What a strange time to be a runner. I’m starting there on purpose, because just weeks ago when I was still riding that high from the US Olympic Trials in Atlanta, I said: What a time to be a runner in the US. It feels surreal how quickly things have changed as the Corona virus pandemic consumes the world.
Crisis puts so much in perspective. Before fully understanding the scope of what was about to happen, I felt upset about my race plans getting messed up. Now I only wish that was among my biggest worries.
I’d be lying if I acted like postponing the race didn’t bother me at the time. I’d just put myself through 10 weeks of the hardest training block I’ve yet attempted. This would be my first major. I crossed my fingers things might be okay by mid-April.
As race after race get cancelled, it was like watching dominoes fall, picking up speed, hurdling toward Boston. My race. The one I worked so hard for, striving for that qualifying time. All around me, friends were going through that same heartbreak. Even before Boston made an official call, it became obvious they’d have to cancel or postpone.
As I’ve dialed mileage back and recovered from the exhaustion of travel to the Trials, the cold (or flu or something) I caught just after Atlanta, and the high training load, I’ve gotten little glimpses of my fitness. I’ve mourned the race that might have been on April 20.
It was a strange kind of whiplash to go from 70 mile weeks to suddenly not training for anything at all. Now you’re training, now you’re not. Allowing myself to feel sorrow or frustration is indulgent—I know it is. I’ve also realized beating myself up for my feelings doesn’t help. Those emotions need to be processed to be let go.
Now it is crystal clear that cancelling events, staying in, and pressing pause on life as we know it is an imperative to slowing the spread of the virus. My only outings are the occasional grocery run, dog walks, and running. I feel so thankful for that outlet.
Here in the US, the worst of the peak is still ahead. The potential (and likely) magnitude of suffering in our future numbs my whole being. It’s too much, too heavy to fathom, and yet here it comes. I can only read the news in small doses because it otherwise swallows me whole. My heart is with the front line workers in health care, at grocery stores, any of the essential workers who keep the world moving. And the people with pre-existing conditions that make this pandemic so much scarier, and everyone fearing for and grieving loved ones.
With so much suffering and chaos, to have running as this constant, this normal thread—I can’t even say what it means to me. To be able to throw on my shoes and head out there, to clear my head and zone out is a calming, comforting thing. With gratitude, I will keep lacing up. I will not take this movement, this freedom for granted.