Until this year, I had never registered for an organized running race. They had seemed intimidating. But my partner signed up for an early fall 10K, so spontaneously I joined for the 5K as well.
My training schedule was inconsistent: I only made it out to the track a few weekends. But my plan, as a friend had described to me, was to complete, not compete. I focused on my playlist and my breathing and the sunshine.
On race day, everything was ready to go when we got there. There was water, snacks, and later fresh fruit and pizza. There was music, announcements, warm up stretches, a land acknowledgement, and the National Anthem performed by a live choir. The running path was clearly marked, with signs that read things like, Runners are sexy – Meet you at my pace, and a big inflatable start and finish line. There was a photography station and water stations and cheering sections, teenagers in orange shirts who clapped along the way.
It was corporate. Sponsors were thanked before each group left. Dominoes pizza flags flew. Someone was walking around in the Wendy’s girl costume. There were brand shoes and shirts and socks for sale. I got some free promotional lip balm, but I passed on a free promotional plastic thing that takes hair out of your drain.
It was also community. I saw families and prams on the route. I saw high school track teams lacing up together. I saw a group of laughing women wearing the same blue shirt that read Kinda Fit and Kinda Fat. I saw one athlete with running blades surrounded by her people. And I saw supporters with coffees and dogs and cardboard signs at the finish. At about 1000 people in attendance, it was big enough to feel like an event but not so big to feel crushed by a crowd.
Afterwards, the standings were easy to find at an online website: at just under 36 minutes I placed about in the middle of the 5K group (and my age group). I ran the whole way and didn’t fall, so that was a win for me.
Elan before the race, the inflatable start line behind her
My impressions
Acknowledging the race was also as a fundraiser, as a regular hobby registration fees would likely be a financial barrier for some. Although it seemed an easy day, I have no comparative experience: the route may have had less grade, the weather nicer, and the crowd much smaller than at typical races. Also, I had novice-level goals: I am not sure how the race day was for those running the half marathon.
But after the race, with my gratis water bottle in one hand and a pre-chopped half banana in the other and a giant Also Participated medal around my neck, I thought about how much planned encouragement there was. How much positive support, and how little negative pressure, I felt as a result of it as a first-timer.
If you’ve hesitated to sign up for your first 5K race, it may be less intimidating and more approachable than you might think.
Forget pumpkin spice– the real October fans eschew such commercial trends and head straight to the source (the pumpkin patch, naturally), in search of the largest pumpkins on the planet for, what else: pumpkin boat racing!
If you hurry (that is, finish that coffee, take a quick shower and find your car keys), you might be able to make it in time for the Damariscotta, Maine Pumpkinfesr Regatta. It’s the marquee event of the Damariscotta Pumpkinfest, which features the following lineup:
So many events to choose from! Just so you know, this is a pumpkins-at-every-size friendly festival.
In case you think this is just a silly event (well, it is, but it’s not just silly– it requires skill and coordination), here’s a little reporting about the difficulty and expertise needed:
“Keeping the boats straight up,” said Weiss. “It’s like trying to get into and, if you can imagine, trying to paddle a basketball. They don’t stay up very well.”
Weiss said frogmen are in the water to assist the numerous competitors that fall in. The giant pumpkins in the regatta are harvested by commercial growers.
A lot goes into the preparation for the boats. This guy, who must be basing his design on washing machines, shows how one sizes the cockpit.
We should ask this guy if it’s harder to paddle a pumpkin boat or a washing machine boat. I’m sure he knows.
I’m not sure what the actual rules are regarding assistive technology for regatta entrants. I mean, can you pilot an e-pumpkin boat, or is it paddles only? Maybe there’s a gnome-exemption rule– dress like a gnome, you can use whatever aids you want. We should ask this guy:
Pumpkin motorboat, anyone? Extra gnome passengers optional.
I wish I could say I was going today. But, hey, there’s always next year to look forward to.
Dear readers, how are you commemorating pumpkin season? Any pumpkin runs planned? Spooky kayaking? I’d love to hear from you.
The SkiErg is the first station in a HYROX event. You need to complete 1000m on the SkiErg, which comes after the first 1km run. Following this, you will run a further 7km and complete 7 other functional stations (sled push, sled pull, burpee broad jumps, rowing, farmers carries, walking lunges and wall balls).
Now I can’t run so there’ll be no HYROX racing in my future, but past me, runner me, would have loved this event.
I love farmer’s carries and sled pushing and pulling.
So I’ve been looking on in envy at this event that’s growing fast in popularity. Sarah and I work with a personal trainer at the fancy gym and he’s doing a HYROX event this fall and is starting to train.
That means he’s starting to incorporate some of the HYROX events into our workouts. (YAY!)
Yesterday it was wall balls and the ski-erg.
I remember wall balls from my CrossFit days.
The ski-erg I’ve done once or twice before knee surgery when I needed upper body cardio. This time Sarah and I had fun racing each other to see how fast we could complete 300 m. We did it twice and came within a few seconds of each other.
It’s fun. Like the rowing machine, it’s the kind of strength plus cardio event I enjoy. Also, technique matters. We’ll definitely do it again.
And you may ask yourself, “Well, how did I get here?” Talking Heads, “Once in a Lifetime”
Recently, I posted here about the inner critic who reminds me not to want too much—a donut, say, or a marathon finish. A friend asked about the donut/marathon analogy. Surely, she said, a marathon involves too much suffering to count as self-indulgence.
Which got me thinking about the problem of women and “too much.” In her excellent book, Monsters, Claire Dederer tackles the question directly, linking it to the problem of women owning their ambition. She recounts a male friend telling her about his very importantbook, a description Dederer goes on to quote for laughs when describing her own work to others. And then Dederer asks, “But, really, what’s so funny about saying your life’s work is important?” She goes on: “Ambition and self-confidence are all bound up together. Ambition is the thing that men have. …It turns out that this is not such an easy word, for women.”
To say, as a woman, “I am ambitious,” is to invite a range of responses, most immediately: “Who do you think you are?” Where, for men, being ambitious might simply signal a desire to do well in a chosen profession or to pursue a goal outside of work that involves challenges and determination, for women, it’s more like naming a character flaw. “Look at me, I am a selfish person. I am willing to make other people suffer so that I can succeed. Because if I’m thinking about myself, I’m not thinking about everyone else.”
Which brings us to the marathon. Ten years ago this month, I bought my first pair of trainers—that is, running shoes for running–in thirty years. I was shopping for a pair of runners for my daughter, home from university for the holidays, and they had a “buy one, get the second pair 50% off” deal on. I decided on my goal right there in the store: to run 5 km. Looking back, this was actually quite a large ambition, because it broke a pattern of twenty years, which involved not taking seriously exercise of any kind. I know there are amazing women out there running marathons in between domestic and work shifts. Me–I would have lost my mind if there had been one more item on my to-do list while I raised two kids and held down a job. But, at fifty, I had more time available. With my new sneakers on, I reclaimed my love of running. And then I wanted it all—the shoes, the watch, the sun glasses, and, a couple of years later, the marathon.
A marathoner cannot hide her ambition. She devotes hours to training. She goes to bed early. She frets, she obsesses, she consults with other runners, she joins a club. She has a plan. She has a goal. She needs to get to the start line uninjured, and then she needs to finish what she’s started.
There’s no pretending that you’re heading out for a jog around the block.
A few weeks ago, as my nephew and I stared down marathons we were about to run, I messaged him, “Remind me again why we sign up for this?” And he replied, “Because sometimes you have to do hard things!” That’s how I define ambition—it’s the desire to do hard things. It can be writing a book, it can be running a marathon, it can be trying something strange or unsettling—like therapy, or not drinking. You slog through the muck of feelings and effort. You quiet the voice that tells you to let it go, that it’s too much. You do the work because you’ve set yourself the task.
Ambition implies forward movement and that can create problems when we don’t allow ourselves to stop or slow down. I hope I can set ambition aside when it isn’t helping me. I’m looking forward to retirement, when I can let go of the ambition I’ve attached to my job. But I have miles to go before I sleep, and I look forward to pursuing new goals.
A weary Alison crosses the finish line of the 2024 NYC Marathon
You can run, but you can’t hide—at least, not forever. Those demons that are chasing you? They will catch you eventually. One morning, injured or simply exhausted, you will wake up to find them sitting on your chest. Or, in the middle of a race, you may feel them jumping on your back, happy to catch a ride.
I’m talking, of course, about the demons of anxiety and depression or whatever other monsters might lurk in the deep recesses of your mind. Last week, Alex Hutchinson wrote a column in the Globe and Mail in which he reviewed findings about the links between exercise and mental wellness (12/2/24). It’s not news to those of us who feel lousy when we miss a run that a regular boost of dopamine is a good idea. But what happens when we look at the issue through the other end of the telescope? That is, what happens when we play the tape–that sport is therapy–to the end?
Jill Colangelo answers this question in a recent episode of Running Explained (Season 2, Episode 40). In her discussion of overtraining syndrome, she looks at the relationship that endurance athletes develop with their training programs and how increases in training volume correlate with higher, rather than lower, rates of mental illness. Is it cause or effect? Someone who is looking to cope with troubling thoughts may seek the solace of the runner’s high, or she may start to experience dread or anxiety about performance. Warning signs will begin to manifest in the body, and without an acceptance that sport is hurting, rather than helping, and that a recovery program, including therapy, may be in order, the athlete can find herself confronted with a full-blown breakdown. In this scenario, cortisol, not dopamine, is the drug coursing through the body.
Colangelo advocates for a deepened respect for the body and the signals it sends. Recently, I learned this lesson the hard way when I found myself in trouble 17 km into a marathon—not even half way! In the weeks leading up to the race, there were red flags. I had a summer injury that meant my build began a month late. I didn’t have enough long runs under my belt and not nearly enough hills for the gruelling course. More significantly, I had been dealing with stress all fall and it had given my body a beating. Sleepless nights made for lousy morning runs. My physio suggested that a weekend of back spasms was stress induced. The week of the marathon, I had stabbing chest pain. It wasn’t on my left side, so I assumed I wasn’t having a heart attack. But I was having a something. (It felt like a cracked rib. Later, when I told this to my doctor, he said, “Please, don’t run a marathon with chest pain without medical clearance!” I record his remark here as a PSA.)
November 3rd dawned bright, sunny, and cool. It was a perfect day for a marathon. The pain in my chest was there, but isolated to one spot. And so, I set out to race that course. What was I thinking? I was thinking, “The marathon is my happy place!” I was thinking, “My spring training will compensate for my crappy build!” I was thinking, “That half marathon six weeks ago felt great!” The marathon answered, “I take no prisoners.”
And so, I suffered. All the voices in my head formed a chorus of negative self-talk to make the final hour of that marathon perhaps the most hellish sixty minutes I’ve experienced as a runner. Somehow, I got myself to the finish line. When I finally found my people, I burst into tears of rage, pain, and disappointment.
And now? Now, I’ve had a chance to get over myself and remember that plenty of folks find themselves having a crap marathon for any number of reasons. I have also learned that when the body tells me it’s struggling, as I train, I had better listen closely and adjust my expectations.
Most immediately, it’s time to turn and face those demons.
Alison Conway lives and works in Kelowna, British Columbia, on the traditional and unceded territory of the Syilx Okanagan people.
Image description: three-photo collage with the heading “Howing Ghost Trail Run, Aylmer ON, September 28, 2024,” from left to right: left is a group shot of five smiling runners pre-race (Julie, Ed, Pat, Anita, Tracy), with trees in the background; middle is a selfie of a smiling older woman (Tracy) in a pink tank, black ballcap, and trail in the background; right is a post race selfie of four smiling runners (Tracy, Ed, and Pat in back, Julie in front) all wearing t-shirts that say Howling Ghost Trail Race on them.
My favourite month is September, and it’s not just because it’s my birthday month. I love it for the perfect weather and the changing palette of nature. Cool mornings, less intense sun even in the middle of the day, hints of red and orange starting to show among the greenery. What better time of year for trail running than the early fall!
So that’s how I let peer pressure push me into an 8K trail race after I said I was done with official running events. I call it a race, but with my current 8K time being slower than my 10K used to be, it’s just an outing, on a trail, with 140 other people, followed by lunch. Here’s how it went.
First of all, though the title of my post refers to “joy,” there was little of that for me during the run. I mean, it’s always enjoyable to be with my running crew, and five of us made it out that day. It’s fun to get out of town, even if it’s just a little bit out of town. The Howling Ghost Trail Race was in Aylmer, at the Springwater Conservation Area.
We’ve been having brilliant weather lately, but of course leading up to race day the forecast probability of precipitation increased from 40% to 60% and finally settled at 80% for the time that we were scheduled to run. I fully expected to be running at least part of the trail in the pouring rain, which would have also meant navigating mud. To my great surprise, the rain held off. The prospect of it hung heavily in the air throughout, making it a muggy outing through the woods. Thank you Julie for remembering bug spray.
I had no race strategy other than, ridiculously, I had planned to do 10-1 run-walk intervals. I say “ridiculously” because I have been working my way up to 10-1 run-walk intervals gradually for the past months and I have not trained consistently enough for any length of time to actually get there. Throwing, “don’t change anything on game day” out the window, I set myself up to fail. Other than an unrealistic race strategy, which I gave up on before the first 10 minutes was up, I have one rule and one rule only that I apply when training, out for a leisure run, or doing an event: run, don’t walk, up the hills. At every hill I reminded myself of that, a rule that I cling to when everything else feels like it’s falling apart. I stuck to it almost entirely, except for one part towards the end where there was a hill, a slight levelling, and the MORE HILL. At the MORE HILL, I said “nope.”
The poorly chosen unreasonable 10-1 strategy was a mistake because it created a mental battle. It is a very bad idea to have a goal that is not realistic because, for me, it puts me in a “falling short” mindset instead of a “killing it!” mindset. If I had stuck with 6-1 intervals I would likely have had a better race. What made it so miserable? I simply could not keep my heart rate in a reasonable range. I was in the red zone every time I checked my heart rate. That meant that I had to pull back to a walk in order to try to recover. And since it was an event, I didn’t give myself enough time to properly recover. The result: an uncomfortable 8K where I felt out of my element, old (I had just turned 60 a few days before), and out of shape.
I came in 61/68 running the 8K, with a time of 1:08:59. I have run much faster 10Ks. Overall, the race was hard and I felt discouraged by it. Still and all, I covered the ground, so that’s something. On a positive note, the event had a great vibe and the folks at Persistence Racing plotted out a well-marked course on a relatively easy wooded trail, nicely groomed, with few hills. I would love to go back some time this fall when the leaves are changing.
Last week Sam referenced a 2020 post she wrote about aging and keeping up your speed. Even though I commented on Sam’s older post that my objective these days is just to get out there, I would be lying if I said my time didn’t sting a bit. I’ve never been fast, but I’ve also never been slower than I am now. Resounding in my head are the words from Sam’s 2020 post: “Older athletes get slower and less strong, not because they’re older, but rather because they train less than younger athletes.”
I am definitely training less than I did when I was 50. That’s why I couldn’t keep my heart rate under control. It has nothing to do with my age and everything to do with how I prepared (or did not adequately prepare) for the 8K trail event.
As a result of all of this, I have embarked on a plan to actually recapture some joy in my fall running, whether on trails or not. That plan includes some coached runs using the (free) Nike Run Club app. So far, the two runs I’ve done from the app (“First Run” and “Next Run”) have helped me connect with how good it feels to run with ease. I like the approach of setting out to run with a purpose, even if that purpose is a slow recovery run where you are not pushing too hard.
I’ll report back about the NRC experience in a month or so. Meanwhile, if you get a chance to enjoy some autumn weather out on the trails, go for it!
After a busy season of racing plenty of IRONMAN races in 2023, I was super excited to receive an email inviting me to compete at Worlds in Nice, France this year (based on IRONMAN’s “All World Athlete” age group ranking/points system). The following is a detailed recap of the day, which was September 22!
Swim 🏊♀️
After months of anticipation, training and nerves, as we hopped into the water to wait for the start, I felt surprisingly calm. Making it to the start line of a big race is an accomplishment in and of itself, let alone a world championship race on another continent! ✈️
I started the day anxious to get going, but reminded myself there’s literally nothing I’d rather be doing than an IRONMAN. Lifeguards and fellow triathletes to share the swim with, a beautiful bike course with professional photographers along the way and a marathon run with ample cheerleaders and “buffet stations” every couple of kilometers? Nothing to worry about except getting myself across that line? There’s nothing better than race day! 🎉
Though I felt pretty calm, the same can’t be said for the water of the Mediterranean Sea. Still a deep and beautiful blue, we had our first taste of what I’d call the day’s moody (but totally welcome!) weather in the swim. 🌊 I’d done some practice swimming but never too far from shore, so I wasn’t sure if the swells were par for the course or a special race day treat. At any rate, I loved the challenge! I could sight the buoys, for the most part. There were no jellies. 🪼 I started a bit back and it took me a while to find feet, but I liked the way the 3.8km were split up into an M shape. As the first age group to go, we had the course to ourselves! When things are rough in a swim, I tell myself that I’m lucky because I, for the most part, can think of a rough swim like a mosh pit and y’all know how I feel about that! 🤘🏼
I wrote before about how I felt like the pressure was off for this race. In all honesty, nobody really puts pressure on an age grouper the way we put it on ourselves. Entering this race, I didn’t look at my previous stats. This meant I wasn’t sure if I’d swam better or worse than my previous best, which I came close to but not quite on the day! The win for me—and the reason I was smiling—was that I really felt I’d done my best and done it with the positive attitude I knew I’d need going into the bike. 🥹
Bike
If you know me, you know I love biking. 💕🚲 That being said, seven hours is a long time to do anything, even if you love it! My game plan was to ride smart—pace myself through the climbing in the first 100k and make sure I fueled and kept in mind that I had a marathon to run yet. My coach said I could put out a bit of extra power on the climbs but to be honest, I mostly spun and enjoyed the scenery. ⛰️
I’d be lying if I said I paced the bike so well that the entire 180k was sunshine and roses. My neck hurt, I had a headache, I nearly missed bike special needs and the wind in the portion of the course after 100k that was described to me as “like a normal IRONMAN course” was incessant. But just as I was riding into that headwind, wondering how much of a refund I could get for my 2025 IRONMAN Lake Placid registration, we came to the most beautiful descent of the day. Just like that, I was back to loving biking again. 😂 I’d worried about it being busy or sketchy on the descents but the course was well-marked and the women I rode near were solid. I had tears in my eyes when this photo was taken because I was overwhelmed by the beauty of it all! 🥹 The gratitude I have for the places biking and endurance sports have taken me keeps growing. From what started as a love of spin classes that led to buying my first road bike ~15 years ago, it’s been quite the ride! ✨ In what felt like no time, I was back on the promenade, contemplating that marathon next on my to-do list.
PS Not only was I grateful to have my bike, which arrived a day and a half after I did, but man was I grateful for my disc brakes on the descents, the extra gears I added for this race on the climbs and my aero bars in that midride wind. 🫶🏼🚲🫶🏼 Also, a highlight I need to share was being able to call out my bib number en francais at the special needs stop with success. 🥐
Run
They’re all tough.
Last year in Kona, I found the run mentally hard, running to a turnaround at ~30km. In Nice, the marathon’s entirely along the flat, seaside Promenade des Anglais, involving four trips to the airport (~5k out/5k back). My other IRONMANs had 2-loop runs with variation, so I wasn’t sure what I’d make of Nice. I hoped I’d appreciate the flat ground and cheering, but wasn’t naive enough to think it would be “easy”.
I have a feeling if I asked a bunch of triathletes which course they prefer, they’d be split. They’d also likely complain about both. My goal is to stay away from that. I loved the energy from spectators, seeing Brent and my Tres Pinas peeps multiple times. I was also able to break it into obvious chunks. The 1st lap, I planned to go for a jog and keep my HR low. ♥️ The 2nd lap, I’d spin my hat around (channeling my athletic alter ego who doesn’t get tired and loves competing) and settle in. The 3rd lap, I’d add cola 🥤and walk the aid stations. The 4th lap, when the sun would be just about set, I planned to push to the finish line.
For the most part, this worked out. By the end of the 3rd lap, though, I had some cramping (the stomach kind and in one calf and then the other), so picking it up didn’t really happen. I had a buffer to come in under 13 hours, a pretty arbitrary target but one that motivated me. I was pleasantly surprised at how little I felt my nagging niggles and was mostly able to fuel throughout. It really was my legs that ran out of steam, and no wonder after that bike! Seeing people head to the finish line as I started another lap was hard, but people just coming off the bike were reminders we all wish we were in someone else’s (faster) shoes. The run out on the 4th lap felt longggg, but on the way back, “finally” heading towards the finish line, I dedicated a km to Brent (I couldn’t have done this without him!) and one to the memory of my mom to move me forward. I got “finish line feels” early on and felt some big emotions in that dark finish chute. IRONMAN marathons may always be tough, but that’s what makes that red carpet so meaningful. 💪🏼
Final Thoughts
A week after the race, home and almost over the jet lag, it all feels a bit like a dream. In previous races, I’ve raced immediately to focusing on what I could do better. With this race, I felt surprisingly content. I loved racing in France, sharing the course with an amazing field of women and taking on a challenging bike that I knew would mean I’d likely have a slower finishing time than my most recent races. I’m still remembering and reflecting on the experience each day but am heading into this offseason with a big sense of accomplishment and gratitude!
And you know what that means. Yes, back to school. Yes, red leaves and shorter days. But also for some of us it’s back to indoor bike riding and racing.
It’s not too cold to ride outside, obviously, but we’re running out of after work light.
So I’ve taken the Zwift bike down off the wall, and set it up in front of the big screen, ready for an autumn of Zwifting.
Each summer I say I’ll occasionally ride indoors on Zwift and I decide not to put my membership on hold. But the truth is it’s too warm in the evenings even with a fan to ride inside during the summer months.
Here are my last Zwift rides in early June.
So it’s been three months.
What’s new in the bike room?
Boo!
We’re cat sitting one the adult kid’s cats for a bit. Boo hangs out in our back room for snuggles, TV watching, and now indoor bike racing.
But it wasn’t Boo who shredded the mat under my bike. That was the previous visiting cats, Moon and Louie.
So Sunday night we had to do a race to secure our category in Zwift. That’s to make sure we’re still D riders. What’s the worry? Sandbagging! Winning by racing in a lower category so you’ll be sure to win.
Tonight, we race for real as the ZRL series begins. I’m racing with a ZSUN team (rather than TFC) because ZSUN has a women’s D team.
I was a proud “Dickie Chick.” One of a threesome of sisters, with a dad named Dick, who participated relay-style in the 70.3 Ironman in Muskoka in 2017. One sister swam the 1.9k, the other sister biked the 90k, and I ran the 21.1k. (That’s me on the right.)
The Dickie Chicks. Janet is on the right.
I remember flying past runners who were doing the full slog, calling out “just doing the relay” so they wouldn’t feel bad. As beaten up as they looked, I was strangely envious of their extra sweat, grime and grit. Fleetingly.
Running prevailed and I started to get serious about it. I raced for personal bests and prizes and bought a Garmin. About a year ago, I noticed my runs were turning into countdowns: 9k to go, 6k, 5k, 4k, 3k, 2k, done.I was also getting unnecessarily anxious before races, even before speed workouts. (Ridiculous!)
A few months ago, my oldest son announced a goal to do the Muskoka 70.3 Ironman to mark his 40th birthday.
And there it was—that fleeting feeling from seven years ago. Me? An Ironman? The feeling started to linger. It started to grow.
I did some research, talked to a few experts. Before long, I’d gone way past doing the 70.3 in cottage country at age 64. I was fantasizing about being at the 2025 Ironman 70.3 World Championships in Spain on November 8, 2025, at age 65.
I kept things to myself. I was afraid that if the words came out of my mouth, I’d be committed.
Uncertainty swept in. I hadn’t swum lengths in four decades, not to mention my childhood trauma over cold water.
In a bold moment, I called a personal coach—Ryan Power, as good as they come. I was surprised he was keen to take on a 65-year-old female novice. You know what he said? He said that he’s currently working with seven athletes right now and two are over age 75.
Well then.
He said that an equivalent to qualifying for the world tri championships is qualifying for the Boston marathon, which I’ve done twice.
Well then.
It’s in the cards, I said to myself. I was ready to let it out of the bag. Now I’m committed.
What has gotten into me? I prefer simplicity. What can be more complicated than a triathlon watch, or a fuel plan to sustain 8 hours of work?
I don’t really like spending money. In the last 20 days, I have spent at least $2.5k, and according to Austrian triathlete, Clément, I can expect to spend another $3k to get myself geared up for competition, and then $2.9k in every year to follow. (Not including things like Spain.)
A bike covered in tri gear.
Worst of all, I can’t figure out the leg action to clip out of the pedals on my new road bike.
“You’ll want to clip out with your right leg,” said the bike specialist, “so you can lean away from the traffic.”
But my right leg wasn’t working. Forget the traffic, I thought, I’m using my left.
Last week was my first official week of training. Don’t tell Ryan, but after day one, I had a stiff back. After day three, I had a bruised elbow from banging the lane ropes. And on day five, I added a scraped knee to the old bod from tipping over on my bike. (I’d clipped out—yay—but forgot to use the brakes.)
It’s week two. I can hardly wait to get going again.
Will I make it to Spain? I have no idea. But I like picturing myself crossing the finish line. If that gives me joy and motivation and a good reason to hop out of bed every morning, then why not try. Anyway, I’m 64; I can do whatever I want.
Is that the point of this endeavour? That I’ve reached the age where I can do whatever I want? Let’s think about this.
I cannot get too excited and talk about my new hobby too much or people will think I’m bragging. No one likes a braggart. Humility is the much-preferred trait, especially in the family I married into.
I cannot let myself get too exhausted. Yawning through social gatherings is equally as unattractive as bragging. And I need energy to continue baking bread, concocting hummus, and creating grandkids’ birthday cakes (another source of joy).
I cannot let my new hobby negatively impact my 42-year marriage. I cannot consume our travel budget around races; I cannot get too obsessed because that’s hard to live with; I cannot cram the drying rack with any more workout clothes; I cannot let this interfere with happy family traditions; and I certainly cannot expect a cozy night on the couch livestreaming tri championships. It’s not golf, after all.
The cannots add up, and they’re hard; I think about them all the time. But I cannot not do this or I’d be short-changing myself on something my gut is telling me to go for. Who cares if I get a little excited, exhausted and obsessed? It’s nothing that a new drying rack can’t fix. Or a glass of wine in Spain.
Lots of athletic wear on a clothes drying rack.
Janet Tufts’ bio
With over 30 years of local, national and international experience in the non-profit and public sectors, Janet is currently enjoying semi-retirement, balancing a part-time role as Executive Director of Operation Walk Canada with her love of reading, writing, baking and moving. Previously, Janet served as the Executive Director of both Big Brothers Big Sisters of London and Area and the Canadian Medical Hall of Fame.
From 2016 to 2018, Janet spent two years in Malaysia as a member of a multi-cultural team that led the government’s implementation of their blueprint for public school transformation. Janet holds a Master’s in Business Administration, Bachelor of Education, Bachelor of Arts, and a Professional Certificate in Communications and Public Relations. She has served as a director on numerous boards, and is currently a board member of St. Joseph’s Health Care London. Janet embraces any opportunity to be part of a humanitarian mission and to date, has been to Southern Sudan, Peru and Ecuador.
I have a confession to make. Just 14 days before running the 2024 Boston Marathon as part of a charity team raising money to fight racial and economic injustice in Boston (a cause deeply aligned with my professional and personal commitments.)
My confession: I sort of wish I could back out. Because I can’t handle the pressure.
I’m pretty certain I can handle the physical pressure of running 26.2 miles. I’ve done that distance more than 40 times and have run more than 26.2 miles on some occasions. (Darn, I’ve even raced Boston 8 times before, and I’m a running coach for goodness’ sake!). But can I handle the pressure to perform and prove my worthiness to be here at all?
To many people I know, I’m a seasoned marathoner and ultra marathoner who runs all the time. And in some ways, this is true. I do love to run. And I run a lot. I can run long. And I can run pretty fast (for a 50-year-old). I could (if I had the time) run hours a day and find joy in every step. I have run on three continents, in more than a dozen countries, nearly all US states. At dawn, at midnight, and with the sun at its apex. In the shadows of pyramids, on the streets of countries rebuilding from war, on crowded sidewalks in urban spaces, and in quiet woods in my various home states.
I love to run. But I don’t love to race because I hate having my running on public display. And right now, the pressure weighing on me is the pressure to be publicly productive with my running and training and preparation for this race. And to perform on race day. To prove that I am worthy.
I feel the need to prove I’m worthy of the right to run this marathon. That I’m worthy of taking up space in this race. That my body deserves to be out there on April 15. Social media traffic among the Boston marathoning crowd can be brutal. There are posts asking why “charity” runners get to “take the places” of those who have “qualified” by time. There are those who have mused publicly about the selfishness of those like me, who have run this storied race before, while others who wish to, have not.
And because I worry about my worthiness as a charity runner, I feel the need to perform for others; to be happy, energetic, gracious and grateful at all times to friends, to fellow runners, online, to potential donors, to the non-profit staff. After all, I have “taken up” a spot in a race with only 30,000 spots. After all, the charity has “allowed” me to run “for them”. After all, I could just step aside. Instead, I have to publicly ask others to support me.
As someone who has struggled with imposter syndrome and a fair amount of body-hatred my whole life I’m feeling something deep and hard at this moment: the pressure to prove that I am worthy of others donating their hard-earned money to a cause I care about. To donating to me. To my body. I keep wondering: Is my body worthy enough…? Is my body worthy enough for you to care? Is my body worthy of your sacrifice? Then, if it is, what happens if I fail to knock the marathon out of the park?
These feelings and questions are troublingly familiar. They recall years of high school and college competitive running when terror gripped me each time I stepped up to a race. A place where others could see me and potentially witness my failure. I had won races, for sure. But would this be the day the truth of being a fraud was revealed? Would I still deserve to take up space on a team? On a track? To be called an athlete? I did not like my body. And I did not trust it to fulfill my duty to others (coaches, teammates, spectators). The eyes on me were too much. The fear of having to perform for others was too great. At 19 I stepped away from any competitive running. I couldn’t take the pressure. I didn’t want others to expect anything of my body and I didn’t want my body failing them. Failing to do whatever they hoped I (and my body) would do. I didn’t want the pressure.
So, as I face down these final days of fundraising, I have at times wished that I could just run this 26.2 mile on my own, without fear of letting anyone else down. I want to run and push forward and champion an anti-racist agenda in distance running with my race…but boy do I fear that I–and my body–will somehow fail the cause.
So now my confession is public. Perhaps foolishly. I know I should work on my mindset. But that is a task for another day. Today, I breathed. And today I ran…without a watch or a plan, for five easy miles. Solo. Hoping to believe a bit in my body. In me.
With a bit of luck, I’ll raise the remaining $400 of my fundraising goal by 4/12 and with a bit more luck, I’ll feel worthy as I run 26.2 miles from Hopkinton to Boston later this month.
Elizabeth Duclos-Orsello is a professor of American Ethnic Studies, Chair of a department at Salem State University, and consultant for non profits, universities and community groups on issues related to how groups and organizations can effect structural change with an intersectional lens at the core. She is also an RRCA certifiedrunning coach and founder of The Atalanta Effect running coaching for women.
