The "Roads Scholar": Vive La Difference!

A Rare Glimpse Into What Really Goes On Inside Men's Brains While they Run

My family and I are on a mini-vacation, spending part of the Passover holiday with my sister’s family in Montreal (a five hour drive from Toronto).  My other sister from Long Island is driving up with her family. While I’m at the family reunion, I wanted share this humorous yet insightful article regarding the differences between women’s and men’s running groups.

Editorial Note: “The Finishing Kick: Me and the Boys” was written by Rachel Toor and first appeared in Running Times Magazine. The article is reprinted in Traxee.com by special permission from both Rachel and Jonathan Beverly, the Editor In Chief of Running Times.  Rachel’s most recent published book is “Personal Record: A Love Affair with Running” www.racheltoor.com.

The Finishing Kick:  Me and The Boys

Since I started running, my weekly long runs have been done in the company of bunches, mostly, of men.

What I love about running with men is that you can talk about nothing for hours. The same joke can be tortured and attenuated to within an inch of its life — and yet, on the 23rd telling someone adds a tiny twist that makes it continue to be amusing. You can run with the same guys for years and never know the names of their wives, children, partners, or bosses. You may have only the sketchiest idea of what they do for work. You probably won’t know where they grew up or went to college.

But you will know exactly which races they have coming up and what their PRs are. You will know about their injuries, the workings of their GI system, and the new shoes and gear they’ve discovered. You will know some part of their essential selves.

Virginia Woolf wrote, “I often like women. I like their unconventionality. I like their completeness. I like their anonymity.” What I like about men is their conventionality — their predictability; their inability not to rise to obvious bait; my ability, often, to finish their sentences. I like their lopsidedness, the urge not to integrate all parts of their lives. I like their egos — the chest-beating, the barbaric yawps sounded when they celebrate themselves. I like that they celebrate themselves.

You see all this on weekly long runs. They are more than a training device. They are a way of life, a culture, a testosterone shower.

Over the years, no matter where my long runs have been, it’s usually the same guys with different names. Sometimes they have the same names. What I can count on is that there will be camaraderie, competition, and easy banter. It’s an intimate act, running together each week for some number of hours. Out in the woods or on the streets while the sun is still low, you have privileged time — time that most of us wouldn’t set aside for a coffee klatch. Away from the exigencies of daily life, you are free not to think about them. And so, often, you don’t.

There’s usually a hierarchy. Since most people who train also race, everyone knows who’s the fastest. You value him for that, and give him a hard time, but also you wait, without comment, for those who are not as speedy. While there can be acting out — pushing the pace — the competition comes more from the mouth than from the legs and lungs. Doing the dozens, it’s called in some places. Talking smack, in others. Feelings rarely get hurt. Feelings are beside the point.

Some are born leaders; some have leadership thrust upon them. Someone has to organize — to decide what time to leave and from where, which route to take, how long to go. Sometimes this is done by consensus, often led by someone who, in civilian life, has a management job. Other times there’s a strong personality, a guy who says, this is what I’m doing. Follow me if you want. People usually want to follow a guy like that.

You can land in any city and find a bunch of guys who get together on Saturday or Sunday, early, regardless of weather. They will be named Bill, Scott, Steve, Mike, Doug, Brian, and Joe. They will be doctors, lawyers, professors, cabinet-makers, financial planners, lawn mowers, physical therapists, scientists, retailers, real estate agents, accountants, dentists, and the unemployed. If you’re unlucky, there will be writers. Writers tend to talk a lot (and be unemployed). They may write about you. Watch out for writers.

There will be a host — someone who, by dint of personality more than official capacity, will welcome you and make you feel at home, ask you questions, and explain the route. He will give you the down low on who the fast guys are, which are the interesting characters, whom to watch out for. There’s usually someone to watch out for, if only because he stands too close when he speaks and tends to spit. Or he is reflexively lecherous. Or he is a writer.

Having a stranger drop into the group can alter the dynamics a tad. Sometimes it’s a welcome break, a new person to tease; sometimes language or content will be shifted down a gear, especially if the stranger is a woman. It’s your job, as a strange woman, to assure the guys that they should be themselves. If you don’t want to hear your momma cracks and potty humor, you should run somewhere else.

There are also, of course, groups of women running together. This is different. The conversations tend to have more substance; feelings get discussed and the names of partners and children are known and remembered. I like to drop in on the girls from time to time, but, in truth, I am more comfortable with the guys.

Gender being what it is — a spectrum — there are often women with the men, and men with the women, and men who are more like women, and women who are like me: more like men. For myself, I can think of no better way to spend a weekend morning than making fart jokes and talking about races for two or three hours in the company of a bunch of guys named Jeff, Joe, Steve, Scott, or Dean.

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