On a cold November day in 2022, I showed up to one of Stanford Running Club’s “claw runs” — informal, social runs that take place starting at the Claw Fountain several times a week. A girl (who unbeknownst to me would become one of my closest friends) hopped up on the fountain, explained that she would be leading seven miles at an easy pace and headed towards the foothills behind campus.
At this point, I’d done several half-marathons. Seven miles — albeit on the longer side of my daily runs — was totally doable at my easy pace of around 11 minutes per mile. I started to run with the girl and her group, aware from my older brother’s characterization of the club that the run paces might be a tad outside of my comfort zone. But when the group started splitting 7:30/mile pace up the Row, I realized that I was not hanging on for the rest of this run.
Two kind freshmen dropped off with me at a slightly less uncomfortable 9:00/mile pace, but I ended up running home, discouraged and certain there wasn’t a place for me in Running Club.
That couldn’t have been further from the truth.
Over the summer between my sophomore and junior year, I was sick of running alone, so I swallowed my pride and sent out a message to the Running Club GroupMe, where I’d so far only lurked.
“When I’m back on campus, slow people are going to run this town,” I wrote. And then, “(No, but seriously, if you have any interest in a 10-minute pace group at claw runs this year, like this message.)”
(Note: Running 10 minutes per mile is by no means slow, nor is “slow” an objective measure. I was just positioning my pace group relative to the pace groups I’d known to be offered.)
I shut my phone off. There were over 500 people in the GroupMe. Only half a dozen were at the claw run that I’d been at. Surely I could find one other person to run at my pace with me.
14 people liked the message. Seven showed out to the first social run of the school year. After that, turnout varied between three or four runners to over a dozen on good days. But I showed up to claw run after claw run, jogging my 10-minute pace and — most importantly — refusing to drop a soul. Nobody ran alone.
I joined the competitive team, doing track workouts, racing and traveling with the club and eventually, making some of my best friends, even with people who can run a marathon at the speed I can race an all-out mile. I ran at Running Club Nationals, I ran from Stanford to the Sea, and — at the end of last year — I ran for 2024-2025 co-President, and got elected!
And Nobody. Cared. About. My. Pace.
They cared that I was friendly, that I showed up to practices consistently, that I gave my all at races and that I made Running Club a priority amongst a very busy extracurricular calendar. And when it came down to it, they showed up for me. They talked to me about my Daily articles, came to the Ram’s Head shows I performed in and — almost a year after that first claw run – Nicole, the girl who stood on the fountain, traveled to Sacramento by train to cheer me on at my first ever marathon.
During that first run, I internalized that I didn’t belong, that there wasn’t space for me until I was faster. But in truth, that space was something I had to create unless I wanted to further a self-fulfilling prophecy where there wasn’t a pace group that I could run with.
Pulling up a chair for yourself at the metaphorical table is not always as easy as sending out one GroupMe message (well, two). But you also can’t expect one to magically open up for you if you’re not willing to ask for a seat. At risk of a double cliché, and revealing that I don’t know all that much about seafood, I’ll leave you with this: the world is your oyster. It’s up to you to shuck it.