October 2020

Seven Months Into the Pandemic and I’m…Loving My New BRFs.

I hate running! was the answer my husband usually gave when I asked him to join me on runs. 

I would come up with different ways to make my plans attractive: We could do a destination race, make it a run-cation! Your mom could watch the kids! But the answer was always some version of no way

A reluctant track runner in high school, he had settled into an easy routine of going to the gym 2 or 3 times per week and using machines like the elliptical and bike. But in March when all fitness centers were closing their doors, he and I started to take long walks together. 

I cajoled him into adding a few seconds of running, then a few minutes, and before I knew it I was stepping in as a sort of amateur running consultant, chattering on about things like easy-effort running, taking walk and stretch breaks, dynamic warm-ups, and being wary of the three ‘toos’: too much, too fast, too soon.

Pretty soon our 15-year old daughter was joining us. Her first foray into track had come to a screeching halt after three weeks, and she was hoping to build fitness for an unlikely fall field-hockey season. Our daughter was faster but didn’t mind turning around and running back to us, past us, and then back ahead of us again, repeating this ‘lapping the old folks’ routine and ultimately logging more miles yet ‘with’ us the whole time. 

I am over-the-moon thrilled about this whole arrangement, but I try to play it cool. Like dating, I don’t want to seem too eager! 

“Want to go for a run tomorrow?” my daughter would ask at dinner, and I would shrug and say “Sure, why not?”  while doing a secret yes motion under the table.  We even did a virtual 5k in place of our school’s usual in-person fundraiser.  (They both beat me with an amazing last half-mile kick.)

Fast forward to October, and we’re still running. Our routines have changed: my husband has embraced solo outings, but my daughter is my number-one BRF. She is so much like me, loving the sense of accomplishment she gets from sticking to her 5-day-a-week running schedule, getting up early for runs, seeing our long-runs grow slowly longer each Saturday, berating herself if she pushes snooze too many times and misses her running window. 

During our runs we sometimes chat about big and small things, from the electoral college to bikers who blare music from speakers as they whiz by on the running trail.  More often than not, I’m running behind her, watching her smooth, confident gait. I feel a surging sense of pride and contentment, and secretly plan the running life that’s ahead of us. 

We could do a destination race, make it a run-cation!  Grandma could come with us! 

Read more Seven Months into the Pandemic essays.

Seven Months Into the Pandemic and I’m…Achieving Things I Never Thought Possible.

Seven months ago, I was training for the Flying Pig Marathon 4-Way with Cheese Challenge. One weekend of the 1 mile, 5k, 10k and full marathon. It was to be one of the biggest challenges I had ever undertaken in my short running career.

Even as races were cancelling around me, I refused to believe this nightmare was really happening, the world as I knew it was coming to an end.

Finally, the moment of acceptance arrived, and I reluctantly elected to defer my race. I was crushed.

Now what?

I still had big goals for 2020. Goals that I was determined not to abandon. I was supposed to finish my first 50-mile bike ride, complete my first 50-mile run and my first 1000-mile year. But having kids at home learning online was certainly going to mess up those plans. Or was it?

Up to this point, running had always been my social outlet. Now, it became more of an escape. At home, with 3 kids and a work-at-home husband, I longed for alone time. So I worked harder to get it. I learned that it was more essential to me than ever to get that short escape, even for just 30 minutes or an hour. I was a better mom, and a more tolerant mom, after a few miles.

Gradually, the miles added up. I realized that I had unintentionally developed a running streak of sorts. I was completing over 100 miles each month. Could I keep it going all year?

It became a dare, a challenge to myself: Make 2020 something special, even if it’s not the special you hoped for on January 1. Find a way to see the positive in the current situation, and inspire others to do the same.

I resolved to tackle each 2020 goal, one at a time. First, I recruited several friends to join me for a local 50-mile bike ride. We met together on one Friday to complete the ride. We successfully biked to a local dairy farm, treated ourselves to ice cream, and rode home hoping to beat some clouds that quickly turned into an unexpected thunderstorm. Together, socially distanced, we accomplished the goal, and got completely soaked in the process!

Next in line was the 50-mile run. Despite not feeling ready—does anyone ever feel ready for a distance they haven’t tried?—I finished in just under 13 hours. My running tribe helped me through, and I am so grateful for them—and so glad to have that one behind me!

Now the goal of 100 monthly miles or more is sight.

2020? You aren’t what I expected. But despite the obstacles, I’m achieving things I never thought possible, with a little help from my friends.

Read more Seven Months into the Pandemic essays.

Seven Months Into the Pandemic and I’m…Finding Where I Belong—Without Belonging.

My feet were losing momentum as I found myself pushing toward the top of the hill. I went from a run to a shuffle to a power hike. And, soon, a walk. As I leaned forward, two hands pressing slightly on my thighs, I could see two people up ahead. Colorful shadows, familiar and friendly.

I decided to pull aside. Stopping my watch, I took a welcome break at mile 18 of a 22-mile training run. And then I found myself lying down. Full stop. 

And while the temps screamed summer, the crunch of branches beneath their feet signaled that fall would soon be arriving. I could hear them getting closer and just like that, with a lot less grace and agility than I had hoped, I popped up.

“Hey there!”

The figures were two running friends, running the trail together. And my antics were just a practical joke that walked the line between funny and weird. But we stopped and talked for a few minutes. The conversation went beyond banal pleasantries but still felt stilted and slightly long as we all waited to hit start on our respective Garmins.

And so we parted ways. Them: together. Me: on my own.

In another time, in another place, I would have spent the next few miles with feelings of loneliness and exclusion sitting in my stomach. The clawing suspicion that they couldn’t get away from me fast enough. Haunted by childhood memories of being the girl who was picked last. The girl who walked the mile. The girl who didn’t quite fit in.

The woman who felt like she still didn’t quite fit in.

I’ve never wanted for running friends. I’ve been lucky to train with people. But there are times when it feels like the faces come and go. Days I feel like I’m floating from group to group without ever seeming to become a part of it.

Then the pandemic hit and most running groups, organized or informal, hit pause. Training solo became less lonely and more vogue. The internal monologue about a missed invitation could be replaced with a podcast or audiobook.

I opted for the ambient soundtrack of the trails, about 45 minutes from my home. My start time was often dictated by the bladder of our new puppy (a pandemic-prompted adoption). My distance was determined by a somewhat arbitrary decision to follow a 50K training plan. 

The dirt trails, the towering trees soon became my companions. As the weeks passed by, I thought more about whether I was going the right way than if I had said the wrong thing. And as I anticipated the momentary glimpses of white-tailed deer, I stopped thinking about how it all fit together. How I fit in.

Because in those miles, in those hours, I knew where I belonged.

Read more Seven Months into the Pandemic essays.

Seven Months Into the Pandemic and I’m…Needing Humans

A few weeks ago, I came back from a run when my mom, graciously watching my children, asked ” How was your run?”

I bit my lip. Paused. Then mustered the courage to sheepishly admit, “I ran on the Riverwalk.”

My mom, who has accompanied me on my journey as a runner for the last 30+ years, took her own pause. She’s used to me coming back telling her I ran on the trails of the forest preserve, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by meadows, gravel paths and wild turkeys, lucky enough to pass just one runner along the way.  I can’t help it. Running has always been my escape from the world, off of the beaten path, deep into my own mind. 

But on this particular Saturday, seven months into the pandemic, plotting my route out for the run, I found myself filled with a different feeling.
I needed humans.

Early in the pandemic, I remember the trails exploding in people: families, dog walkers, adults who clearly had dug out their rusty bike after 30 years of slumber in the garage. 

At first I felt warmed by watching others discover the awesomeness of trails.  Finally, they see!  

As the weeks went by, the trails got more and more congested. Groups walking, riding, talking across the trail. Dogs on long leashes. Riding became a frustrating exercise in on your left!  (No, that left, your other left, oh just stand there and stay out of my way already!). 

I found myself running deeper into the woods, seeking out single track to once again get away, thinking to myself would everyone just get off of the trails!?

Fast forward to a few months later. I spend most of my time behind a computer “connecting” with the world. I hear the sound of 20+ children coming from my daughter’s remote learning laptop, every single day.  Despite these connections and signs of life, I found myself often feeling lonely. Empty. Despite texts, emails, liking photos on Facebook, it wasn’t enough. There was a longing. I started to wonder, maybe I need people?

At a time when we were encouraged to stay far away from people, I wanted closeness. I wanted to interact with real people. Even at the grocery store, a place where in my mind I previously begged to be left alone as the cashier tried to engage. Her: So what’s your favorite recipes for these beets?  Me: I just want you to check my groceries, I don’t want a relationship

Turns out without those small, what seemed like insignificant interactions, I started realized their significance. How our ability to authentically connect was indeed quite meaningful. How we need the full spectrum of relationships: family, neighbor, community, stranger and beyond. 

So on that Saturday, I ran on the Riverwalk. A short but beautiful path in our downtown area, winding along the DuPage River. Early on a crisp Saturday morning it was bustling with walkers and runners. Bustling with humans. 

Normally preferring to do one long out and back, I ran loops: up and down, around, back and forth over bridges. I was filled with the desire to stop and talk to each person I passed: are you ok?  Are we ok?  Instead, I enjoyed vigorously saying hello and smiling at each human. I felt more energized than I had in weeks.


Back at home, when I admitted this to my mom, I felt almost shameful. In a world where I often prefer to be alone, nestled into the comfort of introversion, proud of my independence, I wanted to cross every boundary.  I wanted to feel a bigger connection to all of the people.  

Since then, I’ve committed to spending more time with real humans outside of my family. It’s important. I need it. We all do. I’ve taken walks with a neighborhood friend. I’ve scheduled “live” meetings with my athletes. I’ve tried to show the world that I’m still here and I care that you’re still here too. 

The other day, I returned to the trails.  It was a cold, damp morning and the trails were empty again.  As I got deeper in the trail, I found myself juxtaposed against enjoying the solitude and longing to see another human.  On that day, I enjoyed it. I felt a sense of owning the trails, embracing the gift all to myself.

But I committed to my next run on the Riverwalk.  To remind myself we’re all in this together and still need to connect: human to human.

Read more Seven Months into the Pandemic essays.

#440: Three Women Share Their Night Run Routines

Part of our Routines series, Sarah and Tish talk with three women about running at night. A mix of anecdotes and advice, the trio reveals:

-how to handle pre- and post-run eating;
-the magical feeling of running under the night sky;
-the lighted and reflective gear they use to stay safe + seen;
-the release of running at the end of a hectic day; and,
-how to rally the energy to head out the door!

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Seven Months Into the Pandemic and I’m…Loving Learning to Play Tennis.

In the fall of 2019, I started a new sport: tennis.

Previously, I had never tried to connect one moving object with another moving object while moving myself unless it was swatting deer flies on a trail run. All my previous athletic endeavors moved my body, but didn’t require agility or coordination; I can’t even do a crow pose in yoga. 

However, last fall I realized I needed a new focus. A fresh start. Those activities that had brought me joy and happiness felt empty and left too much space in my head. In 2015, our older son Evan, then 11, was diagnosed with Ewing’s Sarcoma. Sadly, he died two years later at age 13. During that time, I completely gave up doing much of anything.

When I tried to return to my favorite sports I couldn’t stop my head. I would be out running or doing yoga, and all I could think about was Evan, what he went through, what he was robbed of, what our family and our world was missing. (Also, Evan and I had run a couple of 5Ks together, and he would have been an amazing runner, which just added to the grief.)

Picking up a racket and whacking a ball was both physically and emotionally releasing. When I was there, I had no space in my head for anything but thoughts about tennis. And that gave my brain and body the opportunity the chance to practice existing in the present moment.

In March of 2020 as school closed and work changed, I focused on the game. I went to a court that was open at a school and hit a basket of balls over and over. Serve. Forehand. Backhand. Slice. Volley. Sometimes I went with my son Gavin, now 13, which gives us an activity to do together.

These days, tennis has become a physical chess game. Not only am I focusing on hitting but also placing and moving. Tennis has given some meaning to my running and workouts. My runs now are shorter and harder and hillier, and incorporate strides, sprints, laterals, and (gasp) suicides. My weight training is focused on core and upper body. My flexibility training keeps me from getting injured. And my meditation practice allows me to work on being in the present.

The result? My forehands actually go where I want them to every once in a while. My serve is in the box. My backhand rules. And my mind is focused: you can’t be thinking about anything before or after each shot.

We moved to a new city and state in 2019 to give ourselves a fresh start after our loss of Evan. Tennis has helped me make new friends—something that’s hard to do once your kids get older. Nothing will bring Evan back, but tennis offers a space—and community—for me to simply be.

Read more Seven Months into the Pandemic essays.

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