There is one thing that happens to me more and more often when I go out for a run: I greet another runner and I get no response. Sometimes they haven’t even looked at me, so it’s hard to return the gesture. Other times our eyes have met, but my raised hand or my smile stay unreturned. And I’ll admit that for a few seconds I wear a bit of a poker face. Had they thought I knew them? That I wanted to say something? That I was trying to flirt? No idea.
Before continuing, a small exception. Normally I write thinking about us, the women runners, but this time I want the men to feel addressed as well. Because this is about all of us who share kilometers and about a habit that, for some reason, we have been losing.
Perhaps it catches my attention especially because I also ride a bicycle, and there it happens quite the opposite. You cross paths with another cyclist and the greeting almost always appears, even if they’re several meters to your left along the opposite lane. A hand, a nod, any gesture. Even when I trained clipped in on the bike preparing a triathlon, forearms resting and little chance to move, it was enough to lift two fingers. The rider coming toward you knew perfectly well what they meant.
When We Knew Each Other Without Knowing It
I’ve been running in the Casa de Campo for many years and I clearly remember a time when there were far fewer of us. You would cross paths with someone training and the greeting would arise naturally. You didn’t know who they were, surely they didn’t know anything about you either, and that was enough. You were running and that seemed enough.
Today the picture is very different. Casa de Campo is full of runners and, far from annoying me, I love it. Especially because more and more of us are women. After so many years of running, it still thrills me to meet other women training and, above all, to see so many running alone, something that today is part of the landscape of any park or circuit with absolute normality.
I don’t miss a niche-running scene nor do I think it was better because there were fewer of us. What I do miss is that habit that seemed to be part of the act of going out for a run: recognizing each other.
Of course I’m not talking about greeting every person when we train in a crowded area. Probably we would end up dedicating more energy to public relations than to the run itself; I’m talking about those crossovers where it’s just you and the person coming toward you. You’ve seen each other. Both of you are running. And yet you pass by one another as two complete strangers. Which we are, of course. But we are also two strangers doing exactly the same thing.
Maybe that’s why it still comes to me instinctively. On round trips or when I do several laps in a particular area, I sometimes cross paths with the same person and if I see that they’re doing a fast workout, the second time I’ll already offer a “let’s go!”, a “come on!”, or a “cheer up!”. I don’t know who they are or what they’re training for, but that’s beside the point.
Two Seconds
I don’t think those who don’t greet are more unfriendly or that there’s a new generation of runners bent on ignoring the rest. Probably the explanation is far less interesting: there are many more of us, we run more focused on our workouts, mindful of pace, of the clock, of the headphones, or simply lost in our thoughts. And there will be people who never learned that little code because they started running when it was no longer common.
But precisely for that reason it pains me a bit to see it fade away, because for me that gesture has never been merely a matter of courtesy. It carries a bit of recognition and also a little encouragement.
You don’t need to belong to the same club, wear the same jersey, or run at the same pace. One of you might be finishing a set of intervals while the other starts a gentle, easy run. You might be preparing for your first 10K while the person coming toward you has twenty marathons behind them.
Because it’s two seconds: a glance, a hand, a nod; you don’t need to stop or talk. For me it has always meant something simple: I see you, I know what you’re doing, and I’m here too.
I’m not trying to start a campaign to recover runner greetings or set a protocol for when we should raise a hand, nor is it necessary to turn every crossing into an outburst of enthusiasm; it’s enough to look each other in the eyes.
So, if one day we cross paths while I’m running and I greet you, take it easy. I don’t know you, I probably don’t intend to say anything, and you don’t need to stop. Return the gesture and keep going with your kilometers. Or smile. I’m one of you.
