This past year was tough for everybody but teachers experienced their own brand of chaos. Adapting to online education with a band of restless youth often presiding on their computers before their frustrated parents, teachers had to assuage adults while educating kids in environments that were not built for the essential purposes of learning. 

In speaking with teachers who run, we heard about the principles every runner needs to achieve their goals: patience, perseverance, hard work, faith, determination, and consistency. 

“This year was the marathon of all school years. There were no shortcuts, no easy way out,” says Robyn Michaud-Turgeon, who draws parallels between her experiences teaching through COVID with her run at the Chicago Marathon: “I really had no idea what to expect. Sure, I had run before, but had I ever conquered 26.2? I remember things going sideways as early as 14km, when I REALLY wasn’t expecting it—I panicked and in came the negative self-talk. That whole last half of the race was mental gymnastics and I had to change my game plan several times to adapt to whatever came my way,” she says. “In the end, I survived. It wasn’t pretty, but man, that medal around my neck was earned just for the mental battle I was able to wage, and win. This school year was the EXACT SAME FEELING.”

The exuberance of finishing a race is mirrored by many of us with the feeling of making it at least partially through the pandemic and being able to resume some semblance of a regular life. With vaccination rates rising and more things opening up, not to mention the end of the school year, there is a notion of crossing some sort of finish line. Lyndsay Tessier, one of Canada’s fastest marathon runners and a teacher of 8 and 9-year-olds, said she used her running to balance out the stress of this past year.  

“At the beginning of last year when the pandemic first started, I struggled and found that if I didn’t carve out some time for myself to go running then my four walls could swallow me whole,” says Tessier, a competitive racer and 2021 Olympic marathon substitute who used the pandemic to ease off her training and run more for mental health than to hit pace times. She says her running was the one aspect of her life during COVID-19 where she assumed control.  

Running helped me remember that I’m capable and confident and I can overcome uncertainties

“It was only when I was running when I remembered: Oh yeah, I can line up with some of the world’s best. I can make this Google doc for an 8-year-old.”

Teachers do their job day in and day out, and often times their work isn’t rewarded. The job they do can be missed by prizes, the press and big money and often it’s the little things where they see their successes. It comes with an inherent pride and commitment and, in some cases, not all, but a belief in something with a payout down the road, if they just keep doing their best. With running, like with teaching, to achieve something special, especially during a pandemic, you have to be strong, and carry on.   

“Pivot” was the buzzword this year and that’s what we all did in January to full-remote learning. I had a full-out panic attack the night before thinking “I can’t do this!”” admits Michaud-Turgeon. “Then I looked at the medal rack on my bedroom wall and said, “Oh, heck ya I can.” And I did. We all did.”

Thank you to all the teachers, sincerely, from iRun magazine.

My best advice for you, the New Runner:

I started running in the same way so many of us did: straight up peer-pressure. Someone I worked with whom I admired wanted me to train for a half marathon with her, so I did it. Our first training run is seared into my brain for eternity: -30 degrees in Winnipeg, snow blowing and falling thickly over the sidewalk. My lungs burned; my heart pounded. Every step felt like a mistake. The snow eventually faded, I kept training through the spring, and it got easier. Not easy, but easier. We lined up on race day, excited and as ready as we were going to be. It was hard and there were many walk breaks…I cried through a good part of mile 13. We eventually made it to the finish line and crossing it was like something I had never felt before. I was unbelievably proud of myself, and I knew without at doubt I would do it all over again. 

Likely with COVID, you have not been able to have your first race experience other than possibly virtually, so I will tell you this and hope that you keep it close to your heart: races will come and go but the thing that will keep you in it for the long haul is the people. As we begin the path of coming back together in person, it is so important to remember that like so much else in life, you get out of it what you put in. When you show up, make connections and act as a cheerleader for others, it will all come back to you. 

People will share their greatest joys and deepest sorrows with you on a run. I had the privilege of running a half with a pace group that was all runners completing their first race. It was like seeing my own first time all over again through their eyes. I ran another event where I helped a grandmother make it through her last mile to the finish line when she wasn’t sure she could. On a particularly difficult last mile at another event, I ran with yet another stranger and we shared stories of loss and grief as we remembered our reasons for running. You can open your mind, empathize, learn new things, and laugh like you will never stop. You can make the new friend you never knew you needed. 

You can run alone and that is great if it’s what you truly need. But I promise you that your running life will be so much richer if you plug in to your community. You will change and evolve in this sport and these people will guide you on your way. This is going to be the most exciting part of your life as a runner and I can’t wait for you to experience it. 

Sometimes we can get deep into our own heads, but your running friends will never let you forget to find the joy. And there is so much of it everywhere. 

All the best on your adventures, and welcome to the club. 

When Rob Smith opened Vancouver Running Company in 2015, it was founded upon being good for his community. There’d be no need for a new run shop in Vancouver if it didn’t give something back to where he lived. Coming from the community in which he was an active member, he saw an opportunity to do something different: not about sales, but about soul. 

“The underlying support from Vancouver Running Company of our community doesn’t come close to ending with running—what we do has to have a community component,” says Smith, a longtime runner and marathon finisher. “It’s not just about selling a thing, and that goes for everything we do.”

Smith and the Vancouver Running Company sponsor local athletes including Rachel Cliff and Kathryn Drew, who also runs in HOKA shoes. Drew, one of the country’s finest ultra-distance runners, oscillated in Smith’s running circles and the two met at finish lines in Vancouver and Victoria. Soon, they realized they shared an ethos: running could be about more than fast times.      

“Everyone is pretty connected in our community and I love that the VanRun Co. creates events where everyone gets involved,” says Drew, mentioning the shop’s on-course support at in-person events and even group crewing on ultra-races that require a team to assist with nutrition and gear. “When in-person races were cancelled because of COVID, I began to think about how we can use running for the mental health aspects and as a way to challenge ourselves. I realized without races and my normal running structure, running was essential for my mental health.” 

COVID became the green light for lots of people to start running and this connected with Drew’s choice of running shoes: HOKA One One, which resonated with all levels of runners who click-and-collected at Smith’s store. Popular with both elites and first-timers, the democratization of running shoes—and running shoe price points—has become a rallying cry for Vancouver Running Company and its founder, Rob Smith. 

“When you put them on, they feel like a slipper, like you can run any distance, and they’re not super-flashy or trying to be everyone’s best friend. They don’t feel like they’re overly trying to impress people,” says Smith, who can’t remember how many times he’s recommended the Clifton running shoe, but knows every customer has been satisfied. He says, “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who didn’t feel good in the Clifton. It’s a very versatile shoe.” 

“The first time I wore HOKA was in the last 60 kilometres of my race in the Western States, it felt glorious. Super plush,” says Drew, who started racing in the HOKA Torrent and now races in the HOKA Speedgoat. “HOKA is super comfortable and good for all runners—from the beginner to someone who actually goes out to win races.” 

Races seem to be trickling back in-person and across Canada and already Smith has opened his store to the community, finding other runners desperate for the connection an independent running store can provide. It’s been a difficult time, but thanks to running, and community, and quality products, the tide seems to be turning and optimism is finding a way.  

“At the shop, you can just see that people are starved for communication and a way to get out of the house and interact,” says Drew, who competes this weekend in the Western States Endurance Run and began working part-time at Vancouver Running Company. “It’s just such a supportive environment to be in and working with my colleagues and community—it feels like positive things are going to happen.” 

To learn more about Vancouver Run Co, click here.

We pick our running clothes as a form of armor when we go to battle the roads—when we line up to race or attempt an impossible workout.

That’s what I did that morning. I dressed for 3x3km tempo. I was nervous. It was the first really hot day we had had in weeks. I was hormonal and felt heavy.

I told him two days before I was a grump. He asked me to watch a puppy. When I thanked him on the way home he smirked like he knew it changed my world that day.

He didn’t know how much he would change my world.

I picked out my blue and black shorts with a pocket.

I hate those shorts.

A skinny strapped top—minimal tan lines, you know.

Tempo shoes. Double-knotted.

I was again newly dedicated. Which meant committing to every rehab and pre-run drill known to (wo)man. I dragged ass prepping for the run, which meant I was still home when she texted—in typical baby sister fashion, not wanting to encroach on her big brother’s freedom, but curious she hadn’t heard from him.

I was curious, too. I’d taken note the night before that it was the first time we’d gone a full day without even a text since he cannonballed on me at the pool, but chalked it up to the “man flu” after he’d spent the weekend on a boys’ trip.

I grabbed my earbuds and watch, doubled back for my credit card and walked to his unit. Figuring I would probably have to nip down to the pharmacy and grab him some Pedialyte before hitting the path to train.

I never made it to the store.

The run didn’t happen.

A knock on his door. His dog barking. An unanswered phone call. His sister arriving. 911.

Next, I’m in his apartment. Crouching beside him with my hand on his chest until the police come. He shouldn’t be alone anymore. Keeping his little sister out. Flipping between confusion, sorrow, hysteria and an awkward calmness.

Averting my eyes from him. Looking at the double-knots of my tempo flats.

I hate running.

My hand still feels cold.

I’d dressed to ready myself to battle through a workout. I was armored to run.

As someone who grew up with less than and wearing my brother’s hand me downs, I’m someone who never quite feels like I’m dressed appropriately. But I’ve learned to feel confident in my running apparel. My suit of armor.

My armor was insufficient that morning.

I wore the skinny strap tank for the next 4 days. I showered on day 5.

I didn’t run. I couldn’t. My running clothes still seem insufficient to protect me—heal me—to hide me. To help me.

My struggles with food and sleep relapsed. Even in that fog I knew better than to force myself to run. Running—no, training for an Olympic bid—seemed so pointless.

Running is never pointless.

It. Just. Felt. Wrong.

The food I did manage to eat was mostly garbage. Most sleep happening after 4 a.m. and before 6. I’ve learned since—especially during hard times—that I don’t know how to let good in. That even means in the form of food and rest.

How can I? When every good I’ve celebrated comes with such cost on the front end and always is followed by some hardship previously unfathomable. And that’s not me asking for a pity party.

It’s just been my world.

In 2016 I competed at the Olympics.

That year I lost my aunt to cancer, my friend committed suicide, and my dad overdosed.

In 2017 I battled sepsis in hospital for 8 days and my grandma died.

In 2018 I had hip surgery.

In 2019 I had endometriosis surgery.

Throughout all of that I kept battling to run fast again. I armored myself for every run.

I kept piling on the miles in Kenya under the assumption that it would make me ok. My family wondering why I was crying while in my happy place.

I was sad. I was alone. I kept losing and no one understood my loss.

I kept battling for my “partner” to show care.

I kept waiting for magic.

In 2020 the world shut down and my heart-and-soul grandma died.

In 2021 I find him on his bathroom floor.

How is my running body and brain supposed to be ok when my heart keeps breaking?

We all believe in magic happening and I do believe. But those magical performances come with consistent hard work. I believe in the magic, but I’m missing a key spell ingredient. A body that lets me put in the work.

Nothing about me or my life has been consistent for the past five years. Nothing about my world has been recognizable for the past five weeks.

My Olympic bid—if we are being honest—was actually an Olympic hope. And for that hope to become a reality I needed everything to go perfectly these last few weeks.

They didn’t.

And I’m ok with that.

I am—he was—my life is—perfectly imperfect.

I’m learning to accept good back in. 

Food doesn’t taste like dust. Sleep doesn’t always mean unbearable darkness.

I will get back to a new normal.

My running gear won’t seem so insufficient.

But until then please stop telling me to buck up.

Stop making me feel like a failure for acknowledging that I’m not ok. That after five years of maintaining survival mode I’ve decided to take a minute.

I deserve to thrive.

I’m tough. That’s how I’m known. And I still am. Stop making me feel weak for deciding this isn’t a pain I have to just swallow.

Stop telling me to line up, “cuz who knows?” I am the one—just me—who has kept lining up. Kept showing up. Hoping for something magical. And I can tell you the low is only lower when that magical performance doesn’t happen.

This isn’t a fairytale. My life is a freak show.

And I’m ok with that. I’ve navigated the ugly bits before and I’ll continue to do so.

But I have earned some grace.

I have earned the right to say “I’m not ok” and actually listen to myself.

He didn’t mean for me to see him that way. He didn’t mean to falter. He didn’t know this would be the outcome.

He isn’t the reason why I’m not going to Tokyo. But he is my reason why I’ll be ok.

He fought every day to own his shit.

It’s due time I owned mine.

Right now I’m going through the motions. You don’t make an Olympic team by just pretending. But for now all I have is going through the motions.

I keep setting up my life to prepare for happiness. But I just heard a quote that took the air from my lungs: “You can’t wait until life isn’t hard anymore to be happy.”

There’s no place I can move to—run to—to be happy. And therefore, I have to acknowledge I cannot run from this.

Going through the motions is enough for now. Eventually I will be able to tap into my emotions.

I’m envious of the Kate VB comeback races. She found the magic. But it came through her own battling through utter shit to do it.

I’ll have my Kate VB moment. It just doesn’t have to be tomorrow.

And I’m ok with that.