November 2020

by Pam Harris

As I rode my bike slowly to nowhere this morning, I looked down on the roundness of my stomach hanging over my bike shorts; I get way too hot riding indoors to bother with a shirt. I reflected on what it means to be an athlete in the time of Coronavirus.

Like many of you, I spent some considerable time and effort putting the 19 (pounds, that is) into COVID-19. Some of that weight was gained in a deliberate attempt to eat my feelings. Some of it came on via what sports psychologist Justin Ross terms the “ahfuckits,” which for me translated into: “I can’t see the need to wear pants without an elastic waistband anytime soon, so why bother watching what I eat?”

That said, while I’ve been consuming a gram or two more processed sugar than strictly necessary, I have also made sure that I’m also getting what my body needs to support my athletic endeavors. I haven’t let my protein, healthy fats, veggie, or quality carb intake slip. It’s one thing to gain a few unwanted pounds, but sabotaging future workouts with insufficient fueling is an entirely different ball of wax. 

Like many adult-onset athletes, I’ve had trouble accepting that “athlete” title. Training for and running my first half marathon, and, several years later, my first full marathon helped, but it was the realization that I had come to love training for its own sake that cemented athlete into my identity. Training in the time of coronavirus has solidified it further.

I’m training hard, with one hard bike workout, one hard run workout, and one long run every week, interspersed with easy runs and recovery days. In addition, more than four months after the cancellation of my big 2020 race, I signed up for personal training sessions at a local open-air kettlebell gym.

I love seeing the weekly progression of my fitness. The way I can lift more every week, and move my body in new ways to do impressive things with kettlebells. I get immense satisfaction in seeing the fruits of those sessions in my workouts: the use of my “boxer’s muscles” to extend my arms on the bike while keeping my shoulders relaxed; sore abs after a run or a ride because I’m learning to recruit different muscles; my easy pace inching up, even on the hills.

Check it: I became the Strava Local Legend on one of the gnarliest hills around because I’m no longer scared to incorporate it in my running routes. 

Sure, I might be carrying around some extra core insulation. That’s ok. I’m still moving my body with purpose and perseverance. I don’t have any running races planned, and my bike rides net me zero mileage. Still, I am still an athlete in the time of Coronavirus.

by Rachel Pieh Jones

In June my family made a quick exit of Djibouti. I needed to see my oncologist in Minnesota and we had a window of opportunity to board a special Covid-19 repatriation flight. I packed six pieces of luggage, uncertain of when or how or if we would return. Mostly, I felt sure we would come home in September, but the way the world looked in June, there were no guarantees.

Even with the stress, I was excited to be in Minnesota for a few weeks and one of my highlights is running there. Green grass, country roads, fresh air, reasonable temperatures.

We landed in the United States and received zero pieces of luggage. Zero. I had the clothes I was wearing on the plane.

Surely the bags would come in the next two or three days.

No bags.

I bought a pair of running shoes, a sports bra, a t-shirt, and a pair of shorts. Now I had two outfits. One for wearing and sleeping in and one for running and sometimes sleeping in.

Two weeks on, no bags. I called two airlines and three airports every day. I messaged the director of the airline we had flown on and there was no record that our flight ever existed. Covid has done many bizarre things and one was that it totally disappeared our flight and records of our bags. 

There were tears and there was anger and there were no bags.

I posted on Facebook about the missing items and Heather, a friend I met in Uzbekistan almost two decades ago and who now lives in Louisville, Kentucky, messaged. She might be able to wrangle up some gently used running items. Would I like them?

Yes! I would, in fact. It is awkward to feel like a beggar, but our flight had cost far more than normal, our life had flipped upside down, I couldn’t go shopping in stores to try things on because we were quarantining until I saw my doctor, and my family desperately wanted me to stop running and sleeping in and wearing the same clothes.

Heather wrote again and mentioned a group of mother runners in Louisville who wanted to also help get me into running gear.

Within days (still no luggage), I had received a Venmo donation and then a box came in the mail. Shoes, Nuun, sports bra, running shirts, shorts, caps, a hair band…every single item in just my size, plus a bonus stack of novels!

I cried again. All of this from strangers, connected through one friend, over thousands of miles, because they know the importance of being able to run.

Eventually I did receive my luggage, more than 6 weeks after landing in the USA. I think about all those miles logged in gifted clothing, all the ways running helped my body and mind heal from the stress of this strange time, all the people who reached out to encourage a stranger (but a fellow runner so not so much a stranger), and I feel proud to be a runner. This is who we are. This is what we do. 

We run, we cry, we take care of each other.