

If T.S. Eliot measured his life (or, fine, J. Alfred Prufrock’s) in coffee spoons, I have measured mine in scoops of Tailwind. Running gives my day structure and enough meaning to keep me buoyant between the soul-deadening realities of modern life, like email and laundry. Last year, I averaged about 12 hours a week, or 100 minutes a day of running. That means I spent 93 percent of 2025 not running. Even for someone who feels like they run a lot, that’s still a lot of not running.

All of the Other Bits When I’m Not Running

Most of being a runner isn’t actually running. It’s all the stuff around it.

Last week, I was gravel biking with a fellow injured runner (the four stages of injury grief: denial, bargaining, gravel biking, retirement), chatting about how much we missed running and detailing everything we were doing to get back to it. All the foam rolling, dry needling, nutrition dialing, strength training, and slow remodeling of various tendons and bones, just in the hopes of unclipping from the bike to lace back up.

So many folks struggle to claim the mantle of “runner”, like it’s some vaunted, higher echelon of being. A private club, like SoHo house, where they only serve flat Coke and stale pretzels, and the dress code is aid station casual (either horrifically underdressed in a Hawaiian shirt, or sous-viding yourself in a puffy suit). Ultrarunners have it worst, forever unsure exactly how and how often you have to get your ultra card punched before a robed Scott Jurek strikes your name from the membership book and you’re forced to surrender all your vanity belt buckles.

We’re not Freemasons (although there’s more than a whiff of cult to the whole thing, you must admit), and you don’t have to know a secret handshake or whisper Fidelio to get in. If you run, no matter how much, how far, how often, I’d say that qualifies you to pay your dues: in blisters, in chafing, in salt-crusted trucker hats, in owning too many ice bandanas, in knowing exactly who Gordy Ainsleigh is.

You are a runner, even when you are not running. — Do I feel like a runner when I’m not running but actually hiking with my dog? You betcha!

It’s a Vibe

For me, running isn’t so much an identity that can be earned as a way of being.

I feel like a runner when I’m grocery shopping, plodding along the aisles in my recovery slides to stock up on what looks like the Duggar family’s winter food haul, just for me.

I feel like a runner when I’m on the couch, watching TV—because I’m not just spending four hours watching Bar Rescue, I’m recovering.

I feel like a runner when I’m out with friends, and I absentmindedly grab my ankle to stretch my quads because the part of me that knows it’s weird to do dynamic mobility in public was killed long ago.

I’m a runner when I fold my laundry. So. Much. Laundry.

I’m a runner when I do my taxes. Well, this one is actually true; I’ve earned just enough money running to get taxed on it, which makes the IRS the one institution on Earth willing to certify me as a professional runner. Thanks, Uncle Sam. Mostly, I feel like a runner when I clip all seven of my toenails.

There’s no bar to clear on being a runner. No litmus test, no certification exam where you complete a hill workout while reciting past UTMB winners. There’s no distance you need to run, speed you need to hit, or number of shoes you need to own. Though if you immediately know the answer to those questions, you are most certainly a runner.

You are a runner if you love running enough that it starts to bleed into everything you do, and everything you are. If you feel just as excited for your morning run as you do for a cup of coffee, and if you low-key dread the early alarm, congrats, that makes you a runner too.

You are a runner on the days you feel strong, and on the days it feels like your body has gone through a vigorous spin cycle.

You are a runner if you can sometimes fly up mountains, and if you move like a geriatric giraffe trying to navigate the stairs first thing in the morning.

Yes, You Are a Runner

If you go looking for proof that you’re not a runner, your brain will find it. In your speed, your age, in how you show up in the world. I get it, I have a touch of it too, that squeamishness about owning the word, the reflex to deflect with a laugh and a sure, but I’m not that fast. But I’ll trip over three pairs of plated trail shoes and a foam roller on my way to deciding I’m not a runner.

Because once you start looking for the proof that you are one, it’s everywhere. It’s in the recovery slides at the grocery store, the quad stretch you do mid-conversation, the seven toenails. It’s in the foam roller underfoot. Right now, for me, it’s mostly in the clamshells.

So, I’m slowly getting back to running. It’s not impressive, but boy does injury offer a gratitude reset. Runs that would have felt inconsequential a month ago now make me proud enough to want to print out the GPX file and pin it to my fridge like a proud third grader. Look mom! I ran for an hour!

But I’ve never been more of a runner than I am right now: eccentric-heel-dropping my Achilles into compliance, clamshelling, all so I can get back to the thing that bleeds into everything else I am. The running was always the smallest part of it. The 7 percent.

The good sh*t, the other 93 percent is where being a runner really lives.

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Yep, You Are a Runner. Even When You’re Not Running.