Relay 2.0

We launched Relay last September with a collective vision of it being the best place for engaging, interesting, and exciting running content. We also hoped to have fun along the way.

Over the past year, we’ve had a blast! 

We’ve tried different mediums, welcomed new team members, and found different ways to include you in all our live discussions. Since the beginning, we’ve been curious how operating on Patreon would work out. Many of you have been with us since September, for which we want to say THANK YOU. But it’s time for something new…

As of August 1st Relay will be free on podcast platforms and YouTube.

This will allow us to broaden our reach, and open up new opportunities for collaborations, guests, and community activity. Simply: we’re excited by what we have going with Relay, but never quite figured out how to make the subscription model a success.

We will move our Patreon to the popular model of being the home for Relay Super Fans. The place where you can ask us questions, give us suggestions, and participate in monthly members-only activities. We will have a single tier of support that will allow people to give however much they choose. Membership will get you invited to monthly private Ask Us Anything shows, as well as involvement in other decisions, such as early notice of events, feedback on new ideas, and brainstorms for future shows.

THANK YOU for your support thus far. Like a runner emerging stronger from a season of ups and downs, we have several miles covered but feel like the best is yet to come.

We will launch Relay on August 1 on all major podcast platforms and YouTube. We hope you will subscribe, share, and participate as we continue to strive to create the content that we want to see in the running world.

We know that some of you purchased annual subscriptions. Thank you! If you are looking to receive a refund for future months please send us a direct message. We will be handling those refunds in the last week of July.

Finally, we want to express, again, just how thankful we are to all of you for helping us get Relay up and running. We couldn’t have created this team and platform without you!

No More Dragons

by Kofuzi

In 2010, my goal was to just finish a marathon. In 2019, I wanted to qualify for Boston with a time of 3 hours of 10 minutes. And another three years later, I was finally able to run a marathon under 3 hours. So now what? Where’s that next big juicy target?

My problem now, as it has always been, is time.

Today, as a 2:58 guy, I’m 40 minutes away from an olympic trials qualifier. And while closing that kind of gap isn’t impossible, as a 43 year old runner, there’s just not enough time to even mount an attempt.

So where does that leave me? Chasing even faster times somehow seems both daunting and underwhelming. What’s the difference between running 2:58, a 2:55, or a 2:50 marathon? Nothing. They’re all fast times. So how do you motivate yourself when the goals are both too big to chase and too small to go after?

I know the “right” answer is that I need to stop chasing results and start pursuing process. But I already love process. I woulnd't have gotten to where I am without that. And still, even though I know there is plenty of room for improvement - it’s increasingly intense effort for sequentially smaller gains. The prospect feels ominous and heavy.

But one thing I know is that I still love running. So while I may be an aging warrior with no more dragons left to slay, I’m not ready to lay down my sword. 2023 will be the first year I don’t have a specific time or mileage goal in mind, and it feels a bit like uncharted territory. So this year, with an open mind, I will run. Not as a conqueror, but as an explorer. And we’ll see where these aging legs can take me.

Float, Not Thrash

By Stefanie Flippin

You need to write about her. You promised her you would write. You need to work through this with her.

But every time my fingers touch the keyboard they retract. As if pressing the keys are hot coals, finalizing her departure from this life. The searing reality I am not ready to face yet.

She is no longer physically here, which means now I must figure out how to let her go while still holding her close.

Susie was my mom’s best friend, a second mother to me. She was diagnosed with breast cancer at a pivotal time in my life. It was 2017. I had a year left of my residency and a seed was growing in my mind around my future in the sport. I entered the world of trail and ultrarunning five years prior but without the time to properly train, nor the maturity to truly excel yet. However, my time was getting close to becoming my own again with graduation looming. I wondered how fast and far I could go with the proper focus. Her diagnosis changed everything, setting me on a path that made every discomfort and sacrifice - within running or otherwise - feel minor.

I carried her illness as I worked my way through my fall 100 miler that year. I muscled my way through eighty-eight miles but the wheels were coming off. Twelve more miles on the godforsaken trail felt impossible and pointless. I stumbled out of the aid station, shaking my head at this “dumb sport” I’d taken up as a foil to the hours I spent at the hospital. At that moment, it all felt like the same shit.

A flash of reddish brown fur, the same color as her hair, suddenly darted through the woods. Maybe I imagined it, maybe I didn’t. I grinned, envisioning her screaming encouragement, holding out a rum and Coke for me at the finish line. My smile faded as I remembered the diagnosis. The journey she never asked for, but nonetheless awaited her. I ran my fastest splits of the entire race from that moment until my feet crossed the finish. The next day I mailed her my award. A medal that adorned her neck through the countless chemotherapy sessions. It served as a symbol of our fight.

I lined up for dozens of races in the five years that followed. I qualified for Boston for the first time. I ran my hometown 100 mile race, getting the biggest boost of energy when she surprised me on the course. I struggled in life and running, but I didn’t give up. I ran PRs in every distance. I chased an Olympic Trials qualifying marathon, leading myself to burnout. I returned to the trails and distances that proved to be my specialty. I fought to believe that I could take on the world’s best. The common denominator through it all was my unwavering Why. My Why was always her.

She called me her modern day warrior: a badge of honor I wore with colossal pride. When things got tough, all I had to do was think of her and I could feel my body refill with strength. As her health declined this year, it became a psychological game of bartering for me. “Run this 27 mile route in x time and her health will improve this week. Win this race and her liver function will turn around. Get the course record here and she will live to 2023.” This framing lacked logic, but I convinced myself that my preferred form of suffering could serve as the currency to save her.

I knew we were on borrowed time this year. When we realized things were taking a turn for the worse, she shared that my efforts drove her in moments of difficulty. “I look at the photos and videos you send me,” she said. “I close my eyes, then picture I’m running with you. It makes me feel free.”

By this point I had carried her with me over thousands of miles, always sending a photo afterward of the places we had just traversed together. I ran laps through my favorite sections of singletrack, memorizing the sights of wildflowers and their butterflies, the feeling of them brushing against my legs, so that afterward I could describe it to her in detail. I told myself it was for her, to set her free - anything to set her free. Yet selfishly it anchored me to her as well.

A few months before her departure, and right before I headed out for my peak long run of the season, she imparted a piece of advice. She expressed her frustration and fear of change, her fear of letting us go. She told me that I needed to “float, even when I wanted to thrash.” That, like her, I needed to stop trying to be the perpetual fixer of all things and just be present with myself and those I love.

I sobbed for hours out on the trail as I repeated “float, not thrash” until my body followed suit. She wasn’t a runner herself, but my God did she understand endurance, like she had years of experience in the sport. She did though. She executed the most brave and prolific ultramarathon I’ve ever witnessed.

The call from my mom, the one I’d been fearing, sent me back to my childhood habit of digging my index finger into the side of my thumb, causing a brief, benign pinch to distract myself from the heavy reality I was about to face. I aimed to find gratitude in the chance to say goodbye, acknowledging the beautiful privilege I had to seek closure. I thought of friends who hadn’t been as fortunate with their loved ones. I understood the profundity of the opportunity to speak everything in my heart one last time to someone I deeply love…and so I went.

As my dad put the car in park I was welcomed by the faint familiar scent of tropical flowers from her and Walter’s beloved garden. I entered their home as the sweet scent abruptly collided with the harsh medical reality. The IV, the surgical masks, the bottles of morphine. A surge of pressure filled my chest, forcing me to quickly back away to catch my breath in the outdoor air. I needed to stay out in the warm, sunny comfort of how I remember her for just one more moment.

I will never forget the words we exchanged, the softness of her hand in mine, the intensity I felt pressing my forehead to hers. My brain racked itself for all the right words, to be sure there would be no regrets. When it came down to it, I just kept whispering “I love you so much.”

Those hours felt like an entire lifetime but also a fraction of a second. When it was time for her to retire for the day, I tried to mask the desperation in my voice and quiet my body’s shaking. Float, not thrash. Be here now. We embraced a final time as I pleaded with her to find me on the trails. To just please keep giving me signs that she was still here in this universe with me. She squeezed my hand, fighting this final goodbye. I held her a final time as my heart shattered into pieces.

As the plane lifted out of San Diego, swinging wide over the Pacific, I sat in my seat, silently weeping as the sunset burst out over the ocean into a colorful explosion of her favorite shades. I knew that the next time I returned here she would be gone, and the pain was overwhelming.

Seated beside me was a young girl, maybe 8 years old at most. She stared up at me, then quickly looked away. I tried to smile, compose myself and pretend like everything was okay. But she knew. She silently patted my knee. This genuine empathy, from that of a young stranger, comforted me as the sunset blurred into darkness behind us.

Susie left the most incredible mark on me. Through her strength and grace, she helped me find an inner strength I didn’t know I had. Her bravery gave me the courage to overcome my insecurities, my hesitation to put myself in the ring, my embarrassing timidness to take up space. Conquering all of those things were made infinitely easier because in my heart, I was doing them with her. Even when I failed, I continued to rise again because I had a purpose much greater than myself.

My running career is a direct byproduct of having the most powerful, compelling Why. The Why that can pull me over life’s toughest hurdles. The Why that transcends time and space. The Why that eternally reminds me to float, not thrash.

The Desert and Me

By Stefanie Flippin

“I am so sorry, but there isn’t a heartbeat. Judging by the size of the fetus, it likely stopped around 10 weeks,” my doctor imparted the news I knew was possible, but simply wasn’t anticipating.

“My recommendation is you still fly out tomorrow to pace your husband at his race, and when you return, we should consider administering misoprostol so you can miscarry at home. Since you are a physician, you know what to expect.” He offered a plan for moving forward.

These words, delivered to me in October 2018, came just before flying out to Phoenix for Javelina Jundred, a highly competitive desert 100 mile trail race.

At the time, my husband Mitchell and I were three months removed from graduating our residency programs and we had recently opened the doors to our private practice. My training was consistent, but not quite as committed as I am these days, nor to any elite level yet. I was focused on road marathoning later that fall, and supporting Mitchell to achieve his goals on the trails as a pacer. I was excited. I’d even dreamt up a plan to sub out my pacer bib for a playful “pacing for two” bib in order to surprise my parents at the finish line with the happy news. A silly plan that never came to be.

What I most vividly remember is the hollow feeling, staring out the airplane window, tears rolling down my face, feeling empty. Knowing I would always associate this race with this time of my life, and there was no way to sunder the two. Or at least it felt that way in my mind.

On Javelina Jundred race day I saw Mitchell off, then drove myself into Scottsdale to run a sixteen mile marathon workout - honestly, out of some undoubted punishment. As I drove back to the race course I noticed the temperature was in the high nineties. Although Mitchell struggled through the heat of the day, as the sun set, I could tell we were about to roll. I tossed back an energy drink and we promptly started dropping sub 8 minute miles.

We didn’t speak much. I kept count of the people we passed and tried to not get dropped as he became stronger and stronger on this final lap. At times I caught myself running timidly, as if protecting my insides, then painfully remembered that this was unnecessary. There was nothing left that I needed to protect. The harder I pushed, the more I started to swear off returning to this race myself, as if the course was somehow responsible for my own circumstances.

As I counted off the thirty two runners passed over those last twenty miles, those thoughts got pushed to the back of my mind as I swelled with pride for all that we’d been through to get to this finish line. I hugged him tight, and immediately told him, “I’ll never fucking run this race.”

By the middle of the next year, I had formally stepped away from the trails and any distance over 26.2 miles. I told myself and others that it was to work on my speed and that was a real, legitimate reason, but that didn’t reveal the guilt I carried from racing such distances. I continued to carry guilt over racing a 50k, 50 miler, a half marathon, all stacked together in the early weeks of pregnancy, before I could have known what was inside of me. I wasn’t to blame, but it haunted my conscience nonetheless.

That spring I ran a road half marathon in Moab, Utah, taking home my first ever win. Hours later, I had debilitating cramps. Chalking it up to the race and my period, the pain intensified and I begged Mitchell to go get me ibuprofen. The next morning, I passed a portion of a gestational sac. A month later, I went through a similar scenario out on a run. Debilitating cramps out of nowhere, a rush of blood, and the passing of a second gestational sac. An honest mistake from that first ultrasound that showed no heartbeat, let alone two, but an unfortunate drawn-out miscarriage spanning six months. A combination of my hyperindependence, coupled with trust from my colleague that I knew what to expect because of my own medical training, left me isolated to navigate this solo. Historically, I’ve been good at approaching my health objectively, even transactionally. The double-edged sword of being a healthcare provider and seeing the gamut of conditions throughout my training.

But I worked through it, with help from mental health specialists and loved ones. I knew I wasn’t the only woman to have gone through this, but at the time, I certainly felt alone. From there my running career took off. While not a single start line would pass without me thinking of what could have been, I was okay - I was at peace. Until I was about to line up for my third national championship race earlier this year when a nonchalant comment, one not meant in malice, stung me deeply by surprise: “You wouldn’t know, you don’t have mom strength yet.”

I had stuffed away the painful images from those years, but this comment brought them right back all over again. The reality was, despite going through arguably the hardest, most agonizing time in my life, I didn’t have children to show for it. Without shouting from the rooftops what I had gone through, there was no easy, fluid, or self-respecting way to respond to that comment.

We’re familiar with female athletes who either started families alongside their athletic endeavors or chose to not have children for the sake of their athletic careers. Both paths are deeply personal and equally respected. But women like me exist in a gray area. Those who have lost and are still processing their loss and are unsure what the future holds. Women who have developed strength from losses like these, but aren’t accepted into the Mother Runner club. As a vehement supporter of all women, my words do not come from a place of envy or disdain; rather, I aim to understand where I fit into this community that labels women based on their motherhood choice.

The topic is heavy and I don’t have answers. Instead, I seek to move forward in an unexpected way, by circling the Javelina desert loop that I swore off years ago. Last month I even found myself traveling out to run a few laps on this course. The loop that I’d sworn would never be for me. The loop that felt so entwined with my anguish from years past.

I feel drawn to return to this desert, but I wasn’t sure why until I stepped onto the course for the second time. Yes, I would love to earn an entry into Western States 100 for 2023. It’s been a dream race for me since I suffered through 30 ridiculous hours in my first mountain 100 mile race in 2015. But this place is more than that for me. As I hopped onto the Pemberton Trail, I felt a deep sense of connection. The sweat poured out of me as the temperature spiked above 103 degrees. But it felt cleansing. As I climbed my way towards the 20 mile loop’s major aid station named Jackass Junction, tears formed and my breath caught, as I allowed myself to acknowledge the gnawing pain I have been working through since my last visit to this desolate but beautiful place.

I was hit with the strongest sensation of deja vu as a horned lizard ran across my foot, pausing briefly in the brush to stare up at me before taking off again. A brief, vivid moment in time with my grandfather, who hasn’t been earthside since 1996. That day we released a horned lizard when I was four years old, on a camping trip in Mexico. I could suddenly smell the sunscreen on our faces that day as the memory fleeted and faded away. His presence confirmed for me in that moment, sitting with my heartache but then letting it flow out as I picked my way through the rocks and sand, letting my legs perform the catharsis they’re now so accustomed to, I was right where I was meant to be.

As I count down the final days to lining up for this historic race, which will inevitably be painful at points, and will demand my entire focus, I have a sense of calm. I am returning to the desert a completely different person than I was in 2018, with the grace for myself that I’ve worked so hard to cultivate and instill. I will not be running away from my pain or seeking to punish myself. I won’t be aiming to right whatever perceived wrongs I felt I left floating within the universe. Instead I will be running towards the human I know I am, never alone, always with the presence of those so deeply loved but tragically lost. Because when I know my why, I can bear any how.

All About The TAPER

By Stefanie Flippin

This weekend marks many marathoners’ final long run ahead of the Boston Marathon (and for those targeting races like Eugene, Big Sur, Flying Pig, etc. the taper is within sight). As a coach, I notice that athletes typically fall into two categories: those that love and appreciate the taper and those that simply hate it and the perceived physiological processes that occur within it ahead of race day. The taper can also be a significant source of insecurity, both for athletes and coaches. It can often take a few training cycles for the athlete and coach to get a feel for what works best for them. Fortunately, this topic has been fairly heavily studied since the 1980s or so, and we have data to at least guide us in our decision making process. It should be noted that a lot of the foundational research was performed on swimmers and then translated over to long distance runners, but in recent years, the results have been confirmed and replicated in marathon runners.

So first, let’s define what the taper is. The taper refers to a period, usually ranging from a week to three weeks (but can go up to 28 days), of reduced training load that serves to allow the athlete to recover from the cumulative stressors of the preceding training block (all of which are relative to the specific athlete and their abilities): high volume, high intensity, stacked on top of each other over the course of say, 12-20 weeks, leading into a goal marathon race. We as runners might think the taper only refers to us, but it’s a strategy that’s frequently employed across disciplines, including strength training, swimming, rowing, cycling, and triathlon.

What goes on at a physiological level during the taper? A meta-analysis performed by Bosqet et al (PMID 17762369) found that the taper induces hypervolemia (fluid overload) and enhanced red blood cell production, along with an increase in oxidative enzyme activity (including the enzyme that makes glycogen) – all of which point to a measured increase in VO2 max, which has long been used as a determinant/indicator of performance. They also found a range of 13-34% taper-induced increase in muscle glycogen content, both in men and women, which undoubtedly contributes to improved aerobic endurance.

There are a handful of components to the taper: training volume (i.e. weekly mileage) is the most common association, but frequency, intensity, pattern (for our purposes here, we’ll focus on progressive or step taper), and finally duration (probably the most hotly debated tenant) are all a part of the taper as well, so let’s walk through ‘em all.

First up, training volume. You can decrease the training volume by keeping the same number of days in place within the training week, by simply decreasing the volume of each session (i.e. Susan runs five days/week with two rest days. During her taper, she continues to run five days/week but the volume of each session is decreased) OR you can decrease the frequency (i.e. Joe runs 6 days/week with one rest day. During his taper, he cuts down to 4 days/week with three rest days). A study by Hickson and Rosenkoetter (PMID 7219129) found that it is possible to maintain the 20-25% maximum oxygen uptake (otherwise known as VO2 max and even more generically known here as fitness 😉) gained during a 10 week training block for the next 15 weeks of reduced training frequency; however, a study by Mujjika et al (PMID 12840640) discusses that this more so applies to moderately trained individuals (loosely defined as amateur athletes maintaining 30-50% of pretaper values) and that much higher training frequencies should be enforced for the highly trained, especially when the sport involves technique (the steeplechase is a good example here).

Next up is intensity, which is often woven into the pattern of the taper. A progressive pattern incorporates a decrease in training by 10-15% immediately, followed by gradual decreases with a lower-percentage reduction each day heading into competition. A step pattern involves a single reduction in training and then remains there heading into competition (i.e. a reduction in training by 50%; it holds at this same volume until race day). The landmark study on tapering, and specifically the optimal pattern, is by Banister et al from 1999 (PMID 10029340), as he and his team evaluated triathletes. They found that a progressive pattern is significantly superior to a step pattern and VO2 max also increased significantly in the final two weeks of the athletes’ progressive taper. In terms of intensity, it is widely accepted across the board that training load shouldn’t be reduced at the expense of training intensity because of its vital role in maintaining the training adaptations that were acquired during the prior training block. The key takeaway here: continue with speedwork, but within the context of lower overall volume.

And finally, the duration of the taper. I’ll spend the most time on this topic, as it seems to be the most commonly debated element. The previously mentioned meta-analysis done by Bosquet et al found a “dose-response relationship” between the duration of the taper and performance improvement, stating that a duration of 8-14 days tends to represent the borderline between the “positive influence of fatigue disappearance and the negative influence of detraining on performance.” They found that performance improvements could be expected following up to 28 day tapers, but that negative results were also experienced by some of the athletes. They noted that this wide range in duration directly correlates with physiological and/or psychological adaptation responses to reduced training. Some higher performing athletes also experiment with the use of something called “overload intervention” which basically refers to a down week (a form of tapering) followed by a super high training load with increased frequency and/or intensity, and Bosquet’s study noted that this also plays a role in the variability of taper duration and its effects.

Mujika underscored that the time frame that separates the benefits of a successful taper from the negative consequences of insufficient training is not clearly established. Kenitzer found that based on changes in blood lactate concentration and performance times, that a two week taper best represents the limit of recovery and compensation time before detraining became evident, although this was in a group of female swimmers.

Researchers (and Kubukely et al in particular) tend to agree that the optimum taper duration is influenced by previous training intensity and volume, with athletes training harder/longer requiring the full two weeks in order to recover from the training, while also maximizing the benefits of their training; conversely, those who reduce their amount of high-intensity training need a shorter taper to prevent loss of fitness.

Finally, and perhaps the most useful study I found in my perusing, is one from 2021 by Smyth et al (PMID 34651125) that specifically analyzed longer, disciplined tapers in recreational marathoners. Their study found that strict tapers (meaning, the reduction in volume is consistent and not random) were associated with better marathon performance than relaxed tapers (the reduction in volume is inconsistent leading into race day) and that longer tapers of up to 3 weeks were associated with better performance (superior marathon finish-time benefits) than shorter/minimal tapers. They also found that women runners were associated with greater finish-time benefits than men, for a given taper type (less than or equal to 3 weeks in duration). Their findings were consistent with the aforementioned research performed over the years in high level, professional athletes, underscoring the importance of maintaining specificity and intention within the taper, regardless of if your marathon time begins with a 6, 5, 4, 3 or 2.

And there you have it! There is a lot of data out there on tapering, but this is the general gist of what the world’s leading sports scientists have to say. As a coach myself, I think it’s very much worth being intentional with your taper and certainly not being haphazard with it or foregoing it all together. Something I like to focus on during the taper for all of my athletes, regardless of ability/fitness level, is to use the decrease in training volume to sharpen up mental and emotional fitness, almost inversely to the physical component. Quiet reading, visualization, and preparation for how the athlete is going to react during a low OR high point during the race is just as important to me as being sure they’re physically rested and ready to rock.

Happy tapering, my marathon folks!

To Run or Not to Run

Christmas Running by Kara Goucher.                                                                                      

Each holiday season I reflect on how my relationship with running has changed over time. I have gone from thinking it was crazy to run on Christmas Day, to running decent milage on Christmas, to purposefully not running on Christmas and then landing where I am today.

When I first started organized running, I never ran in the winter. If I felt like it I’d nordic ski. I lived in a house that backed to a big state park with miles of groomed skiing trails. I’d go ski, maybe even on Christmas if a sibling wanted to go in the afternoon, but it wasn’t in my mind as a workout, rather just a chance to get outside and breathe fresh air. I would never consider running on Christmas back then. It was the best day of the year, why would I ruin it and worry about running? Since I didn’t run a step after the cross country season was done until the first day of track practice, it never entered my mind.

When I got to college I slowly started to be more committed to running. After my first year I started training over the holiday break. Nothing major, just easy runs mixed with longer runs and low key fartlek. This is when I started running on Christmas. I thought it made me tough, to go out on the snow and ice in Duluth when everyone was in their pajamas drinking hot cocoa. However, I never appreciated how this would affect my family. They waited patiently as I went out to run before they began any of the festivities. They would stay in bed, try to read- do anything really. I’d tell them I’d get up early to go, but inevitably would start later then promised as I’d wait for the sun to come up. When I got back from my run they’d be excited to open stockings and have coffee cake, but I would ask them to give me 20 more minutes so that I could shower. Looking back, I really appreciate that they let me do this. They would groan but still wait for me, always showing me they cared about my dreams and were invested along with me.

As I became a professional, this pattern continued. Everyone would wait on Kara and Adam to do their workout before we started the day. Out for a 12 miler with some strides, my family would wait for my return. During this time they didn’t even question it, they knew that I was going to run, that I felt like I had to run, they never complained. It was part of the tradition, waiting for the runners to come back so the day could start.

For Christmas 2011 Adam and I didn’t even celebrate. We didn’t decorate or get gifts. What was the point? The Olympic Marathon Trials were January 14th and that was all that was on our minds. Once the Olympic Marathon Trials were over we went to visit both of our families- mine in Minnesota and his in Colorado, and did a delayed holiday with everyone. Looking back it makes me a little sad that we didn’t do a true Christmas for Colt. Of course he doesn’t and can’t remember, but I wish we had done some decorating and celebrating. (Or even just let Santa come by to drop of a gift!)

Later in my career I began to feel guilt when I’d go out and run on Christmas morning. By 2015 Colt was old enough to know that Santa was coming! In December 2015, with the Olympic Marathon Trials just a month and a half away, I got up at 4:30am. I drove over to the indoor track and hurried through the short speed session Mark and Heather had prescribed me and raced back home to make sure I was there whenever Colt woke up. (He ended up sleeping in so I didn’t have to rush to be back by 6:30). As he got a little older, I’d tell him I’d be back by 8:00. It started to bother me that my son’s memories of Christmas were going to be waiting for his mom to come back so that he could start. That her running was more important than the experience of Christmas Day.

A few years later I said I’d never run on Christmas again. I wanted to be present, in the moment with my family. I wanted them to know that there are things more sacred than running. It wasn’t always easy, and sometimes I had guilt about not running, but I eventually landed in a very healthy space. I am totally focused on my family and our traditions. However, if there is downtime in the afternoon when people are preoccupied with gifts, I might take a 20-40 minute jog. Since 2018 I have run on Christmas twice. I don’t obsess over it, if it happens it happens, but never at the expense of my son’s experience.

There is no right or wrong answer about running on Christmas or any other important holiday that you and your family celebrate. For me it was prioritized when it needed to be, and family has been prioritized since. It makes me see an evolution in my running, the different reasons why I did it over time, why I do it now. There is no right or wrong answer, doing what you need is the best decision. No matter what you decide, I hope your day is filled with amazing memories.

The Post Race Blues by Kara Goucher

It’s spring marathon season, so there are races week after week. Boston was a week ago, London was yesterday, but the reality is that there are dozens of marathons every weekend this time of year. Anyone have the post marathon blues?

I used to get into a sad funk after a marathon or big race that I had circled on my calendar. As the tapering would begin I’d start to feel it. This sense of sadness, of the finality in what I was about to do. It didn’t matter if my race went amazing or if it wasn’t great. About a week after a major competition, I’d have the blues. I’d miss the preparation I had, I’d miss the hope that fueled me through my training. I’d just feel melancholy, not enjoying my downtime. Sometimes I’d really struggle to even think about getting back into training. I felt no motivation to get back at all.

I want everyone who feels this way to know that it is perfectly normal! It is normal to pour you heart and soul into something and feel a loss at the end of it all. To wonder if you enjoyed it enough or took it all in. To wonder if you should have done things differently. To reflect and miss the dedication it took to get to that starting line. And it is perfectly normal to need time to be motivated again. You are recovering mentally and physically from the training you did to have your big effort. You may need time before something excites you. That’s ok, there is nothing wrong with you.

When I’d get in these funks, I’d try to see family and friends. When training I often said no to social engagements. This period of time after a big race is a great time to reconnect, to do things you had sacrificed in the sake of your goal. When my body was ready to move again I’d often loathe the thought of getting back into the same type of training. So instead I’d do a block focused on speed, run more or less miles than I had before or say yes to that hike with a friend. These are the times when I’d head to the pool or join a bike ride, allow my trail friends to get me out for a run out of my comfort zone run. I’d be more well rounded, and try to enjoy all of the other facets of my life.

When your body and heart are ready to put a race on the calendar again, you will know. There is no rush, there is no set timeline. Take time you need, heal in all ways you need to heal. And remember, endless opportunities await you. When excitement returns, you’ll be happy you properly recovered in the way that you needed. The post marathon/race blues are real! Don’t push it, when your body and mind are ready, they will let you know!