By Charlotte Clews
I can't talk about how I came to be a runner without first telling you about my twin brother. We were both awkward and uncoordinated kids, but our minor physical impediments became even more minor when he was diagnosed with Leukemia at three-years-old. For the next few years, he was subjected to experimental but ultimately successful doses of chemotherapy and radiation. We went from being nearly indistinguishable in appearance to being a mismatched set, one short, wide and bald, the other tall, thin and hairy. That was when we earned our nicknames, the Turtle and the Hair. But while we now looked like different species, we still shared the inability to jump over anything higher than a garden hose. Despite or maybe because of surviving Leukemia, my brother was the bolder, braver twin. He was the first one to sign-up for a summer backpacking trip despite his propensity to overheat. And he was the one who took up Karate despite our shared congenital hip dysplasia that makes it really hard to kick anything higher than a kneecap. I was happy to sit back and watch. I hated all things difficult. I hated getting hot, and I really hated sweating.
Then came freshman year of high school where participation in a sport was mandatory. I chose soccer because it looked like I might get away with a good amount of bench warming. The coach sent us training drills, and, that summer, I remember miserably trying to run from one telephone pole to the next. But my brother dug in. Bright red and sweating more than anyone I know of (to this day), he willingly took on defense and embraced his role as a team player. It's not that he was ever any good at soccer, but he has always been willing to try.
Thankfully, because I was tall for my age, I was recruited to row crew the spring of Freshman year. “Yes!” I thought. No more jumping, hitting, kicking, or ducking. I could finally sit down and call it a sport. Predictably, I was a lazy rower; unpredictably, I turned out to be a really good rower. Good enough that by junior and senior year, I stroked my boat to victory at the Head of the Charles.
The point of this is not to relive my athletic glory days but to affirm that I know what easy, natural success feels like. I know what it feels like to be an elite athlete and win every event I enter along with all the attending pressures and stressors. And for some inexplicable reason, that side of competition doesn't get me personally fired up. It turns out what I really like is the challenge of doing things I'm not naturally great at and that I don't know if I can finish. And I'm sure this has something to do with my brother.
The highlight of my brother's athletic endeavors continued to be defined entirely by optimistic enthusiasm. Such that when we were 24, and neither of us having run more than from one telephone pole to the next, he decided it was time to complete a marathon. He signed us up for the Honolulu Marathon through the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. I had just finished thru-hiking the 2,600 mile Pacific Crest Trail and figured that was good enough training (why run more than I had to since the actual marathon would be enough running for one lifetime). We easily raised the money, and off we flew to Hawaii. The energy of 30,000 runners lined up a mile deep was fantastic. Even starting at the back of the pack, we were both swept up in the excitement. The sun came out, and, predictably, we both started to wildly overheat. The day became a heat-stroke survival walk from one bucket of ice-sponges to the next. We finished in nine hours and forty five minutes. Wait. What? You thought this was an essay about running not extremely slow walking? Here's where I adjust your perspective. First, we were not dead last (the newly married couple running in full regalia was behind us). Second, we were so freakin' proud of finishing our first marathon that we immediately signed up for another one. The Turtle and the Hair found something we loved, and it didn't matter that we weren't good at it.
“Enthusiasm is contagious.”
For our second marathon, I trained by running. Or at least I tried to. I didn't know it yet, but because of the awkward way my legs are attached to my hips, my running stride was eating my knees alive. In contrast, my brother worked with Team in Training coaches, who quickly identified his problematic running stride and directed him toward a more sensible speed-walking strategy. We arrived in Dublin, Ireland during the fall of 2000, ready to set a new P.R. I'll never forget the pain of that run. I ran the final 15 miles with a retired E.R. doctor who convinced me that we could finish under five hours. We did, but I felt demoralized by my body. It took all I had, and everything hurt. I didn't feel like a runner; I felt like a battle-weary limper. I straggled back to the hotel, showered, ate, and a few hours later, walked back to the finish line to wait for the Turtle. It was cold, dark, windy, and raining. The finish line was long gone. And then nine hours and forty minutes after the start of the race, my brother came willfully striding down the cobblestone street. Grinning as he finished and only slightly dismayed at the lack of a finisher medal, he was so excited that he'd beat his Honolulu time. Enthusiasm is contagious. This is the beauty of the mid and back-of-the-packer. Our successes are hard-won, minute, and almost entirely enjoyed by ourselves.
My brother, Leith Clews, running the Maine Marathon in 2016
20+ marathons and 21 years later, we're still running. My brother has taken several hours off his finishing time and, at the age of 44, set a P.R. at the Mount Desert Island Marathon last fall. I usually finish around the four and a half hour mark. I've mostly figured out how to keep my hips strong and how many miles I can run without too much injury (40 to 50 miles a week, at least half on trails and only ten miles faster than ten minutes/mile pace). There were a few years when I tried to get faster, but I just kept getting injured. These days I prioritize having fun and staying injury-free, and I've discovered that my pace is well-suited to long distances and big hills. The Turtle also excels at long-distance and after three years of trying, finally thru-hiked the Appalachian Trail in a blazing eight months.
It took me years to call myself a runner and to find the confidence to run with other runners. I've befriended hundreds of mid-packers in dozens of races from 1 to 100 miles. We mid-packers are the heart of every race. We are the party at the start line and are always there to cheer on the stragglers at the finish line. While I love watching talented, fast runners, and I have so much respect for the work and suffering they have endured to get to where they are, my heart will always be with the cabooses that push us all forward. You don't have to be fast, you can even be dead last, and still call yourself a runner.
About the Author
Charlotte Clews is a mid-pack long-distance runner with remarkably slow turnover and a distinctive low-clearance gait. She lives in Blue Hill, Maine, and heads over to Acadia to run the park trails once or twice a week. She's a hiker who loves to run. She owns Blue Hill Mountain Studio, where she teaches Pilates and practices physical rehab, and she just started a new business, Wild Maine Adventures, to get Maine teenagers into the mountains.
