We all know what runners look like: Runners are slight and light and wiry.
Runners are taut and angular, lean and lithe.
Gristle and grit.
After I finished London, my wife, who was stood across the road from Big Ben waiting for me to finish, joked: Everyone who finished ahead of you was half your size.
On marathon day in April I weighed 100kg. That’s 220lbs in American money, or fifteen-and-a-half old British stones.
That is to say I’m a big lad. I’m 193cm/6’3” in bare feet. I have broad shoulders, a 46-inch chest. A 34-inch waist.
That is to say I don’t look like a runner.
When I run I look like a rugby player who has taken a wrong turn off a playing field. I look like a boxer trying to make weight. I look like I’m about to tackle someone.
Brands know what runners look like too. Or what they want runners to look like.
They want slighter and lighter. They want ‘skinny ripped’. They want steroid chic with carefully curated tattoos. They want narrow hips, narrow chests. They want whippets.
There’s nothing wrong with that, if that’s the way you happen to look.
But there are entire companies that don’t cater to the larger male runner. I can’t get my chest in a Soar vest, for example. My 34-inch waist is an XL in Tracksmith shorts.
I have spent much of my adult life not really fitting in the world — planes, trains and automobiles. But I always fit in on a basketball court, or in a gym.
Running is the only sport I’ve ever felt too big for.
I don’t lift much these days, and when I do, it’s for strength, not size. My stature is a result of old pursuits.
That is to say, I used to lift.
If Hyrox was a thing back in 2005 I’d have probably been all in on it. I could run a 36-minute 10k back then, and could bench 120kgs. My main interests were working out and talking about it. Same guy, different sport. Still interesting as hell.
So that’s how I got the frame. How I got the heft was about a decade of serious depression, living alone and not looking after myself very well.
By the end of 2020, after two lockdowns where I ate a lot of feelings and did very little exercise, I was lifting 120kgs each time I stood up.
I carried it well, which was half the problem. It crept up on me. Being tall and broad, you can hang a fair bit of meat off your bones before it really becomes noticeable.
What spurred me to change was buying a pair of trousers with a 40-inch waist. Sure, it was just that one brand — whose workwear-inspired trousers have particularly inflexible waistlines — but my waist had become a line I wasn’t willing to cross.
In 2021 I started walking everywhere. Ten-thousand steps a day, then 15. Then 20. I began each day with a 5km walk before work. I walked at lunch. I walked after dinner. I walked until I wore down the tread on my shoes, until the soles let in water.
I didn’t start running until 2022, until I lost the weight. Until I had the habit. Walking was my gateway drug, my first love. My salvation. If you want to get into running, there’s no better way than walking.
I also started being mindful about calories, and thanks to my now wife, who I’d met in December 2020, eating freshly prepared meals stuffed with vegetables and proteins.
I even began to enjoy salads.
Once I set my mind to something I tend to do it. By April 2020 I’d lost 25kg and was wearing trousers with a 34-inch waist for the first time since my 20s.
Losing that weight was like stripping off my depression suit. I recognised myself for the first time in a long time. I felt like a long lost version of me. It was very liberating.
What followed was Hot Dan Summer, where I never once worried about whipping my shirt off at the beach, something I hadn’t been able to do since the heady 8-pack days of my youth.
Of course, weight fluctuates. Throw a baby and a desk job into the mix and I went from 95kg back up towards 100kg, where I’ve been most of the past year, despite the running. Alongside the marathon training I also did a fair bit of marathon eating.
On the day itself, I felt heavy. Whether it was the carb-loading or the heat, at the start of the race I felt bloated and doughy and slow, like I couldn’t turn my feet over, despite hitting much faster paces over long distances in training.
But there were also times I felt strong, on the hills, and in the latter stages of the race. Whatever my feelings about it, despite not looking like a runner, my body carried me through my first marathon, and in a respectable chip time of 3:31:30.
A hundred kilos is a lot to carry around a marathon course.
It’s a lot of force to put through the joints — between 250-300kg every step. And it’s nearly 10kg heavier than is recommended for men my height.
For Valencia Marathon in December I’m changing a few things. One of those things is the way I train, which I talked a little about in my last post. The other is my weight.
Losing weight is a tricky subject. As is writing about it. For those with disordered eating or trauma around running and weight, I appreciate this is a difficult topic.
Weight is about balance. I want to be lighter while maintaining my strength.
I don’t have a specific number in mind, just that I’d like to feel better — lighter, less encumbered. It’s not about looking like a runner, it’s about feeling my best.
So for the past few weeks as part of my pre-block and early-block prep I’ve been eating more mindfully, like cutting down on overly processed foods and not snacking so much between meals, while making sure I’m properly fuelled for my runs.
I’m down to 95kgs again and feeling better for it. I ran a sub-20 minute 5k (yes, it was on a treadmill, but it was verified by a Stryd footpod) for the first time in 20 years.
That’s not all due to the weight loss, per se. I had the fitness. But it’s not not a contributing factor, and I felt good during the run – no heaviness, no bloating.
Studies have shown that a runner loses 2 seconds per kilometre for every extra kilogram of weight they carry.
Following that metric (and ignoring others), if I were to run London Marathon today, I’d be around 8:49 quicker – much closer to my goal time of 3 hours 20 minutes.
Of course it’s only a guideline, and many other factors are at play. But couple it with a lower injury risk – less stress on my muscles and tendons – and it makes sense to be mindful about my weight during the block and beyond.
It’s a controllable element in a sport full of variables.
In order to keep that strength and speed, there’s a limit to how much weight I’m willing to lose, and physiologically, there’s a limit to how much I can lose.
I’m a big guy. A few kilograms won’t make a dramatic difference. I’m not suddenly going to be 60kg soaking wet, all gristle and grit.
I’m not going to suddenly fit into a Soar vest.
But I can feel better about myself. I can feel better on runs and in races.
I can feel like a runner.
I already do. When I’m wearing my dad-style wraparound sunglasses, Bandit half tights and Ciele cap combo, especially so.
Brands will keep trying to decide what runners look like.
But what a runner feels like? That’s up to the runner.
I’m enjoying being a little lighter — literally like I’ve had a weight lifted from my shoulders. No matter how that translates in marathon times come December.
Nothing is more important than that. Not running certain paces, not fitting into certain brands. Not matching a certain aesthetic.
What a runner feels like is the entire point.
Thanks for reading. Here are some more posts you might enjoy:
We’re all running too fast, with James Copeland