Paula Radcliffe ‘chicks’ many male competitors during last year’s London Marathon
At last year’s London Marathon, we saw Paula Radcliffe sign off her competitive running career. As she finished, a trail of thousands of runners stretched for miles behind her, a good portion of them men. They’d all been ‘chicked’.
It pains me even to write that, because ‘chicked’ isn’t a term I like. In fact, it’s up there with ‘chav’ on the list of C-words I refuse to use. For those unfamiliar with it, the definition of ‘chicked’ is for a male runner to suffer the ignominy of being beaten or overtaken by a female runner. Apparently, you men should feel embarrassed about this. Your masculinity is so fragile that being ‘beaten by a girl’ is something to be avoided at all costs.
Most runners I know aren’t concerned by the gender of those around them, but I’ve also run with men who don’t like to be passed by a lady. Gentlemen, I’ll let you into a secret: we women can tell when you don’t like us running faster than you. It’s a good job you chose running as your hobby, because you’d make a crap poker player. Your tells?
1. Speeding up when we go to overtake, then dropping your pace again.
2. Standing in front of us at the start line because you assume you’re faster.
3. Glancing at the dashboard of our treadmills while running next to us, then nudging your speed up.
It’s not just men throwing the word at each other like an insult; women use it too and wear it like badge of honour if they’ve ‘chicked’ a guy. They can even buy t-shirts with the words ‘you’ve just been chicked’ on the back. There’s a website (covered in pink, obviously) devoted to the term that boasts that it’s ‘empowering female athletes’.
Empowering women by belittling men? By setting up the premise that men should be faster than women? By judging the success of your race by the number of men you overtake? “It’s just banter,” you could say. And maybe I’m just overthinking it. But, to me, the term does no favours to either men or women runners.
When I get into the last half mile of a race, whether you’re male, female or an escapee from the nearest KFC, I’m racing you. And when we cross the finish line, I will turn and shake your hand whether you’re just ahead or behind me. The only person I’m truly competing with is myself.
