For many, running ink is a sign of who you are. But what happens if a day comes when you can’t run anymore?
My sister tells me that my husband is at a tattoo parlor—that he checked in on Facebook to a place in Austin, Texas, that she says “looks kinda sketch.” I know what he’s up to. For months, he’s been talking about getting words inscribed on his thigh that speak to his runner-self.
Bryan is a trail runner, an aspiring 100-mile finisher who’s accustomed to lining up for 50Ks next to the ink-laden genus who seem to predominate the trail and ultra community. He says an increasing number of runners—on dirt and the road—are getting inked with race times, wings, a spirit animal, a mantra. I’ve noticed the same.
bubblegum-colored heart, all acquired before legal age and representing parts of my emerging identity). When I see the words “miles to go” written across someone’s ankle, sometimes I nod, understanding. If I notice a “3:40:03” on a person’s wrist, I know that’s the time they want to beat, and envy their boldness.
But it’s also—to borrow a phrase from my sister—kinda sketch.
I confess to her that I’m not sure the popularity of running tattoos is a good trend; that I understand the desire to outwardly show who you inwardly feel you are, or want to be. But, you know… tattoos are forever and for some people, running might not be.
“So?” she says. She’s casual about body art. Pictures cover her ribs: a UFO, a baby holding a machine gun. She says they don’t have deeper meaning because she believes (for now), nothing means anything.
Tattoos fade faster when exposed to the sun. But you can slow that process by covering ink that sees daylight while you’re running with a broad-spectrum sunscreen of at least SPF 30.
A thin, easy-to-spread lotion that won’t leave you feeling sticky.
This organic, water-resistant lotion is nongreasy and is good for 80 minutes of hard sweating.
Made by professional triathletes, this zinc-based sunscreen is designed to last through your long runs.
These skin-nourishing essentials keep your ink bright, vibrant, and protected.
But running—at least to us runners—does mean something. And I suppose my dismay about running tattoos is rooted in that reality. And in mortality. What happens if one day our body simply can’t do what our mind (or soul) wants it to, and we have to give up the thing we loved and cherished? If running is so much a part of you that you let inky needles dig under your skin to mark you for life, then what happens when you cannot run anymore? Who are you if not a runner?
I ask a friend, a man with a rabbit on his thigh, to tell me why he got the tattoo (because he was always ahead of the people he was running with, and it earned him the nickname Hare), and then to tell me what will happen when he can’t run anymore—what would the tattoo mean then?
Could it be that I, a sterilized version of my past punk self, a renegade turned kombucha drinker who goes to bed at 10 p.m. to wake up early and get five miles in, am somehow still the rebel I was when I was 17? I’m not sure I see it, but I also I guess that wouldn’t be the worst thing.
Bryan got the tattoo. He says he needs to get some mountains around it, fill it in a little. I imagine him older, hobbling around, maybe the two of us using each other as crutches, not strong enough to get up stairs, let alone the mountains he once climbed.
I hope that if that time comes, he sees his tattoo, “One more mile,” and still feels like a runner. I hope he remembers the times we ran together, the races he finished, and every step his legs endured.