Image description: looking down bare legs towards feet wearing running shoes and socks, standing on a textured concrete sidewalk. Photo by Tracy
I’ve always been drawn to the idea of cultivating beginners’ mind about things that we think we know. It’s a way of going back to that excited learning mindset where we are open-minded, enthusiastic, and teachable.
And so it was with that attitude that I’ve been approaching my spring effort to get back to a regular running routine with the Couch to 5K program. As I wrote at the beginning of the month, it’s a nine week program designed for people new to running.
I’m not new to running, having taken it up as part of Sam and my “Fittest by 50” challenge way back in 2012. But I hit a wall after my last major event, the Around the Bay 30K back in 2019. I injured my Achilles and since then I have never quite hit my stride again. I’ve tried different things, most notably the Nike Learn to Run program a couple of years back. But I couldn’t quite let go of how things “used to be” and the idea that they “should” quickly be that way again.
Not this time. This time I am forcing myself to follow the program as written, not adding more running intervals or skipping weeks that feel too easy. I fell a little bit behind, with some of the weeks being spread out beyond 7 days. So I’m only starting week 4 instead of being at the end of it. Still, I have stuck to the assignment as written. And it’s been easy to get myself out the door because the workouts are so reasonable. (Apparently that changes a bit in week 5)
My beginners’ mind approach has been really good for me because it means I haven’t been too concerned with pace or how far I get or anything that I used to track. I’m not saying I’ll never go back to caring about those things, but it’s liberating to be out there without any concern for speed or distance.
I’m also not comparing myself to anyone else when I’m out there. We all have different goals and right now mine is simply to get back to a three times a week running routine, following the Couch to 5K schedule. That’s it.
Though it’s still early days, I feel confident about recommending this approach to anyone who is new to running or trying to work their way back. It’s a great way to be present for the arrival of spring, which is coming in short bursts this year, with some cold reminders that, at least in my part of the world, we’re not really in the clear until late May. Whatever, a regular running commitment has put me in touch with the vagaries of Canadian spring weather in a direct and enjoyable way.
If you’ve had experience with C25K I’d love to hear about it in the comments!
Hi readers– remember Sunday, when I wrote about my love and extreme sappiness about the Boston Marathon? Well, I’m not alone in having strong feelings for all things having to do with this event. Witness the hullabaloo around the following signs put up recently in Boston by running shoe companies. Here’s one advertisement ill-advisedly run by a company that rhymes with “Mikey”:
Red sign saying “Runners Welcome. Walkers Tolerated,” Really, Nike? For shame.
Bostonians and visitors alike were feeling serious consternation and not keeping quiet about it. Yes, the Boston marathon requires pretty ambitious qualifying times (e.g. 3 hours for men ages 35-39 and 3:30 for same-aged women). But lots of people who enter are raising money for charities, so their finishing times are much longer.
Also, those who are not runners and who complete the race in wheelchairs or in cooperation with others on dual teams were also mentioned in comments. Don’t they count, Nike?
After realizing their bonehead mistake, Nike made this tepid statement of non-apology:
“We want more people to feel welcome in running – no matter their pace, experience, or the distance. During race week in Boston, we put up a series of signs to encourage runners. One of them missed the mark.”
Ya think?
Then their corporate sign-makers got to work and put up this more contrite version:
The new Nike sign, saying”Boston will always remind you, movement is what matters.” hmph.
Other shoe companies were not unaware of Nike’s gaffe. A company whose name rhymes with “basics” put this sign up in short order:
Purple-bluish sign saying “Runner, Walkers. All welcome. Move your body, move your mind.”
And that’s not all. The shoe company Altra put out an ad that led with “Run. Walk. Crawl,” and captioned a social post, “Go where you’re celebrated. Not where you’re tolerated.” Yes, I know that this is corporate piling-on for the purpose of rearranging market shares. But that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy it, right?
Congratulations to all those who entered the Boston Marathon and who completed it, regardless of mode. And speaking of signs, if any of these corporate folks need some tips, asking the people at the Wellesley scream tunnel for advice. Here are a few of my favorites. Enjoy…
Signs saying “blink twice if you need Dunkin'”, among other things.
Tomorrow, Monday April 20th, is the 130th Boston Marathon. It’s a special day in Boston, roughly coinciding with Patriots’ Day, commemorating the first battles of the American Revolution in Lexington and Concord, MA. We also celebrate the rides of Paul Revere, William Dawes, and Samuel Prescott from Boston to Concord (although Revere was apprehended by the British). Reenactors on horseback retrace the rides on Patriot’s Day and there are parades and reenactments of revolutionary things.
In fact, on one Patriots’ day, while I was cycling with a friend in Lexington, MA, we saw a lot of people on the side of the road. I said to her, “I think there’s a parade happening here.” She disagreed until we spotted a guy in Colonial garb clip-clopping down Mass Ave in our direction. We prudently and expeditiously pulled over to the sidewalk to join the rest of the onlookers.
These reenactors aren’t in Lexington, but the one on the left is riding down Mass Ave. in Arlington. The three riders on the right are playing Prescott, Revere and Dawes. It’s fun to watch them and the rest of the colonial pageantry.
But the main reason why there’s a bank holiday Monday in Boston is the Boston Marathon. Tens of thousands of runners, their friends and family and marathon fans flood Boston, roads are closed for the race, and much of the city stops what it’s doing to watch the wonder of the 26.2 mile (42.1Km) event.
I admit that I rarely head to the course to view the marathon in person, but I always watch it on TV. With coffee, maybe pancakes or an omelette and toast, I make sure I’m in place for the start (Men’s and Women’s Wheelchair and Handcycle at 9:06 am and 9:09am, 9:37am for the Elite men, 9:47am for the Elite women), and then do house chores with it going in the background. The Wheelchair Elites finish starting around 10:30am, The Elite men cross the finish line starting around 11:45, and the Elite women winner will cross the line by 12:10 or earlier.
It’s that women’s finish that always makes my heart swell and my eyes water. Every time.
I don’t follow professional marathon racing, so I don’t know much about the women runners prior to listening to the color commentators that morning. And I am not nor have I ever been a runner myself. But as they hit the 20-mile and head up Heartbreak Hill in Newton, I am glued to the screen. Watching their form, their speed, their demeanor– it just gets to me. In the best possible way. I’m cheering them, worrying about them, feeling sympathy for those running out of gas on the course, and anxiously awaiting the last push to the finish line on Boylston Street.
Sometimes it’s a tight race to the end. Other times someone has pulled out ahead and is the clear winner coming out of the Kenmore Square tunnel at mile 25. Either way, I’m on the edge of my seat on the sofa.
When the women are in sight of the finish line tape, I always get choked up. Happiness, pride, inspiration (in a good way), relief– I have all the feelings. Every time.
I love watching the women run and finish the Boston marathon. Their race reminds me of how hard they have worked to get a spot in the marathon (women weren’t officially allowed to enter until 1972, although two women ran and finished in 1966 and 1967) and how hard they have worked to make their way as professional athletes.
Readers, do you have a special women’s athletic event that you follow, that makes you all teary-eyed and proud? I’d love to hear from you. In the meantime, I’m getting my Marathon Monday breakfast all ready…
Cognitive surrender is an essential new term that’s arisen to describe the abdication of our own reasoning to a machine that sounds fluent, confident, and authoritative. Studies are showing that when people interact with AI tools, they accept flawed reasoning at a startling level (almost 75% of the time). Not because they don’t have the capacity to reason better themselves. But because it is easier not to question. As a writer, it will likely come as no surprise that I’m leery of outsourcing. I worry about dulling not just my cognitive capacity, even more so my creativity.
And, yes, I have started working with AI tools, because I also think it’s important to understand what these machines are all about and how I might use them in an un-surrendered manner. I almost used the word collaborate in that last sentence, instead of use. I chose not to, because I’m not yet ready to acknowledge these machines as entities. That feels like surrender. This from someone who is more than willing to see trees as sentient beings well before reading Michael Pollan’s new book, A World Appears.
I am exploring the border between surrender and leveraging these cognitive machines to free my time for deeper engagement with the world. More akin to my vacuum cleaner than a friend.
I have been thinking a lot about surrender in my body, too. Every time I read an article about aging and activity, which tells me that I should move more gently, now that I’m on the verge of a new decade, a part of me growls protectively. Not yet.
This physical version of surrender can be seductive. Messaging that encourages the little voices that say: I’m older now. Intensity is harder. Recovery is harder. Maybe I should just… let these things be harder. Be gentle with myself. Slow down. Stop. Lie down. The End. Okay—those last four are the hyperbole kicking in.The reasoning (without exaggeration) arrives fluently, confidently, with authority. And, as with AI reasoning, if I’m not careful, I might accept these blandishments about aging without interrogating the particularities of my own case.
I see the parallel this way: an authoritative-seeming signal in the form of an AI answer or an aging body; the availability of a path of least resistance; the ways that acceptance is not neutral, reshaping what we expect of ourselves and ultimately what we are actually capable of.
What the cognitive surrender research captures is that the problem isn’t using external tools. We humans have been off-loading cognitive tasks for a while now. Thank you, calculators. The red flag is what happens when we stop verifying. When silken reasoning substitutes for truth. When we accept not because we’ve evaluated, but because it’s so frictionless (and pleasant) to not expend the effort.
In the physical realm, adjusting our expectations as we age is not always surrender. Of course not. Surrender is unexamined acceptance. Letting the message of limitation go unchallenged. Sliding past the effort of finding out just what we are still capable of.
I turn 60 this year. I’d like to say I feel easy, breezy about that. I don’t. I’m in search of the right balance of grace and grit. I have set myself the goal of running a half marathon (21 kilometers or 13.1 miles) every month. Twelve months, twelve runs (among all the other runs I will do). When I was younger, that distance was a regular sized effort. Last year, I did not run that distance even once. And my year culminated in foot surgery in late November (which I wrote about here).
The decision has an element of stubbornness, to be sure. I am a Taurus, after all. On New Year’s Day, I started the year running 21k with my brother on mountain trails. I had a genuine concern that I would not run the whole distance. It took a while. I got it done. I was inspired. And so, this challenge. As I write this, four 21k are done. Eight to go.
I hear the voices that tell me: You’re not built for this anymore. I’m checking their veracity. They might be right. I might not be up for the challenge. I want to be gentle with myself, if I’m not. This is not about punishment. It’s about exaltation. The joy of discovering, each month, that I still have the capacity.
When I was a child, my mother always made us take the stairs. I remember glancing longingly at elevators as we passed them by. Now I live on the eighth floor, and I take the stairs almost every time I leave or come home. Not always. I’m realistic, not rigid. Not because I’m proving something. Because the habit of not surrendering has become its own kind of instinct. My mother was training something in me: the reflex to push gently against the available convenience, to stay curious about what I might actually be capable of.
The AI researchers found that people with higher fluid IQ scores were more likely to maintain their own judgment under pressure. I do not claim any extra intelligence. I think gentle resistance is more about habit. The habit of fact checking.
This is what I want to hold onto as I run my way through this year, one half marathon at a time. Not the delusion that there no limits that come with age. I have plenty. Instead, I want to cultivate the discipline of inquiry, to distinguish real limits from the limits that are presented with confidence, waiting for me to accept them without scrutiny.
My body, like a large language model, will tell me what it thinks I want to hear in smooth and reasonable tones. Rest. Take the elevator. Watch Netflix.
Sometimes my body is right. And I will be dancing with surrender and resistance, until I find the choreography that leads to graceful, gritty acceptance.
I’m probably not alone in having stops and starts in my fitness routines. My favourite themes over the years have been about starting small, doing less, getting over injuries with small steps. And that’s where I am again after deciding that I would not participate in winter running this year. It’s been a long winter. I got out there today after a four-month hiatus.
Since I’ve never really managed to stick with a consistent running routine for more than a few months at a time since just before the pandemic, I feel as if I am starting at the beginning.
Today was the first nice day of nice spring running weather, where I could run in shorts and a t-shirt. And so I chose it to be my day one of the beginners running program, Couch to 5K.
Couch to 5K is probably the most widely used learn to run app. It’s a nine-week program designed to get someone from not running at all to running for 30 continuous minutes over the course of three runs a week for nine weeks.
It starts easy and that is just what I want after a long hiatus. Week one has three runs the same: 5 minutes warm up walk, and then 8 intervals of 1 minute of running followed by 1 1/2 minutes of walking, and closing out with a 5 minute walk.
I’m going in with beginners mind because despite having many kilometres under my feet, I feel like a newbie. And I’m open to learning something new about what I can do and how I can do it.
I have let go of what I “used to be able to do,” and am focusing on what I can do today.
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.
A few weeks ago, I ran rim to rim in the Grand Canyon. The effort was a moment to remind myself of the strength of my spirit after a period of enormous loss, chaos and instability, including health setbacks. As I ran from the night into the dazzling first drops of sun gilding the tops of the cliffs, the dawning day called me back in to myself.
My youngest brother, Noah, proposed the adventure. His goal was to run rim to rim to rim (R3)—across the canyon and back again. My goal was rim to rim. I would accompany him for the first half of his effort.
It had been more than a decade since my last ultra run. Yes, I know, technically, rim to rim is not ultra, because it is not longer than a marathon. That said, those 21 miles are challenging. I underprepared. By a lot. One month out, I broke my toe. I wasn’t sure I could even join my brother for the first steps. A few days before we were set to leave, I was fretting about my lack of training, when the universe delivered me a lightning bolt of clarity. You know how to do this. In that moment, I felt a fizz of recognition, the running was the least of it. To be prepared was to believe in myself. I could give the rest over to the universe. I felt a sudden sense of being anchored. I know how to do this. I’ve done ultra runs before. The experience is inscribed in my cells. Yes, in the past I have always trained. A lot. And that wasn’t an option this time, so I will run with what I do have. My knowing.
Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t suddenly think that I had the whole thing in the bag, and it would all be a dawdle. Not at all. Rather, it was an acceptance that I might well turn around and that would be okay, combined with a confidence that I could do it, if all else aligned (weather, health & sleep, being the three primary things that needed to be in alignment).
We started running at 4 a.m. Descending 4500 feet. In the pitch dark. For more than 2 hours.
At one point, my headlamp caught a lone, bare tree, which looked like a staging of Samuel Beckett’s play, Waiting for Godot. I thought about Didi and Gogo, near the end of the play, contemplating whether to hang themselves from the scrawny tree. A current of energy passed through me and a voice in my head said, I want to live. I want to stop waiting for something external to happen, to give me a reason. Life is happening now. This is it.
I relaxed into the pleasure of the run. We reached the bottom in the dark and began to make our way across. I’ve been down into the canyon twice before and come right back up. I had never traversed the canyon floor before. Never been hugged by the canyon walls, as I passed through the sometimes narrow, winding passage to the far rim. The light began to seep into the canyon, long before the first sunshine splashed over the highest rock faces. The North Rim loomed 5000 feet above. It didn’t seem possible that there was a trail leading up the sheer walls. And yet, there it was. Sometimes skinny and precipitous. Sometimes breathlessly steep. With views to astonish.
Tears prickled as I reached the top after 7 grueling hours. I was overcome with the full body pleasure of finishing. Despite all. I’m awesome. I thought. For a moment. Only to watch most runners who came after me turn around (as my brother did) and run back again to the South Rim.
I was so proud of my brother for achieving his desired goal. And, at the same time, all the runners out there covering twice as much distance as me that day made me question my own sense of accomplishment. I only did … I made a halfway effort. In our world of increasingly extreme efforts, in our world where people are routinely pushing their bodies to the very edge of their human limits, what counts? What is enough? What am I allowed to be proud of? Wait a minute, who is doing this allowing? Why can’t I allow myself to be awesome?
And then on the Thursday after the Grand Canyon, I read these words from David Whyte (from his book Consolations. Words I had read before, which took on new resonance: “…taking a new step always begins from the central foundational core of the body, a body we have neglected, beginning well means seating ourselves in the body again, catching up with ourselves and the person we have become since last we tried to begin …” I felt my first steps down the South Kaibab trail again and the intensity of everything that moment contained. The flood of memories of other physical challenges, like this run, that I’ve done in the past. All the ways in which my life and how I see myself have changed since then. All the doubts I was carrying into the canyon about my own capacity. Would my Addison’s Disease be a factor? The run was an opportunity to catch up with myself and the person I have become since last I tried to begin. I discovered a woman who is doing better than she thought. The light of resilience is seeping into her cells. Soon, the only-seemingly-insurmountable cliffs ahead will be painted gold and the trail will show itself. Step by step.
Image description: Tracy smiling, wearing sunglasses, cap covered with patterned buff for ear warmth, running jacket and top, with pathway, frost-covered grass, autumn trees, and a bench in the background.
Pre-pandemic I got an Achilles injury that I didn’t give sufficient time to heal. As a result, it took me out of consistent running for about four years and some months. So from Spring 2019 to about a month ago, my running routine ranged from zero times a week to short periods of 2-3 times a week. Even when I ran more than my regular Sundays with the group (which I can no longer keep up with pace-wise), my schedule was haphazard and sporadic, unfocused and without a sense of purpose. Indeed, running became a source of stress rather than joy, a “have-to” rather than a “want-to.” That all culminated in a not-fun 8K trail race a few weekends ago.
The aftermath of the 8K presented itself to me as a decision-point in my running career: quit or change my approach. Though I felt discouraged enough to quit, I also had to be honest with myself that I had not prepared as well as I could have. I went in knowing I could cover 8K somehow or other, but I certainly had no reason to assume I’d have a strong performance that day. For five years I have been running without goals and not even a rough sense of routine. I have picked myself up and brushed myself off many times in my life after many different set-backs. And that is what I decided to do this time. I opted for a fresh start.
I had some criteria in mind for the fresh start. First of all, I was quite clear about my initial goal: to establish a running routine where I would get out the door three to four times a week. I wanted an app that had some training plans or coached runs, but it had to be free. Not initially free with in-app purchases, but truly free. Finally, it had to be realistic and motivating at the same time. After some searching around, I landed on the Nike Run Club. Apparently, it’s been going for years, but it was new to me.
The Nike Run Club (NRC) is an app that tracks your runs, which you can do your own way or by using the guided runs in their library. I installed the app the morning after the 8K trail race, determined to start afresh, as a beginner. The app has the perfect starter set of runs with their head coach, Coach Bennett. There are no hidden costs. You can do the starter program (or not) and then move on to other coached runs or training plans designed for 5K, 10K, half marathon, or marathon distances. All told, they have 289 guided runs in the collection. You can repeat any of them whenever you want. You can bookmark the ones you like so they’re easy to find again. They vary in type — including easy runs, speed runs and fartlek, long runs (over 30 minutes), short runs (under 30 minutes), runs based on distance, and “mindful runs” that partner with Headspace.
It is, as my decision to use it required, entirely free. Unlike other apps that I’ve used, which require a subscription, or bring you in for a free trial and then require a subscription, the entire NRC library is available from the beginning for free and remains so. I like that. There are also no ads or pop-ups. Yes, the Nike branding is all over it. But so far I haven’t felt as if there is any hard-sell going on. Now maybe that just means that their marketing team is super smart in reeling people in. But I’m finding it way less in-your-face than ads and pop-ups that I’ve seen on other platforms.
I also like that it interfaces with Spotify, where I have my running playlists (there is also an option for Apple Music). When the coaching is going on, the music fades into the background. When the coaching takes a break, the music comes back up to volume. They have suggested playlists or you can use whatever you are listening to on your Spotify.
The very day after the trail race, I got started with the First Run in the Get Started Collection of 9 runs: First Run, Next Run, First Speed Run, First Long Run, Next Speed Run, Third Run, First Fartlek Run, Next Long Run, Easy Run with Jes. Other than “Easy Run with Jes,” all of these are coached by Coach Bennett, the Nike Run Club Global Head Coach. He’s a light-hearted guy who is extremely motivating and I think he’s just great. I have done every one of those runs in the starter group, plus a few more. He has successfully inspired me in just one short month (the trail race was back on September 28) to get out there regularly, 3-4 times a week.
The First Run and the Next Run are 20 minutes and 22 minutes, respectively, and the whole point of them is to go easy. Really easy. Easier than you think you should go. He coaches for continuous running, and I didn’t think I could do it. But the day after my slog of an 8K trail race, I ran 20 minutes continuously. Yes, the pace was slow and the effort was easy. But that is how it was meant to be. The run was coached as a recovery run, with the goal of an enjoyable run at an easy pace. I did it and amazed myself enough to feel, for the first time in years, like I couldn’t wait to get back out there for my next run.
The same thing happened after the 22 minute run. Continuous running at an easy and enjoyable pace, with Coach Bennett along the way explaining that it’s okay to run easy, and also that we won’t always be running easy. I like the NRC approach, which is that running should be fun, not dreaded. I can also relate to what he says about the reason many runners don’t enjoy running is that they go out too fast and then can’t keep up with the pace they’ve set. That feels like a set-back. Instead, these runs are coached to go out slow.
The speed runs also include easy warm-ups followed by intervals at different effort levels, with a recovery pace in between. For example, the First Speed Run has a short warm-up at about a 3/10 effort, followed by 8×1 minute intervals at your “5K effort,” which is about a 7-8/10. I’m sure I’m still struggling to find my 5K effort and pace, but it was fun to push the pace, knowing it was only for a minute at a time and that a minute of easy running (not walking) would follow.
The long runs also start off easy and stay at a pretty relaxed effort, but they do pick up a bit. What I like is the whole idea of easing into a rhythm and stride, rather than flying out of the gate when my body isn’t warmed up yet. On Sunday I did 50 minutes of continuous running without taking a walk break, covering about 6.5K. It’s not my fastest ever, but it felt great. Most of all, I feel excited to get back out there next time for some speed work.
The message that is repeated a lot through these coached runs is that each run has a purpose. Easy runs are for running easy for recovery and enjoyment. Long runs are for building endurance (among other things). Speed work is for, obviously, building speed and becoming familiar with your different “gears.” And tempo runs are for sustaining a faster pace, not race pace but faster than a long run, over a set distance. I like that approach a lot because, as I said, my running was feeling aimless and without purpose before. I would just go out there and aim to cover the ground without any intentionality about pace or the point of it all. I have really appreciated the message that if you are running — especially in a long run or an easy run — at a pace where you can’t sustain it without stopping or feeling like you need to take a walk break, then you’re pushing too hard.
I learned in the Running Room system of 10-1 intervals (10 minutes of running followed by 1 minute of walking). I used to really look forward for the walk breaks. But I am much more enjoying running in a way that I don’t feel the need for a walk break. I can find my rhythm and not interrupt it. And over the course of the month my pace for the same effort is picking up.
So far the hardest coached run that I’ve done is the one called “Funky Fartlek,” where you aren’t told before a speed interval how long it will last. That one involved some intervals at efforts of 7, 8, and 9 out of ten. And I couldn’t sustain all the intervals without slowing down. I needed a couple of walk breaks that time. But that’s okay. I did it and it felt challenging. I’m starting to get a feel for my different gears. And mostly I am learning that except for my 9-effort, I can recover with a slower run interval instead of a walk interval.
The NRC approach won’t work for everyone but it is definitely working for me. Not everyone is going to want to do coached running. And if you do, not everyone will like Coach Bennett’s style (light and a bit cheesy, but overall likeable and motivating). There are of course other coaches, and I am sure I will encounter them eventually. I enjoyed the easy run with Jes. Finally, not everyone is going to like being encouraged to go easy on easy runs. I remember back when I was training for triathlon, I read a book called Run Less, Run Faster, by Bill Pierce, Scott Muir, and Ray Moss, and they said two things that really hit home.
The first thing they said that I had not heard before was that most runners do their distance runs at too hard an effort and too fast a pace. Until I read that I thought that it made sense to go out for Sunday long runs at the fastest pace I could sustain for the distance or time (assuming 10-1 intervals). If I was going to hold back at all, it was because unless I held back I wouldn’t make it to the end. I stuck with that mindset because that was what everyone else seemed to be doing. And especially when I was running with people, I had to do that to keep up.
The second thing they said was that every run should have a specific training purpose. According to their program, speed intervals (on a track), tempo runs, and long runs were the magic three. Their program, for anyone interested, is those three runs plus two cross-training cardio sessions a week.
At the time, when I first picked up the book, it didn’t motivate me. Looking back, I think it’s because, though the ideas of running with purpose and holding back effort on the long run were new and different, the book was really focused on performance. And of course it was — it was aimed at an audience of people who wanted to improve their times. Nothing fun about it.
What motivates me about the NRC is that it is aimed at an audience of people who want to enjoy running. They really encourage finding the fun in it. Maybe for the first time or maybe again. I’m happy to have discovered it because I have not enjoyed running at any point in my life as much as I have in the past month. I needed a fresh approach and that’s part of why I’m enjoying myself.
An out-of-town friend who also wanted to ease back into running jumped into the NRC with me a month ago and we motivate each other by checking in after each run. That too has helped me keep going. I’m enjoying the mutual encouragement and sense of accomplishment. It’s fun to share the joy.
That’s my story of a fresh start with a new approach. I went it as a beginner, taking up the “get started” program as if I was learning everything for the first time. I’m not sure if it will get me to a pace that I will once again be able to keep up with my running group. I guess we’ll see. Right now, I’m having fun, feeling excited about my running, and seeing some progress.
If you have a fresh start story I’d love to hear about it in the comments!
View over Palisades Park in New Jersey from Fort Tryon Park
When I lost my relationship of more than 28 years, I also lost the extraordinary complicity of shared memories that is built over that much time. The way a we can hear three notes of a song and be transported into nine different times when they listened to that melody together. The way a we can walk by a restaurant that’s been six different restaurants and remember the first time they ate their together and all the meals in all its different iterations. The way a roadside rest stop can conjure a decade of drives to Vermont.
I am still too often surprised by a wave of grief, which washes through after an experience that hearkens back to a past that no longer exists in the same way, even as a memory. My ongoing divorce has not only radically changed how I live now; it has shattered the lens through which I look at my past, too. Joyful memories, comfortable memories, loving memories—they are all cast into doubt. Spoiled. Was what I lived real? And if it was, how did I lose my life?
Starting a few weeks ago, I have literally been running up against one such file folder of memories. In late August, I decided to run up to The Cloisters Museum and Fort Tryon Park in New York. From my old apartment, it was a 14-mile run, there and back. I’ve moved further north, and further east, so I wasn’t sure how much shorter the run would be. 3 miles shorter, it turns out. Which is just right for what I want to run now. I’ve done the run three times now, and I hope to do it again this week. Just because, I can. After everything (divorce, diagnosis and more), to feel alive and be able to run this route is joyous and comforting. Not only for the physical accomplishment, also for the view of the Palisades cliffs in New Jersey across the river and being on the grounds of the museum that was always my paternal grandparents’ first stop on their semi-annual road trip to New York from Regina, Saskatchewan. My grandmother had a particular love of the unicorn tapestries. Which is why it was also one of the last places I visited in New York with my father before he died, so that we could stand where his mother had stood so many times and feel her spirit. I don’t know if my father knew that his health was failing that day. He had a small growth on his face that he’d been ignoring, which turned out to be melanoma.
The first time I ran to the Cloisters was 30 years ago. There was no beautiful bike path up the west side to the little red lighthouse beneath the George Washington Bridge and what path there was by the river was sketchy and not something I’d run alone. The first time, I ran it with my ex and two other running friends, who have long since moved away. I’ve run it with many different friends over the years. At least once with one of my brothers on a crazy windy day. It’s a great tourist (who is also a runner) outing. And, of course, I ran it with my ex. Many times.
Until 2022, when my marriage started to fall apart, I had done that run every year, often many times (especially during marathon training). I didn’t do the run in 2022, nor in 2023. That was when I started to feel tired. So tired that that kind of distance moved out of reach. Deciding to do the run again, even if a shorter version, was a declaration of renewal.
I can still do this. Even if I’m alone and every step contains a memory. The super steep climb out of Riverside Park. The water fountain in Fort Tryon at the turnaround. The hill one of those OG running friends named, Where the Fuck Did This Come From? Because we’d run steadily up to get to the cloisters. So how was it possible that on our way back down, a few blocks east of where we’d climbed, we were running up yet another hill, which seemed impossible, geologically. Such is the variation in terrain a few blocks apart in Manhattan. And, as if to further taunt us, at the bottom of the hill named Where the Fuck Did This Come From? is a pharmacy called Hilltop Pharmacy. I never pass that corner without a bubble of inner bemusement. I wanted to share that bubble with you, here. To help build new neural pathways into my memories.
As I run, I am filled with a strong brew of melancholy and joy. Each time I trace this route, I carry with me all the iterations and all my companions. And I imagine my grandmother, walking in Fort Tryon Park, stretching her legs after a day of driving, thinking about that dying unicorn. And I remember walking the park paths with my parents. I contain my ancestors and all the girls and women I have been. I revel in the joy of being gifted another opportunity to make my way up to the cloisters on my own two legs.
