Ah, New Year’s Day. A time for reflection, optimism, and… hordes of people in fresh gym gear who have vowed to "make this the year!" Naturally, I had to go for a run today. Not because of any #NewYearNewMe nonsense, but because if I sat around eating leftover mince pies and cheese any longer, I’d start sweating Stilton.

Now, let’s get one thing clear: I am not one of those people who suddenly decides on January 1st to transform into an ultra-marathoner. I run sporadically throughout the year—enough to feel smug but not enough to actually be good at it. Today’s run? Purely coincidental. Unfortunately, try telling that to the judging eyes of passersby.

As I laced up my trainers (the same battered pair I’ve had for years, thank you very much), I could already feel the weight of societal expectation. “Oh, here’s another one,” the universe seemed to mutter. The weather? Classic British January—grey, damp, and just chilly enough to make you question all your life choices. Perfect for blending into the crowd of new runners, aka The Resolutionists.

The first kilometre was a battle—not against my legs, which had forgotten how to move post-Christmas, but against my overthinking. I imagined every dog walker and cyclist staring at me:
"Look at him. Bet he’s one of those ‘New Year, new body’ types. He’ll quit by next week."
Excuse me, but I’ve been quitting every week for years. It’s called balance.

By kilometre three, my breathing sounded like Darth Vader in a wind tunnel. A group of teens overtook me effortlessly on their bikes, and one of them shouted, “Keep going!” Was it encouragement? Sarcasm? We’ll never know. Either way, I felt seen. Too seen.

To make matters worse, I spotted a fellow runner ahead. This person definitely looked like a Resolutionist: brand-new trainers that practically sparkled, neon jacket brighter than my future, and a matching water bottle. I briefly considered slowing down so we wouldn’t look like we were in some kind of beginner’s boot camp together. But then I realised something important: they might think I’m the Resolutionist.

Nope. Couldn’t have that. I overtook them, wheezing like a kettle boiling dry, but with an air of defiance. As I passed, I shouted, “Not a New Year’s thing! Just, uh, regular running!” They looked confused. I felt victorious. Small wins.

By kilometre five, I had accepted my fate. Yes, people probably thought I was part of the New Year’s running brigade. No, I couldn’t stop mid-run to explain my long and inconsistent history with jogging. Instead, I leaned into it. Maybe I am a Resolutionist—just not a very good one. My resolution? To finish the run without collapsing into a puddle of sweat and regret.

As I trudged back home, red-faced and proud, I passed a neighbour putting their recycling out. They gave me a knowing nod. “Starting the year off right?” they asked. I opened my mouth to protest, to clarify, to reclaim my narrative! But instead, I just said, “Yep!” and shuffled away.

So here’s to 2025. To running when we want to, how we want to, and with zero shame—even if people think we’re part of the New Year’s cult. And if I do happen to quit by next week? Well, there’s always 2026.