4. "Join a Hiking Club."

On keeping up and falling behind.

It’s 40 degrees at 7:30pm on a Monday in November and I am jogging down Kent Avenue with a pack of 30 sweaty, sneaker-happy Brooklynites. I am falling behind because running is not a sport I practice often, and though in decent shape, my 9-minute-mile is not fast enough to stay on pace with my peers. I am watching the world fly by as I barrel down the street, and wishing we could hit just one red light for a moment of respite from the run. I am out of breath and simultaneously burning hot and freezing cold. I am placing one foot in front of the other, picking up speed as my sneakers pound the pavement, and I am cursing whatever fool convinced me that attending a run club was a good idea. 

I am, of course, the fool in question. 

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This all started when I set out to “Join a Hiking Club,” an unsurprisingly difficult task to accomplish in New York City. It’s not that such groups don’t exist. In fact, there’s actually an impressive roster: the New York Ramblers, Shorewalkers, Appalachian Mountain Club, Westchester Trails Association, and the NY-NJ Trail Conference. But unfortunately, like most things in the city, these options exist in extremes. 

Yes, that’s right. Shockingly, there is no casual hiking club tailored to the person who is just trying to quickly go up and down a small hill with a group in order to fulfill an item on a dated dating list. There is only “be at Port Authority on Sunday at 8:00am, get on the bus to East New Jersey, and be prepared for a moderate 7-8 hour hike up a mountain.” Now, for the avid hiker interested in spending their weekend in the woods, the latter might not seem intimidating. It might sound like a dream. And if that is you, reader, then I suggest you leave this Substack and head over to the New York Ramblers website ASAP. 

Otherwise, hang out! You’re in good company here. 

Personally, the thought of spending an entire Sunday hiking the hills of Passaic County with four complete strangers made me feel sick and anxious. So I listened to my body and bid adieu to the New York Ramblers. I pivoted and instead turned to what my Mom suggested as “the New York City equivalent of a hiking group.” 

Run club. 

I’ll be honest, I’ve never understood the appeal of “running” in a “group.” I didn’t like it in seventh-grade P.E., I didn’t like it at the Turkey Trot, and I certainly didn’t like it in Los Angeles, when I tagged along to a friend’s club and threw up on the side of the road roughly one mile in. As far as mortifying moments go, that one is high on my list. In my defense, I was sick, but no one believed that. They all just assumed that the random plus-one who came to their run club couldn’t cut it, and the vomit on the side of Culver Boulevard only proved that point.

So I can’t say I was stoked to try my feet at synchronized running once more. But it was that or eight hours in New Jersey, so I put on my big girl leggings and got googling. 

Once again unsurprisingly, New York is rich with run clubs. With the help of a truly incredible spreadsheet (it lists all of the groups, when and where they meet, and experience level required), I found my target: the North Brooklyn Runners. NBR is open to all and meets pretty much every day.

So that’s how I ended up jogging down Kent Avenue with a group of strangers on a Monday night. 

But I almost didn’t make it. That Monday night, I was heavily considering bailing on run club. I’d been feeling lonely and sorry for myself and was wishing I didn’t have to do so much work in order to *maybe* meet my person. I didn’t want to run. I wanted to sit on my couch and drink tea and bake cookies and rot in sweatpants and forget about reality and lose myself in the world of Eve Babitz’s Slow Days, Fast Company (an amazing read recommended to me by the iconic Eliza Cossio). It was cold out and I was tired and angry at the solo situation life had thrust me in. 

I say all of this as if someone was forcing me to attend a run club. That’s not the case. The truth is if I had wanted to stay home and not run and blame the world for the way it was making me feel, I could have. But if I didn’t run, the only person I would have to blame for feeling sad and hopeless would be myself. And myself can be pretty mean when disappointed, so I decided to go. 

At 7:28pm, I joined the club as they gathered in a circle in the corner of Williamsburg’s McCarren Park. Some folks knew each other, others were strangers. Many had been coming for years and a few were first timers. I stood next to Jack, a recent transplant from the West Coast. He was attending run club for the same reason I was: to move our feet and to meet people. We chatted for some time and I thought hmmm… maybe… could this be someone good?

And then he ran away.

Technically, we split into pace groups and Jack joined the 8-minute joggers while I lagged back with the 9 to 9:30 -minute runners. We bid farewell and began our separate trots. 

If it hadn’t been cold, NBR would have stopped for a picture halfway through the run. If it hadn’t been frigid, the gang would have hung out to do core in the park at the end of the night. If it hadn’t been bone chilling and depressingly dark, there would have been opportunities to continue the conversation. But it was 40 degrees in November and so at the end of the run, folks disbanded as soon as they finished their route. Even before we started, I knew I wouldn’t be seeing Jack again.  

As I jogged down Kent, thighs screaming, I found the whole situation to be a comedy of almosts. Almost a connection. Almost something. When would it be enough?

I barreled my body down a road by the river and thought about pace, and how this particular moment – literally and figuratively – is painful because everyone is racing towards the finish line at a different speed. As I sprinted down the street and spiraled about watching people pass milestones I have yet to reach, I fell behind. So I picked up speed and tried to outrun the fear that I will never catch up with the group. That by the time I get to the end, it’ll be too late. Everyone will have already moved on. 

But pace is not a permanent condition. It is not forever. Life is an ever-changing race of fast and slow, stop and start, hike and run, happy and sad.  

I wish I had a happier ending to this essay, but the truth is I don’t have an ending at all. I’m not done here. 

After the jog finished, I walked home, proud and pissed and peaceful (and cold). I thought about my list project thus far and what brought me to run club. How the past months have changed me. Monday night, despite my every inclination to not go running, I showed up. I didn’t wear headphones and I took a leap of faith and introduced myself to the runner next to me. I stepped in a circle I didn’t think I belonged in, and pushed myself to stay even when I felt like the odd duck out. I made imperfect progress.

And as far as run club goes, the shoes are on my feet. If I want to jog-flirt with the cute guy in the 8-minute pace group, I’ll have to come back. I’ll have to get faster and stronger and better. I’ll have to keep pushing forward. Because at the end of the day, no matter how hard things get, there’s always the next run. 

Ugh. There’s always the next run. 

See you on Monday, NBR. xx

McCarren at night. To me, it looks like a movie.

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