I Live In Constant Fear That I Would Like Racewalking if I Tried It

The Olympic racewalking event recently took place at the Paris Olympics. While watching the competition of silly walks, I was struck with an intense realization that drummed up memories of my first encounter with the sport, way back in my childhood.

For those who don’t know, racewalking is that goofy-looking foot race where participants sway their hips as they speedily walk while being sure to never, ever, ever gain any hang time. That would be considered running or at least jogging. When you run, there is a moment where your feet are both off the ground, and you’re floating through the air until your lead foot touches Earth again. Racewalkers call that “flying.” You can be penalized for doing that little hover in racewalking because it means you’re not actually walking. Take your swift ass over to the 100m dash, you rapid little freak. In racewalking, at least one foot has to be in constant contact with the ground.

The supremely dorky hip swaying? It drops their hips a little lower, which keeps their center of mass lower and allows them to take longer strides while maintaining a smooth, steady gait. It’s walking with maximum efficiency and maximum embarrassment. It’s impossible to deny that racewalking is one of the most uncool things a human being can do.

Watching the athletic event at this year’s Olympics drummed up emotions I haven’t felt since I was a kid, which leads me to a painful admission: if I ever tried racewalking, I think I would like it and I think I would even be good at it.

I jog begrudgingly. It’s tedious and unenjoyable. It’s hard to believe there’s even such a thing as a “runner’s high.” It just sounds like the late stages of dehydration to me. But for years, I’ve muscled through it because it keeps my cholesterol low and my mind alert (and because I have no room for a stationary bike). I’ve always wondered if there was a better alternative, and now, the Olympics have reminded me that I’ve ignored the better, dumber alternative known as racewalking.

The sport has been around for well over a century and has been an Olympic event since 1904. It’s been a legitimate sport since long before I or anyone reading this was born, but it didn’t catch on in the United States until the 1990s, when racewalking (occasionally referred to as speedwalking, which, it turns out, is a different but similar thing) was always the butt of jokes.

I have distinct memories of different comedians on TV mocking the walk as they performed their own even more ridiculous version of it. My most indelible racewalking memory is of a sketch starring who I now realize was Bill Nye of Science Guy fame as a superhero called Speed Walker, who fights crime while strictly adhering to the rules of the sport.

It was from a sketch comedy show called Almost Live that ran for one season in Seattle. It was Portlandia before Portlandia but about Seattle. It must have been sold into syndication because I watched it a lot in Miami. As the years passed, whenever I thought of racewalking, I thought of it as unserious, as deeply uncool, because all the funny adults on TV were telling me it was all those things and because there was substantial evidence that proved them right.

Today, still clinging to my disdain for jogging, I think I finally get the appeal. I think I always got it, but I just didn’t want to admit it. Being seen as cool is all a child wants in life. It’s a desire that takes years to shake if you’re lucky enough to shake it at all, but I think I shook it a while ago, as evidenced by my shoe rack filled with New Balances. As I watched the Olympic racewalkers in Paris, I felt the call of the racewalk. I guess I always felt it, but now, I’m allowing myself to feel it openly and without shame.

I think I can do it. I think I could be good at it. I think I would love it. I might try it. But maybe I’ll try it indoors first. By myself. When my wife is at work. When the dog is asleep. Baby steps.