Two-tonne Tessy’s laced up and lumbering. The first step wasn’t pretty—think comedian posing as a model—but the Elephant Run has begun. Determination’s pushing the flockers out of the way.
Mumma Bear’s been hibernating. Not in a cave, but in the post-COVID jungle of supermarket runs, construction chaos, and anxiety attacks. Once upon a time, she was pounding the treadmill 3–5 times a week, clocking 10km events like they were brunch dates.
Then came the pandemic, and the gym turned into a mirage. RPM in a crowded house? Impossible. Pilates? Pricey but potent. Water aerobics? Cancelled or inconvenient. And running? Well, let’s just say the ankles rolled, the motivation tanked, and the COVID baby—20kg of it—refused to budge.
But spring has sprung, and Mumma Bear is lacing up. Not for speed. Not for glory. For movement. For strength. For the kind of stubborn joy that comes from doing something hard and surviving it.
She calls it the Elephant Run.
🧢 Sunday’s run was a plod through puddles and pride. Cap on, route chosen to avoid familiar faces (because model poses vs reality is a whole mood), and off she went. By the eighth interval, things got wobbly—faint, breathless, and regretting the ambitious one-way route. Dehydration? Possibly. Anxiety? Definitely. Endorphins? Delayed. But she made it home, eventually, with a few unscheduled sit-downs and a newfound respect for water.
🥤 Tuesday’s run was redemption. Smoothie breakfast, hydration sorted, and a familiar walking route. No dizzy spells, better breathing, and a recovery that didn’t feel like a rescue mission. Two runs down, 25 to go. Pilates is still in the mix, even if the budget’s tight and the anxiety’s loud.
🧠 The Great Excuse Migration
Let’s be honest. Sometimes the excuses aren’t just lazy—they’re protective.
“I don’t want to be hot and sweaty” isn’t vanity. It’s a visceral rejection of discomfort.
“I don’t want to be out of breath” isn’t weakness. It’s a trauma echo. When anxiety attacks hijack your lungs for days, breathlessness isn’t just unpleasant—it’s terrifying.
And then there’s the perfectionist complex. You know what to do. You’ve done it before. But now, the stakes feel higher. You’re older. Heavier. Slower. And being seen in this state? It’s like walking into a boardroom in your pajamas. Vulnerability in motion.
So the excuses flock in:
• “Too tired” = I’m scared I’ll collapse.
• “Too late” = I’ve missed my window.
• “Too hard” = I don’t trust my body anymore.
• “Too busy” = I’m avoiding the emotional cost.
But here’s the truth: the elephant run isn’t about loving the task. It’s about refusing to let fear write your schedule. It’s about showing up, imperfect and sweaty, and saying,
“Nice try, flockers.”
Let’s talk about participation awards. They get a bad rap from the high-performance crowd, but for those of us in the elephant category—older, heavier, rebuilding from collapse—they’re not consolation prizes. They’re markers of grit.
Running events were never about speed for me. They were about showing up. You’d see the athletes fly past, sure. But you’d also see the plodders, the walkers, the comeback queens. And no one judged. You got your time, your medal, your sweaty photo—and it meant something. Not because you were good at it, but because you did it anyway.
That’s the magic of the elephant run. It’s not about being fast. It’s about refusing to be flattened by perfectionism. It’s about reclaiming movement when breathlessness feels like panic, when sweat feels like shame, when visibility feels like exposure. It’s about saying, “I’m not good at this—and I’m doing it anyway.”
So yes, participation awards have their place. They honor the quiet victories. The runs that start with dread and end with pride. The plods that feel pointless until the endorphins kick in three hours later. The moments when you lace up, not because you love it, but because you refuse to let inertia win.
To my fellow elephants and springboks alike:
You are still the star of your own story.
