words by Nanna Munnecke
photos by Ben Clement

Amsterdam marathon is going on right now and we are watching the live feed on Facebook — Bekele is in focus, trying to break course and ultimately world record — this is a big race. The camera follows the lead group and we watch them fly along the Amstel river. Commentators try to calculate and put the strategy in perspective — all as it should be — it’s exciting! But one thing is missing — there’s not a single clip of the elite women.

People start noticing fast in the live feed comments “Where are the women?” we ask — as do others — both men and women btw.

Karl jokes “Amazing how few spectators there are — maybe they are on the women’s route rather than the men’s route 🙈”
After 30K there’s still no sign of the women. The elite men are having an amazing race — it’s a joy to watch — but where are the women’s elite? Who made the choice to not have any focus on them? And what does this choice say about running? And what are the consequences for the sport?

Media still choose not to give any screen time to women’s racing

In autumn 2017 we wrote the org behind Frankfurt marathon when experiencing the same scenario — their reply was that the media has the control of what to show. The media do not reply. There was no immediate reply from Amsterdam Marathon in the live feed or the DM Facebook Messages.

If media controls the marathon showings, how come London and some US marathons managed to have a much more equal focus?

In the meantime, women’s running has exploded. More women are running , more women are pushing through in the sub-elite category , more women are pushing their boundaries, unlocking strength and running faster and further.

One guy on the FB live feed suggests that Bekele simply has the ‘lead’ also in the media priorities. Berlin had the almost guaranteed world record lined up — Kipchoge’s performance was outstanding and hyped for good reasons. Still, the race had time for the women’s elite.

Who does it different?

NYC marathon and Boston have recently succeeded in emphasising on the elite women – by changing the schedule to send them out on the course first, build momentum by using storytelling and experts. It is a visible difference – both men and women cheer for the women elite, they are present.

London is following – Paula Radcliffe is still the queen of LDN, they bring in experts to comment and the international focus on these races seems to help too.

And what does the lack of focus mean for women in sport?

Paula’s 2:15:25 record is 15 years old. In the meantime, women’s running has exploded. More women are running, more women are pushing through in the sub-elite category, more women are pushing their boundaries, unlocking strength and running faster and further.

If the race organisers do not care, if they put the women’s elite aside and hide the heroes, their battles, and their succeses — and if they defeat and keep ignoring the women’s category — then they actively keep a sport from developing.

But the record is not moving the same way as the men’s has — and the weak focus on the women’s elite is holding the sport in a deadlock. With less focus there are less spectators, less hype, and ultimately less development.

The women’s elite is forever battling the fact that no matter how fast they run, they will never catch up. Any competing runner knows what a psychological mindf*ck that is.

The very narrow minded idea, that only the winner is of interest, died as millions of runners line up in races throughout the year.

And it seems there is a reluctancy to acknowledge the women’s elite as a separate, yet equally respected elite field — with an equally interesting battle for speed.

Races and media have to acknowledge their responsibility

We have come across a race that does not celebrate the women’s finishers.

And races where the winning prize for women was less than half the one for men.

We see female runners whose salary is dependent on the number of spectators — left with no interest from media hence no channel for promoting.

We see amazing elite runners who are still anonymous as the media avoid telling their story, thereby not building a momentum for excitement nor relevating new perspective angles or points of view.

We see media coverage without experts who know the women’s elite

We still see media not bothering to highlight the accomplishments. Like Runnersworld.nl who — hours after the race — still hasn’t bothered to post anything about Bekele who won. Runnerworld.nl still focuses on the men’s race and national elite — also men’s division.

We still see a lack of interest in getting to know other runners than the hyper local. There’s a huge potential in storytelling — but it’s simply not a care.

If the race organisers do not care, if they put the women’s elite aside and hide the heroes, their battles, and their success — and if they defeat and keep ignoring the women’s category — then they actively keep a sport from developing.

If the media does not help push for more, make it possible for all the hard working elite runners to shine, and engage viewers and readers — then they actively keep the sport from developing

Nanna Munnecke, Co-founder of @Voltwomen

Aftermath / Learnings:

I took out Berlin from the part of the article mentioning them as a good example — Berlin is not better at all — see this link to Mario Farioli’s newsletter ‘The Morning shakeout’ and I assumed which one should not of course.

Comments on Voltwomen Instagram account suggests that Toronto Marathon did a good job last weekend.

Ultra de Mont Blanc also gets noticed for doing a good job focusing on running for both mens and womens categories — which makes me think of the fact that women and mens times gets closer with distance and therefore also mixes the results in a really interesting way.

The Kona Iron Man in Hawaii get a good share of comments for being really selective — even showing uninteresting footage of male athletes while the women’s category was breaking up and had several un counted for sport moments passed by production.

Runnersworld.nl continue to write that they ‘did’ feature women and send proof — but looking deeper into one of the two examples they sent it shows a lokal athlete and features her boyfriend.

Amsterdam marathon have written that they take the matter serious and will make it better for next year — I and thinking of a reply — most likely ‘How?’

The week after:

Frankfurt marathon was the exact same as Amsterdam. The race chose to follow the male elite group and the two fastest germans — leaving out the womens elite group completely and only give a fraction of focus as Meskerem Assefa ran towards the finish. She crushed the course record btw, but not once though out the race was there any camera on her or the two runners up— strong running — no attention.

No sign of the elite women in Amsterdam marathon media coverage was originally published in voltwomen on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

On Friday 26th August, 12 runners, along with a four strong support team gather in the lobby of a downtown Portland hotel, unable to hide the nervous anticipation hovering around them; fidgety legs, excited heads, clearly eager to get started. It’s race day.

At 2pm, two vans pull up outside, the title, ‘Coastbusters’, cradled by a Nike swoosh covers each exterior. This is their cue; eight of them pile in to van one. They settle, prepared to embark on the two-hour drive up to Mount Hood in time for the team’s official start of 2:45pm.

A few hours later, those who remain will follow suit, assembling in the second van before setting off to checkpoint six where the whole group will reunite. By that time, five of van one’s runners will already have made their first contribution, collectively tackling the harsh descent from Mount Hood.

During the first stage of their journey, the wall of tension and intrigue that sits between each team-member gets chipped away. The angst of a language barrier, worry of personality clash or perhaps assumed ideologies, thought impossible to get over, are overruled. The elevated and discovered differences between these individuals seem to make them stronger.

Phones are switched off, the outside world cut out, there’s no space for distraction now, concentrating on the here and now, the road ahead and challenge to come is all that matters. No more training can be done, no further operations carried out can prepare or alter one’s ability to go further or faster.

The 2017 Hood to Coast Relay is underway.

-

As the runner’s follow road, the remaining team members watch on in the van, creating cheer points along the way, offering supplies and encouragement. When they face trails or off-road stretches, they’re left unassisted, pushed on by the promise that their team will be waiting for them at the end.

-

Clambered on the roof of our transportable home, we look over a vine field, the sun glows, low but strong, tall shadows have latched on, following our every move, we scream as they run through.

-

Emotions spiral in the van. For those who have taken their turn, excitement and the elation of a runner’s high fills their perception. For those yet to take their turn, nerves are still brewing.

-

The stresses before a 400m race are very different to how I feel in the moments leading up to my first leg. On track, the route, atmosphere and inescapable pain is common knowledge. One lap, gun to tape, quick out of the blocks, attack the first bend. Maintain the pace down the back straight, foot off the pedal; find a rhythm to build on at the 200m mark. The finish line will come into view; pain is everywhere, lactic acid building, keep a strong head, grit teeth, mind lifts arms, arms lift legs. I was about to run further than I ever had, into an unfamiliar night, Oregon State, the other side of the world.

-

Time ticks by for those in the van but seems to slow for each runner as they embark on their first runs, the sun lowers to expose a cool and starry night as the team gets close to finishing their first round.

-

It’s 9pm; he’ll be arriving in 7 minutes. Hurried out of the van, the head torch is fitted, race number pinned, reflective vest jostled on and there I am, shaking out my legs, skipping in anticipation, heart pounding, waiting for our team number to be called out, for Lucas to swoop in and pass the race over to me.

I canter off into the dark, the unknown but not the impossible. My route is straight, flat and quiet, 7.4km along a cycle path, off road; the team will be there at the end but until then I’ll be alone.

The light from my head torch puts me in a bubble; unable to see past its furthest beam I steadily float through the first 5km with soft and even strides. The sky is clear, the air crisp but comfortable, a slight breeze sways the reeds down each side of the path and the moon provides eerie but brilliant shadows.

After passing under a motorway bridge, a similarly lone volunteer welcomes me back into the open, “one mile to go” he cheers, encouragingly. One mile, 1600m, four laps of the track. I began to pick up the pace, raising my knees and putting some power into the swing of my arms. Only four laps. I can hear my breath now, realizing that for the last 35 or so minutes my breathing had been easy, I guess I was scared to put myself under strain this early on, still unsure how to pace or execute running ‘long’. Time to pick it up.

A runner who had eased past me earlier comes back into view, the red lights on their reflective jacket bobbing up and down 100 or so meters away.

I settle into the quicker rhythm, feel my lungs tighten but fight to maintain the movement, running, fast. I catch and pass the runner, no longer a distant target and put my sights on the next, only 10m ahead.

Ciaran is waving and shouting on the side of the path up ahead “Tilly let’s go!!!!”. There are people milling about, waiting for their own teammates to finish too. The changeover must be close; the rest of the team and Milo can’t be too far away. I change up a gear again, whizzing past another runner, screaming as I go. Running with momentum, the adrenaline rushing through me.

Here they are. Claps, cheers, bells, whistles, a blur of noise erupting out of the darkness. Unable to see clearly, dark, moving shadows line each edge of my lane.

The team hadn’t been expecting me for another 10 or so minutes. Milo, on the ground tying his laces, his last static moments cut short and rushed as I arrive early. There is a second of confusion but then the baton is in his hand, whisked away, back into the

silent night, ready to accompany him on his own adventure.

As I am doubled over, heaving to get my breath back under control, it is not only my teammates who are there to catch me, my mum is there too, the greatest friend and support. Amazing to be able to share a moment of this with her.

I take a second to soak up the reality, an incredible group of individuals are gathered around me, what a privilege to be amongst them. Hugs, cheers and excited babbling chat from me until we are back in the van, a long way and tight schedule to follow, needs must.

-

Changeover 12 reunites both of the vans. The team pulls together under a flyover back in the city. Speakers boom as they dance and celebrate their runner coming into view, closing the first stage of the race. He whose next waits calmly aside before stepping out, leaving the rest screaming in his wake. 11pm, leg 13, round two.

The night legs are now fully underway and despite the harsh conditions of the night: dark, cold, dusty roads and tired bodies, the runners are finding their stride. Perhaps becoming familiar with the atmosphere and settling in to the right headspace, unfazed by the mishap of having to hop out of the van early due to the congestion of vehicles that had built up on the road, everybody committed to each step as they come up to halfway.

-

Ciaran joins me for the 500m of mistakenly added distance up to the checkpoint. He directs the drills, shaking out the shivers that come with each pool of cold wind and puff of cloudy breath. We do fast feet, skips, bounds and leaps up the center of the road, cheering the passing runners and hoping Lucas is far enough behind not to beat us to the changeover.

Shocked by the sharp evening air, the lack of sleep beginning to settle in and inescapable fear I’ve felt when approaching a long continuous run, I accept the importance of braving it alone. Company would provide me with a reason to announce aches and pains, vocalize the doubt and worry that was filling my head, something I did not want to listen to.

Lucas appears out of the darkness, right on time and sends me on my way again, closer to a new light than I realize.

I venture away from my teammates, 6.8km to run, Ciaran’s last advice ticking over in my head. Ditch the fear of burning out, a steady pace throughout might ensure an exhilarating sprint finish, but give more from the start. Be brave, do not hold off, commit and believe all the way through. This is a long run, not a warm up followed by a 400m sprint.

I listen, and what followed were the most thrilling 40 minutes of my life.

Chants are on repeat in and out of my head. Unlike my first leg, I can hear my breath, in time with the swing and kick of my legs. I am in control. Keeping my body compact, aware of my technique, core tight, eyes straight ahead with the occasional glance to

my surroundings, a green, rolling hill side to the right and a silky black river to the left, arms strong and a forefoot strike.

Whilst preparing for the race, I had kept thoughts of what pace I would attempt to a minimum, the idea of overtaking people I had deemed unrealistic, if I were to be somebody else’s road kill, I wouldn’t be disheartened. I knew my background and presumed I knew my limits. My ideal was to run all three legs without the worry of pace or time, passing over to my teammate and never slowing to a walk was the goal. That would have been enough for me to come away, head happy.

But as I continue along the winding road, twisting and turning through soft ups and downs, the dark sky and stars above began to lighten, and I find a new kind of energy.

The burn in my lungs transforms into a recurring comfort, the aches that were building in my legs are crushed and irrelevant, helped along by demands of ‘Shut-up legs’ (Jens Voigt) and abrupt chat to myself. I send whoops and shrill far into the forest, still unable to believe where I was or how I had got there.

The kilometers are ticking down on my watch faster than ever, every time I am notified by the buzz on my wrist I am surprised at how quickly they’re passing.

With about one to go, we catch up with the backed up vans, crawling up to the next checkpoint, to my finish line. I dance down the middle of the road, hoping their passengers will catch on to my excitement. Windows are wound down and music turned up, jokes and shouts push me further and faster along the road and soon I am running flat out, here was the sprint finish, very much connected to the long run I had just done.

A final turn before the changeover is visible up ahead, I had woken up the day, no secrets here, the route exposed in the morning light. I charge into Milo and watch on as he powers off into the new day to bring the second of our teams rounds to an end, 7am, leg 24.

I steer off to the right, pacing up and down on the side of the road. Shaking every part of my body and trying to calm my heaving breath. I start to laugh as the movement continues to pulse through my body. Ciaran appears whilst I stutter and shake, tears brewing as I try to vocalize the feeling; dis-connected words interrupted by sharp breaths, struggling to understand it myself.

I jump around on the spot, back and forth, unable to stand or be still. It dawns on me how much I had been longing for that run, that being. Connected and in control of my body and mind. I had endured every step and heavy breath. I did not bow down to pain or doubt, had powered through to acknowledge every second and embrace the unimaginable reality, I felt like a runner.

Up until that point, throughout the 6 weeks of training ‘long’, I had felt lost. I missed the track and the highs that came with it. I felt as if I was training for something that did
not and could not belong to me, I was an outsider waiting to be invited in.

I think I just was.

-

Still buzzing with the excitement of completing their second efforts, the runners clamber back into the vans once finished, welcomed by their awakening but invested teammates.

The next changeover will set the team off on their individual but collective final battles. This is the finishing stretch, the home straight. Hugs and hype erupt as the whole team re-aligned, updating each other on the past few hours that had been spent apart, still very much together. The previous runner is welcomed back as the next gets waved on their way.

Each time the other van takes over the effort, the other attempts to relax, eat, and recover, updating their ‘road-kill’ tally, and on this morning, soaking up the rays of rich light that bounce across the dew covered field, everybody sparkling in the fresh air, 8:30am, day 2.

Slips of tiredness begin to surface, but they are still going hard, teeth gritted but somehow able to laugh along with the on-looking teammates, who are advertising full support through the windows of the vans.

-

Fatigue is beginning to set in, having not slept or eaten properly in over 24 hours and running further than I ever had, twice, in the space of eight hours, I am feeling nauseous, and with that comes worry and doubt of being able to complete my final run. Dehydrated, hungry, tired, agitated and frustrated about these facts. My second leg high is a long way gone, I had hoped the last leg might top it, I know what pace I could now push, and this final leg was 200m shorter, something I now see as within reach.

-

The sheltered mountain road is left behind; leaving no escape from the scorching sun and heat of the day. The coast is not too far away and the first half of the team have completed all of their legs.

-

Slow sips of water, deep breathes and shuteye, along with reassurance from my team began to bring me round.

We pull off the road, anticipating Sorrel and Eugen’s passing, ready to give them one last show. I take the time to stretch out, shake off the anxiety and tiredness that is weighing me down. Pep talks from the team, along with high-calorie energy drinks and run-throughs in my head make me certain and more determined than ever that I had it in me to complete my third leg. The speed and energy shown off by my fellow teammates each time they or we passed provides me with a last touch of inspiration. At the next changeover, I would be out of the van, ready to give one last fight.

The first 150m see a sharp climb, a cruel start to the finish. I try to remain un-phased, supporting those who were taking it slower, as well as those who are already powering away up ahead. The next 40 minutes are going to be one of the greatest body and mind tests of my life, I figure it might be better to share it.

I pull up alongside another crazy person, fighting her own battle. We introduce ourselves and are soon making friendly conversation, anything to distract us from the

harsh reality that was running on an open road in the midday heat, legs and chest burning, aching unimaginably from fatigue, shots of pain flickering through our bodies with every step. I learn that this is her tenth consecutive year of running the Hood to Coast, an impressive feat for anybody, let alone somebody in their mid-60s. Despite the pain she must have experienced in her many attempts of this race, she is yet to be put off, returning each year to grasp the practice all over again.

Another hill is coming up but the reward is in full view, my team is parked up ahead, their shrieks lifting my mind and legs as I approach. Drenched in cold water and sped on by fantastic energy, I push on, having to leave my new friend walking behind, as promised, I was not here to walk, I was here to run.

The road straightens out and in the not so far distance I can see another runner, familiar, I had been this ones road kill on that first hill. I take him on and we decide to get this thing finished together. Spurring each other on, a rhythm of stride and motivational chat falling into place as we begin to tick off the kilometers.

It is difficult to be strangers in this sport. No matter what corner of the earth you come from, what level you compete at or reason you get out each day to run, it’s impossible not to make a friend or two along the way. Somewhere in Oregon state, coming up to the end of our third run in 24 hours, cramping and drowning in the heat, this was going to be no exception.

We come up to our finish line together, finding our expectant friends at the end. Ciaran takes the baton and speeds away as relief floods over me. Sorrel accompanies me back to the van, ready with energy drinks and snacks, the thoughtful and lovely human that she is.

Before we clambered back into the van for the penultimate drive of the race, both of my running partners approached to offer congratulations and respect, all of us grateful not to have run alone, “see you next time!”

As my head begins to clear from the angst of another run, the windows wound down low, music blaring, a shared juicy orange in hand and going down a treat, I breath, smile and realize. The distance come, hurdles leaped, daemons crushed.

Hood to Coast — The Race was originally published in voltwomen on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

by Robbie Britton for Fast Running

New research highlights that bone injuries are four times more likely in energy-depleted athletes and given recent discussions about RED-S and athlete health, the change in culture must happen soon.

The research led by Australian Catholic University’s Ida Heikura, and a multi-institution team of academics including Prof. Louise Burke from the Australian Institute of Sport and Dr. Trent Stellingwerff from the Canadian Sport Institute Pacific, aimed to “investigate energy availability, metabolic/reproductive function, bone mineral density, and injury/illness rates in national/world-class female and male distance athletes”.

The athletes in the study were separated into groups by reproductive function, testosterone levels and energy availability. This was calculated from seven-day training and food diaries.

With many athletes continuing to open up about their experiences of the female athlete triad and RED-S, the results from the research provide alarming evidence of the link between energy availability, reproductive function, bone density and injury/illness rates in male and female athletes.

In fact, the findings reported that bone injuries were four and half times more prevalent in the amenorrheic and low testosterone groups compared with others, as well as both male and female athletes with low energy availability.

Amenorrhea

Amenorrhea is defined as the “cessation in periods for six months in a woman (whether athlete or not) with previously regular menstruation”. This was highlighted by Anna Boniface in her interview with Dr Nicky Keay on Fast Running. In Heikura’s study, they defined three consecutive missed periods as a definition.

Within elite sport, there has been a normalisation of amenorrhea, and some coaches still misinterpret amenorrhea as a (wanted) sign the athlete is training hard enough.

When both athlete and coach refuse to address the issue, the problem is only exacerbated. An athlete may fear being kicked from a team or made to reduce the training they love if they reveal that their periods have stopped.

Some coaches even cultivate the sporting environment where amenorrhea is an inevitability. The heavy pushing of the idea that ‘light is fast’ above all else, including the importance of health and consistency in training, is part of the problem. Stress fractures, illness and long-term health complications are the consequences and certainly shouldn’t be seen as normal.

Alongside this, the team looked at the robustness of diagnostic criteria from tools used to diagnose low energy availability in athletes, including tools that help identify possible contributors to the female athlete triad and RED-S.

Looking at the results from the research it highlighted that bone injuries were ∼4.5 fold more prevalent in amenorrheic and low testosterone groups. So if a female athlete has stopped having periods then she is four and a half times more likely to suffer bone injuries. That’s a huge number.

The study also discovered that current reproductive function tests (questionnaires/blood hormone concentrations) appear to provide a more objective and accurate marker of optimal energy for health than the more error-prone and time-consuming dietary and training estimation of Energy Availability (EA).

Simply if an athlete is experiencing menstrual dysfunction, it is a very good indicator that they do not have optimal energy for health, are more at risk of bone injuries and it should not be seen as simply part of being an elite athlete.

Male athletes are also susceptible to the risk of RED-s, bone injuries and long-term consequences. But there is not as clear an indicator as the menstrual dysfunction and one wonders if the sporting world appreciates the problem is there for both genders?

Yet Heikura states that there was a “relatively high prevalence of physiological symptoms of low energy availability in both elite female (37%) and elite male (40%) middle/distance athletes”. The ~4.5 fold prevalence in bone injuries was found in both male and female athletes with low energy availability.

If RED-s is a contributing factor to bone injury then treating just the bone injury could be ignoring the underlying major issue. When complete rest is needed but ignored, then in some athletes we only see a cycle of injury, recovery, injury, recovery. Without looking at the cause, an athlete may never solve the problem.

What can we do?

As a male coach and athlete, it still feels strange to write about this subject and I am far from knowledgeable on amenorrhea, RED-s and even how to discuss the topic with female athletes. Often I will wait for an athlete to bring up the subject rather than put it forward or just awkwardly do so, probably making things worse.

Yet we all just need to talk. Talk to female athletes, coaches, researchers, doctors, anyone who might know more than yourself. I even had a great conversation with my mum about the menopause and how it might affect someone’s life, running and training. I figured if I can chat to her about it then it might be easier elsewhere.

Athlete, coach and parent education is something that Boniface herself has advocated and Heikura also realises that “educating not just the athletes, but also coaches, other team members (physios, physicians, etc) and parents, is crucial”.

The researcher added: “The athletes tend to listen to their coach more so than, say, a dietitian. Coaches can also make a massive difference in the way they talk to their athletes about nutrition, body weight/composition management, etc.”

Ideas such as athlete mentoring for those going through puberty and improved access to medical support are other key developments suggested by Boniface on in a recent post on Twitter.

In the same way that a coach should never ignore the physical impact of an athlete’s job or mental stress of family relationships, a coach shouldn’t be ignoring a major factor in female energy levels every month.

Research in the field is still young, but academics like Heikura and the rest of the team behind this study are doing excellent work. She said: “While our findings are certainly interesting and unique in this athlete population (largest cohort to date with truly high calibre athletes), similar outcomes have been reported previously with smaller sample sizes, younger athletes, and sub-elite cohorts.”

Apps like FitrWoman can help athletes, coaches and parents too. I spoke to the co-founder of the app, Research Scientist at Orreco and just coming to the end of a PhD at St Mary’s University, Georgie Bruinvels who said she wants “to empower women by helping them train smarter”.

During our discussion, it was clear that knowledge and education about the menstrual cycle can also be seen as an opportunity to really optimise your training.

“It’s not just training stress that can cause the hormonal imbalance that leads to amenorrhea, but all types of stress,” said the academic, who has run a 2:37 marathon. “Understanding the best way to train alongside your menstrual cycle is one way to reduce this and FitrWoman can help you track your period and train smarter.”

With indications from research like this that show a strong correlation between amenorrhea and the likelihood of bone injuries, as well as menstrual dysfunction being an objective and accurate measure for athlete health we cannot afford to ignore the subject.

It doesn’t need to be rocket science or something we only talk to females about. Heikura said: “When it comes to athlete education, I believe explaining (in simple terms) the importance of adequate energy availability would be more useful than just telling the athlete to eat enough.”

Having open discussion and education is the biggest step we need to take. Heikura felt very strongly that if an athlete understands the signs and consequences of low energy availability and “how this chain of events eventually has an influence on bone injury risk and training ability, they may be more motivated to pay attention to adequate energy availability”.

Health is more important than fast times was originally published in voltwomen on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

By Meaghen Brown for Patagonia.

The wind at the edge of the world comes in clean and cold. Without any significant landmass to temper its force, it rips across the 40th latitude and slams into the prefab houses that straddle the tiny seaside township of Arthur River where we’re staying. It strains against the windows and coats the logs stacked next to the door in salty ocean spray. Measurements from a meteorological monitoring station at Cape Grim, an hour north of here, record this part of northwestern Tasmania as having the cleanest air in the world. It’s emotional, vital, possibly revelatory — like you can tell that the earth is still spinning by standing in this wind.

“If the weather gives Tasmania shape, it’s the rainforests that give it definition.”

It’s dark when the regulars amble up the steps and through the swinging glass door of the Marrawah Tavern just up the road from Arthur River. They come from work, stopping on the way home for a pint of Boag’s, the local economy beer. A half dozen or so are parked for a long night. The bartender knows them all by name. Builders and farmers and surveyors. There’s a fire going in the hearth next to an occupied pool table. The daily specials are listed on a blackboard in the attached dining room, which is decorated with photographs and dioramas of endemic fish. Lamb from Cape Grim, breaded scallops. Steam rises from mounds of mashed potatoes. Outside the wind howls, knocking against a sign that says “Best in the West,” which is also carved into a picnic table on the wraparound porch.

At a corner table near the window, three men scrimmage over half-finished tens (the vernacular for half-pint). They share the weathered look of men who work outside — calloused hands that swallow their glasses, and crinkles around their eyes. They wear camo and flannel, unironically. And they want to talk, which isn’t really surprising. Even in muddy work boots and jeans, we’re conspicuous.

“What do you think of our weather?” one asks. He’s looking for a character assessment, not an answer. “They say if you don’t like it, just wait five minutes.” I’ve heard this truism before. It’s a popular one in places where the combined virtues of unruliness and resolve are essential to survival. But after nearly three weeks here, I’ll admit that Tasmania might be allowed to claim it. The weather is the island’s determinant factor; its context, shape and personality.

“So, what are you lot doing here?” says the one in the faded Carhartt sweatshirt. His tone is skeptical but genial.

“We’re making a documentary film.” (I’m the tagalong writer).

“You’re not fucking Greenies, are you?”

Not necessarily, but we do want to talk about the forest.

Australia’s least populated state is barely more than a 45-minute flight from the mainland, but it’s held on to a distinctive primordial wildness. Look at the world map on your wall. Tasmania might not even be on it. A mechanic and electrician who we met at a sawmill in the town of Meander described it as having been dragged kicking and screaming from Antarctica when the continents split apart and Australia drifted north. Being there is a bit like inhabiting a very strange dream. Everything is familiar, yet extraordinary.

The writer Richard Flanagan (who we tried and failed to persuade to narrate our film after a chance encounter in Hobart) once described Tasmania in an essay in The New Yorker as an “island Wunderkammer, crammed full of the exotic and the strange, the beautiful and the cruel, conducive not to notions of progress but to a sense of unreality.” It isn’t wild, it’s wildness — the distinction having to do with the evolving nature of the quality.

The mountains are round, Rubenesque and old. More often than not you’re shivering.

If the weather gives Tasmania shape, it’s the rainforests that give it definition. Mist eddies through the canopies like the first drops of milk in a cup of coffee. There are mushrooms that look like transparent jellyfish and others the color of safety cones and everything smells wet and alive. There are pepper berries that taste like cloves and gin, and a cadence of learned names — myrtle, blackwood, sassafras, leatherwood, celery-topped pine. It’s the language of place that gives it identity. Sixty species of rare or endangered animals live here. Macropod bound across two-lane roads and colossal man ferns (Dicksonia Antarctica) spread their fronds, umbrella-like, over the understory of cool temperate rainforests, vast tracts of which date back nearly 60 million years, to a time when the earth was still drifting from a single supercontinent into disparate parts and dinosaurs roamed the planet. This area, known as the Tarkine, or takayna in the Aboriginal language palawa kani, sweeps across 447,000 hectares in the northwestern corner of the island — from the Arthur and the Pieman Rivers to the coast. Whispered sightings of an extinct carnivorous marsupial called a thylacine are too frequent to assume it’s actually gone.

The first time I walked into the rainforest, I surprised myself by crying.

But Tasmania’s forests are not just remarkable for their age, they’re also the foundation of an entrenched and complicated timber industry that has existed on the island since the mid-1800s — the worst of which involves the clear-felling of old-growth forests.

Tasmania carries a freight of unprocessed historical traumas. A near-total genocide of the Aboriginal population in the 19thcentury, a poverty-stricken rural population with a 49% literacy rate, and an economy based almost entirely on obliteration of some of the very qualities that make it so singularly wild. The claims to heritage are polarizing and abyssal. And it all gets written on the landscape. The plantations that line the white gravel are unnerving in their linearity.

We were there to make a film about the Tarkine and the conflict over the protection of wild places. Even on the opposite side of the world, if felt intensely relevant. While we tromped through sharp buttongrass planes and started to memorize the contours of the coastline, U.S. Secretary of the Interior Ryan Zinke was recommending massive cuts to a series of national monuments back home, and shortly after we returned, the president signed a proclamation reducing the size of Bears Ears and Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monuments by 85 and 50 percent respectively. He cited “heritage,” “respect,” “glorious natural wonders,” and “protection” in his explanation.

It’s become a familiar story — resource extraction, conflicting claims to landscape, the death of traditional industries and disappearing jobs. Rural communities plagued by unemployment, poverty and illegal drugs. Like a microcosm of contemporary America.

The oldest of the three men, a man with a chest like an oak barrel and thick white hair, leans against the bar with his beer held to his chest and nods at the countertop. “This bar was hewn from the trunk of a blackwood tree,” he tells me. “Tasmania was built on agriculture and forestry. By shutting off the forestry industry you’re taking away the culture as well. And it’s a real family orientated sort of a culture. I’m not about to say all forestry is good. I don’t like the way some of it is done. But I can’t say another way to do it.”

I ask about the connection between culture and land.

“Look, in my life here I find that the best conservationists are the people who have a vested interest in what’s going on. That live in the area, live with the animals, live with the forests. We don’t want to have a moonscape. But everybody’s gotta have a job.”

Clear-felling starts with chainsaws and ends with neatly maintained monoculture plantations and forests managed like nurseries. Massive old-growth trees are cut into saw logs, which get bought by a handful of mills across the state and turned into building materials or plywood. The surplus is sold to exporters and added to the global pulpwood supply as woodchips or pulp for tissue paper. We saw piles of these woodchips, as tall as massive buildings, being loaded onto container ships when we drove through the port city of Burnie.

Almost all the logging of native-growth forest is done through a government sponsored, and heavily subsidized, business enterprise called Sustainable Timber Tasmania (formerly known as Forestry Tasmania) — which is responsible for the management of all forests on public land, roughly 800,000 hectares. These areas are essentially the Australian equivalent of BLM land — open for multi-use, but also to logging and mining leases. The profits are used to support government functions.

Yet the industry is fickle, especially as the international price of woodchips fluctuates and demand evolves. In its 2016 annual report, Forestry Tasmania showed a loss of nearly $67.4 million, at which point the company underwent a government-issued rebranding, cutting jobs, renegotiating price increases with customers, and signing new contracts to move woodchips in the process. They relaunched in July of 2017 as Sustainable Timber Tasmania, with the stated intention of adapting to a “new operating environment,” according to statements made by Guy Barnett, the current minister for resources.

Not long after the relaunch, STT sold roughly 29,000 hectares of native hardwood forests to a newly listed company called Reliance Forest Fibre on a 99-year lease, citing a need to fund the transitional costs of the restructuring. Opponents of the deal pointed out that Reliance Forest Fibre is a subsidiary of Global Forest Partners, a private equity fund manager specializing in forestry investments that has been found to have ties to the Cayman Islands.

“Don’t vilify us. We want to help protect these places. But if you lock us out, we’ll rip the lock off.”

In a speech to parliament Barnett claimed that this shift was intended to make STT debt-free and would promote local jobs. But according to a 2012 audit, STT may have sold these publically owned plantations for about half of what they’re worth. Dr. Quentin Beresford, a writer who has covered the history of Tasmania’s logging industry, calls this kind of deal Tasmania’s “unique model of authoritarian capitalism.”

And now, thanks to a relatively recent reversal by the government of a moratorium on logging old-growth forests, places previously earmarked as protected reserves, including the Tarkine, are now available for extraction. This was largely a political move. The forestry industry is contracting rapidly, but rural communities in traditional timber towns still expect those jobs.

“The forestry industry is struggling,” said one of the men in Marrawah who does part-time contract work for STT. “Or Sustainable Forestry Tasmania,” (he said this part ironically). “They changed their name, sold off all their staff, they’re not making any money.”

“What did they do wrong?”

“Everything. It’s a dying industry. I’ll retire in ten years, and I reckon there won’t be any forestry left.”

But the locals here don’t see protection for the Tarkine as the answer. Kim Gale, who shows up in the film in a red flannel, his demeanor intense, explained it this way: He’d grown up in this area, surfing and fishing, and now teaches his nine-year-old daughter at one of his favorite local spots. All he wants is to continue taking her there, not to be told how to recreate, to show her what he knows about the landscape where he was raised. “I went around the world once on a trip and missed everything about this place,” he said. “I missed the noise, the sound of the openness, of the wind. We all know each other. I missed this community.”

Locals like Kim feel like they’re being excluded from the conversation, like they’ll be locked out of the places where they grew up hunting and fishing by conservationists who have never even been to this place, and don’t know the landscape nearly as well as they do. “That’s what’s so offensive about people coming to tell us how to look after our community,” he says. “Don’t vilify us. We want to help protect these places. But if you lock us out, we’ll rip the lock off.”

Nicole Anderson’s blue Toyota Land Cruiser is packed for a miniature apocalypse. Cross-country ski gear, cameras, maps, books, running shoes, a plant collecting kit, bars of chocolate, a hairbrush, a power pack, and, somewhat ironically, a chainsaw. Nicole is 46 years old, a redhead and one of only two doctors for a rural area the size of Guam. She also runs hundreds of miles deep into the forest to scout future logging coups (areas of forest set aside for extraction) and brings her information back to the Bob Brown Foundation, the conservation organization leading the fight to protect the Tarkine.

As we amble along the Pieman River, which forms the southern boundary of the Tarkine, Nicole interrupts her habitual stream of consciousness to point out a neat row of native forest lining the highway, spared to hide the clearfell beyond. Propaganda strips, they’re called. When you drive through sections of STT-managed land, along smooth paved roads as black and perfect as if they’d been laid yesterday, this is what you see: promotional awareness on green and white signs to watch for endangered devils on the road, and explanations of the forests. “A working forest since 1850.” “Regrowth forest after clearfelling.” The logos haven’t changed since the company’s rebranding.

“Okay,” she says, idling to a stop as we round a corner on the road. “Let’s see some death and destruction.”

“The clearfell in front of us cut like a fresh wound through the existing rainforest. ”

There was no preamble. No warning. Forest and then nothing. That nearly nauseating feeling of walking down a set of stairs in the pitch darkness and miscounting the last one, so that you actually find yourself stepping into empty space instead of solid ground.

Timber extraction is acutely visual. The blue flagging tape that flaps in the wind marking the boundaries of future logging coups, yellow gates blocking the entrances to dirt roads cut through the trees. The clearfell in front of us cut like a fresh wound through the existing rainforest. Wind whistles through the splinters, and a quote we used in the film echoes through my head, “If you want to see the greatest myrtle rainforest in the world, go to the mill in Bernie. It’s all in woodchips.”

“This just shits me,” says Nicole, kicking the toe of her shoe against a stump.

“When was this cut?”

About six months ago she thinks.

After a forest is clear-felled, two things happen to the scars left behind. In drier eucalyptus forests, sections of trees are cut and harvested in a pattern designed to mimic the way a forest would naturally regenerate. In wet eucalyptus forests, which have thicker understories, the entire ecosystem is felled, then bombed with napalm, burned and replanted with species that germinate quickly after a fire. We also heard stories of forestry workers leaving carrots soaked in poison around the perimeter of these newly planted areas in order to kill the potoroos and wallabies and wombats who come to graze on the seedlings.

While the film team set up shots, I sat down on a stump and wrote this in my notebook:

“It seemed some tragic absolution of logic, requiring a leap of imagination, to fathom that these towering eucalyptus might end up as tissue paper. But there is some resiliency to places like this. It’s quiet, but there are still birds. Signs of life among the destruction. In between the enormous muddy tire marks, and the slivers of old growth that looked like matted hair, we found fresh Tasmanian devil tracks.”

I could hear the wind whistling through the clearfell.

Back at the house in Arthur River, over steaming cups of coffee, our talk turns for the hundredth time to conservation. Is an environmental campaign ever won? Why is conservation such a binary conversation? How do you protect a forest and a livelihood, as jobs disappear? How do you atone for the Aboriginal story and protect their claim to this land while still allowing rural communities to access these places as they did with their parents? How do you honor everyone’s perceived claim to heritage no matter how small the geography or how nuanced the issue at hand?

Regionalism helps give definition to society, but does it have to result in tribalism? The Greens and the bogans (the Tasmanian word for redneck) really aren’t as different as they’re made out to be. It’s easy to convince ourselves that we’re right, to assume a kind of moral superiority about the way things should be, but after hundreds of conversations, it seemed like everyone’s concern for the future was largely the same. And a lot of people who would never call themselves environmentalists still agree that logging native forests, is, to use a word we heard often, fucked. No one seemed to think that systematic old-growth logging was a worthwhile endeavor. In fact, popular opinion steered toward the contrary.

Tasmania isn’t alone in this cultural dilemma. It’s a moral relativism that needlessly places environmentalists against local communities and politicians against the best interest of their constituents. And it’s the same moral relativism that resulted in Donald Trump getting elected in the United States and our public lands being positioned as something to fight over, rather than celebrate. The crux exists not in differences of ideology but in outsized defensiveness of place. Only when everyone feels the same obligation to protect a place will the conversation change.

We left with as many questions as answers, but this is one of the things we took away: Ultimately the value of the land will never be counted in how many trees were cut, but in how many generations of families taught their children to love this place. As one local told us, “We’ve all got 10 percent Green in us anyway. None of us want to see the place destroyed and not come back the way it was.”

Sign the petition and read the original story here: https://www.patagonia.com/blog/2018/06/dispatches-from-the-edge-of-the-world/

Dispatches from the Edge of the World was originally published in voltwomen on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Winnie Byanyima, Executive Director, Oxfam International

These are restless, exciting and frightening times to be a woman. Every day brings a rousing success or a crushing setback in our fight for equal rights.

In May, after decades of women’s rights activism, Ireland voted by a landslideto repeal the country’s ban on abortions. Meanwhile, a recent crackdown in Saudi Arabia on women’s rights activists resulted in several arrests. The campaigners’ whereabouts and the charges against them are still unknown.

There are many fronts in this fight. One on which I have focused my efforts is the global economic model that is rigged against women. Let’s look at the facts.

Firstly, by some conservative estimates, women contribute around $10 trillion — yes, trillion — to the economy in unpaid care and domestic work. For free. Our economies would crash without it, yet we rarely see it discussed by policymakers.

Secondly, the World Bank counted 104 countries that have laws preventing women from working certain jobs, such as in manufacturing and construction, because of outdated, paternalistic ideas of what a woman can and should do.

Thirdly, at Oxfam’s last check, there were around 2,043 billionairesworldwide. Nine out of 10 were men. At current rates of change, it will take 217 years to close the gap in pay and employment opportunities between women and men. Economic inequality between women and men translates into power inequality. How can we expect an equal world for women when the purse strings are so clearly held by men?

In other words, economic inequality is absolutely a feminist issue.

The prosperity of our global economy relies on the ground-up exploitation of women and girls — and we all keep the system in place as long as we uphold its discriminatory norms.

What’s the result? Girls are left to fetch water and firewood as their brothers go to school. Women cleaning hotel rooms are subjected to sexual harassment. This is closer to home than we think: the women farmers growing the food we eat don’t have enough food for their own families, and the women stitching the clothes we wear work in hot, crowded garment factories, earning poverty-level wages with scant rights.

And the vast majority of the wealth they create are going to a few super-rich men.

Have you read?

• Emma Watson: I don’t care if people call me a ‘feminazi’
• Justin Trudeau: I will raise my sons as feminists
• Why are so few women buying into Bitcoin?

The G7 leaders are meeting this week in Quebec. I’m sure we’ll hear plenty more flattering rhetoric about women’s equality. But I won’t be satisfied until I see some action.

I welcome the Canadian government’s initiative to create the first-ever Gender Equality Advisory Council for the G7, which I was honoured to be invited to join. They dared us to push for change. We have proposed a set of concrete solutions to them.

I refuse to accept the idea that we can simply shoehorn women into a global economy that is exploiting them, and then celebrate it as women’s economic empowerment. The G7, as a gathering of most of the world’s richest nations, must now responsibly redesign their economies to work for women, and support a far broader shift in the global economy.

Consider jobs. Rather than helping to make more billionaires richer, the G7 should be working together to ensure decent and safe jobs for all by setting a living wage, so people can live a decent life. Most of the world’s women workers need jobs like these.

Take paid parental leave, and investing in universal, public, free and quality early childhood education and care services. The G7 could supercharge a broader shift to recognize, reduce, and redistribute the unpaid care work with which women and girls are bogged down.

Or take progressive taxation and spending. Making rich individuals and corporations pay their fair share, and using those revenues to boost public schools, healthcare and other social services is a powerful one-two punch against inequality and for women’s rights. When women and girls can access quality education, and healthcare including sexual and reproductive health services, they have greater freedom and choices over their own lives.

This may seem obvious. But we also know which areas require far greater attention. While there is global momentum to change sexist laws, the business of changing ideas and attitudes — the informal laws that dictate what women can and can’t do, like having to care in the home or being unable to own land — is far harder. We must accelerate change here.

Where to start? Women’s rights organizations and movements are already on the frontlines doing this bold work. We must support them and learn from them. The G7 controls a huge portion of aid dollars. By adopting a feminist approach to aid, and by injecting resources into women’s organizations — as Canada is committing to do — it could make breakthroughs in the lives of poor women around the world.

I present to you the blueprint of an economy that works for women. This type of thinking is supported by hard evidence — what’s known as “gender budgeting” at the heart of public policy. Countries from Rwanda to Sweden to Canada are taking strong steps forward. In February, Canada delivered a budget focused on advancing women’s equality. The G7 countries must follow its example, and lock in gender analysis through legislation.

We can build a future that’s far fairer to our daughters and granddaughters. Let’s not just say we’re feminists, but commit to living those principles.

Originally published at www.weforum.org.

The global economy isn’t working for women. Here’s what world leaders must do was originally published in voltwomen on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Training at the high altitude of Addis Ababa, Ethiopia gives the Dibaba family a natural advantage. It’s 2,300m above sea level up here, reducing oxygen intake and building endurance – but sibling rivalry spurs them on, too. There are seven Dibaba runners in total, although it is Tirunesh and Genzebe who currently dominate long-distance events. From a quick 1,500m to the 42km of a full marathon, a Dibaba will usually lead the pack. Tirunesh, 32, and the holder of three Olympic gold medals, is now winning road marathons. Younger sister Genzebe, 27, is claiming world records on the track. No wonder they’re celebrities at home in Ethiopia, chased for photographs wherever they go – even while out for a leisurely 30km jog on the gentle slopes of Mount Entoto.

ED CAESAR: I’ve watched you run so many times but I realise I know very little about your background. What did your parents do for work?

TIRUNESH DIBABA: I grew up in Bekoji, in southern Ethiopia. It’s a rural area, a long drive from Addis Ababa. My father was a farmer, like most people there, and my mother took care of the household. We were seven children, six girls and one boy.

EC: Both your older sister Ejegayehu and a younger sister Genzebe are also fantastic runners. What about the rest of your siblings?

TD: Actually, the boy isn’t very good. [Laughs] There are two more girls who are still young, who are very good. I think they will be great in the future.

EC: What do you think happened to this poor boy?

TD: He was maybe quite spoiled: there was no pressure on him to perform and he gets everything he wants anyway. But now he lives in Addis and helps me with training. He has really assisted me in becoming successful.

EC: What was your life like when you were a child?

TD: The only time we didn’t have to do household chores was when we were in school. We didn’t get to focus on education unless we were at school, because we were always helping my mother and my father. It was very hard work.

EC: Physically?

TD: Yes! We used to have to bring water from 3km away, maybe twice a day. We’d have to help with the cattle. We’d help with the coffee ceremony, which could take an hour to prepare. You had to be strong, even as a child.

EC: Do you find time to return to Bekoji often?

TD: I don’t go a lot, because I normally have training or competitions coming up and it’s easier to stay in the city. But I do have very good memories of my childhood in Bekoji. Every time I go back, I’m happy.

EC: How would you describe your family’s social status in the area? Were you rich or poor or somewhere in between?

TD: I’d say we were better off than most people in the area. My father was a very hard-working person, and so was my mother. They had lots of cattle.

EC: Was it a real shock for you when you came to live in Addis?

TD: Oh, yes. Bekoji is very green, very hilly, lots of fields. When you come to Addis, you see a lot of things. It’s a city. The noise and everything is so different. I was just a teenager; I used to hold someone’s hand when I crossed the road.

EC: When did you realise that you had a talent for running?

TD: My older sister encouraged me to start training three times a week when I was 13 years old. Even when I had just started, my coach used to tell me I was going to be big, but I never thought I was going to become a famous runner. I just thought, I’m good at this.

EC: Is racing enjoyable? Or is it just work for you?

TD: Yes, it’s enjoyable! Naturally, I love running. I’ve figured out that I’m a true runner. I naturally have speed and endurance. I don’t think I do as much training as other people. It also feels great to win. I never have any other feeling towards running than that I love it.

EC: Has that enjoyment continued throughout your career, even as it has become more serious?

TD: It’s not quite like before. I’m professional, and I’m running against a lot of other good athletes. Also, as you get older, you have to put a lot more effort into training. So, there is more stress, but the joy of running remains the same.

EC: Some races – like the marathon – must be gruelling though?

TD: The marathon is a tough event, so it’s a slightly different type of enjoyment. But, yes, for instance in Chicago [where she won the marathon in great style in October with a fast time of 2:18:31], I knew exactly how well I’d trained and I knew exactly what pace I could run. You think to yourself, “If there is a better racer out there, let them come and challenge me.” Nobody did. The satisfaction was that I knew inside how hard I’d worked for that moment.

EC: Can you imagine what your life would have been like had you not become a runner?

TD: You never know, do you? All that I can say is, some of my friends here have jobs with the government, some of them left the country and some of them became farmers. Sometimes, when I see my friends who still live in Bekoji and who have four or five kids, I think: “This could have been me.”

EC: Has your attitude or approach to running changed since you became a mother?

TD: Before Nathan was born in 2015, I was a hundred per cent for running, because I loved it and enjoyed it. Once the baby came, it was a different thing: 50 per cent for running, 50 per cent for the baby, maybe. He’s given me so much joy. I am blessed that he is a content boy who I can leave with anyone, and he is lucky that he has a good family who take care of him.

EC: It looks like you might be an even better runner now you’ve become a mother.

TD: Before I had Nathan, people used to tell me that women often get stronger after having kids, and I thought they were saying it just to make me feel better! [Laughs] Now I’ve found that actually it’s true for me. I feel good. Despite the fact that the marathon is a tough race, and despite the fact I’m not giving a hundred per cent in training, I’m getting really good results.

EC: What counts as “not giving a hundred per cent”? How far do you run each week when you are in full training for the marathon?

TD: I run about 200km. I train every day, twice a day, except Sundays. It’s a challenge to run at high altitude – it’s about 2,300m above sea level. It has definitely made us strong athletes. When I go to low altitudes it feels easier to run, for sure.

EC: Can you describe what it felt like to leave Ethiopia for the first time for a competition?

TD: My shock of moving to Addis was not long before taking my first trip to Europe for the cross-country championships in Ostend. I was 15. The race was muddy and cold, but I liked it. The whole trip was really eye-opening for me…

EC: Did that experience give you more motivation to train hard?

TD: Around that time there were not a lot of chances to work with professional managers who would take you abroad to competitions, like there are now. The only chance I could see to get out of Ethiopia was to run for the Ethiopian national team. And you had to be the best to run for Ethiopia. So, yes, I decided to train very hard; otherwise I might not have gotten another opportunity to travel.

EC: How did it feel to become a world champion at the age of 18, when you won the Paris World Championships?

TD: That was very memorable, and made a big impression on me for several reasons. There were many good runners who were expected to win that race, and nobody expected me to even be in the medals. Even I didn’t expect it. But I won. When I came back, the whole of Ethiopia was in love with me. They nicknamed me “The Little Girl”.

EC: What was your reaction to all that attention?

TD: I found it very, very frightening. I was living with my sister in a rented house in Addis. We didn’t have a car, so we were travelling by bus. And suddenly I couldn’t even go to the market to buy things because lots of people were all over me the whole time. People would call out my name. It was a shock, and I didn’t know how to get over it. I became very shy.

EC: Did you hide?

TD: Yes, life was stressful. Unless I was at training, I stayed at home.

EC: You still can’t walk five metres here without someone asking you for a picture.

TD: I’m used to it now. I can stop for pictures or autographs, or whatever, and I don’t mind at all.

EC: Your wedding was televised nationally and watched live by hundreds of thousands of people in Addis. Wouldn’t you have preferred a more private ceremony?

TD: No – I loved it. It’s in our culture to make weddings big public celebrations. I was celebrating with my friends! I wanted my wedding exactly as it was.

EC: But is it sometimes a relief when you go abroad and very few people recognise you?

TD: Yes. Except for some Ethiopians, or some people who are into athletics, nobody notices me, and it’s really nice.

EC: When you are in a foreign city, do you ever have any time to yourself, to just enjoy it?

TD: Most of the time, the schedule is too busy to do much, although when I went to Chicago in October, I had all my family with me: my sister, my husband, my kid. And after the marathon we stayed in Washington DC for two weeks and we had a good time. I’m now finding more time for that kind of thing.

EC: Are you usually competitive with your sisters who run professionally? What’s the relationship like between all of you?

TD: We are very close. Genzebe started many years after me, and Ejegayehu knows I run better than her. Honestly, whoever wins we are all happy for each other.

EC: You didn’t feel a pinch of irritation when your little sister beat you for the first time?

TD: [Laughs] No! I don’t feel anything like that. Genzebe is like my daughter. When she wins, it means so much to me. Sometimes, Genzebe worries about competing in the same race as me, or in an event in which I hold a record. She might think that she’s going to disappoint me, but I don’t care if she beats me or breaks my record. It’s like your daughter doing better than you do. That’s the feeling. It’s happiness.

EC: Would you say you see yourself as a positive role model for women and girls in Ethiopia?

TD: As you know, the big pioneer – not just for Ethiopians, but in Africa in general – was my cousin, Derartu Tulu. She was the first black African woman to win an Olympic gold medal. She opened the door for Ethiopian women runners, especially from the countryside. She had pressure from her family who said that women should stay in the home, but she overcame that. So, I had it easier than she did. Still, I think we are good role models, because women in Ethiopia are still expected to stay in the home.

EC: Is it good or bad for your marriage that you sometimes train with your husband, who is an Olympic silver medallist himself?

TD: [Laughs] Actually, he’s been very helpful in so many ways. It’s a definitely a plus that we train together. It’s good to have company!

EC: Do you think you can break Paula Radcliffe’s seemingly impregnable 2003 world record of 2:15:25 for the marathon?

TD: It’s very difficult. There are so many factors: you have to be in the best condition, the weather has to be good, the pacemakers have to be good. It’s not easy. Also, not all of those factors are in my control. You have to be lucky.

EC: When will you stop running?

TD: I’ll carry on as long as I keep running well. My goal is to win Olympic marathon gold in Tokyo in 2020.

EC: In Amharic, Tirunesh means “you are good”, and Genzebe means “my money”. Why did your mother and father call you these names?

TD: When Genzebe was born, they had been expecting a boy. When she arrived, my mother and father thought, “She is still our precious thing, our treasure.” So that’s why she’s called Genzebe. With me, my mother had a very good friend whom she loved who was called Tirunesh. That’s who I’m named after. My mother’s friend is not alive anymore. But I have the name, and it makes me happy.

Interview by Ed Caesar, photography by Kuba Ryniewicz

THE SPORTY LANDSCAPE was originally published in voltwomen on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

After a difficult month that included dental surgery, the American record holder will return to racing in New York.

The 2018 Boston Marathon left many runners with a difficult recovery period, but Molly Huddle had some extra aches and pains.

Following the mid-April race, where Huddle suffered symptoms of hypothermia and finished a disappointing 16th place, she had a root canal to contend with. That, in turn, led to her getting her wisdom teeth out.

It wasn’t the training break she imagined, but now that Huddle is on the mend, she’s making summer racing plans. She’ll return to the roads on June 9 at the Mini 10K in New York.

At the Mini, an all-women’s road race that loops around Central Park, Huddle will face Desiree Linden, the reigning Boston Marathon champion, as well as Stephanie Bruce, who placed 10th at the London Marathon in April. Other Americans planning to compete include Sarah Sellers, the surprise runner-up in Boston, Aliphine Tuliamuk, a nine-time national road race champion, and Diane Nukuri, who recently became a U.S. citizen.

Three-time New York City Marathon champion Mary Keitany from Kenya and Krista DuChene, a Canadian who was third at the 2018 Boston Marathon, will also race the Mini this year.

Huddle, American record holder in the 10,000 meters and half marathon, has had a month to contemplate what happened in Boston and what she’d like to do next. She shared some thoughts with Runner’s World during a recent phone interview.

Runner’s World: How long did it take you to feel better after Boston? What kinds of aches and pains and recovery did you experience?

Molly Huddle: I was being optimistic, thinking that because I ran so slow I would recover quickly, but that was not the case. And a couple of people that I talked to who also had a rough finish said the same thing — that they were really, really sore for a long time after. That was true for me, too. We planned to take two weeks off anyway, but I added another week to get my wisdom teeth out.

RW: How much running have you been able to do since then?
MH: I ran 20 or 30 minutes most days during the break and then there were probably six to eight days scattered throughout that I had to take completely off. I’ve been running the past two weeks, but I haven’t worked out in a really long time. I feel pretty out of shape. I’m just trying to make plans for the spring and the fall. The Mini will be my fourth workout back at this point, but I always love doing that race. It’ll be serving a purpose to whip me back in shape.

RW: Now that you’ve had some space from it, do you have any new perspective regarding the Boston experience? Are you still glad that you finished?
MH: There was no circumstance that I would have dropped out, even if in hindsight it would have been a good idea, unless I had an injury. I’m glad I stuck it out, because looking at the results afterward, I would have said, “Maybe I could have pulled off a win? It was a slow day.” Those kind of days, anybody has a shot but unless you’re in it, you don’t really know how you’d react. It gives me peace of mind to know that, “Hey, you weren’t going to run well that day, in that weather.”

RW: So, no regrets or thoughts that you may have been able to regroup for another marathon a few weeks later?
MH: Seeing Galen [Rupp, who dropped out of Boston but won the Prague Marathon a few weeks later], I was wondering what could have happened if I did that, too. I had a really, really good buildup to Boston, but a lot went wrong the week of the race. Maybe we could have turned it around in three weeks like they did, but I just can’t see a scenario where I allowed that to happen.

RW: Any other variables you would have changed about Boston?
MH: Maybe I should have worn more clothes that day — like layers. But I think we saw some athletes wear less and some wore more and the results were still up in the air.

RW: As far as your preparation for Boston, which was your second marathon, you’re still pleased with that part?
MH: It was encouraging to do more work than I ever did. Now I know the benchmarks are higher for what I can handle. I actually can do more than I thought I could do and come out okay at the end of it. I guess we’ll take that into the next one, repeat it, and see how it goes.

RW: So what are you hoping to get out of the Mini 10K?
MH: I’ll race as hard as I can, but it’ll be pretty early in training for me, so it’ll be rough. I always love how it’s an all-women’s race and the history of it. It’s a challenging course in Central Park, but it’s a loop that I always love when I go to the city. That’s what I train on when I’m there. To get to go to New York in the summer isn’t something I always get to do, so I’m excited to fit it in. Hopefully it’ll kick off my summer racing season well.

RW: What else will your racing plans include? Will you go back to the track or target a fall marathon?
MH: The next big goal is always a fall marathon and this summer I’m playing June by ear. I’d love to run the 10K at U.S. championships in Des Moines. I don’t know if I’ll be ready by then, but I’m going to try and see what happens. In July and August I’ll do some shorter road races. I would love to do a track 5K or 10K, but I don’t know if I can find one that late, that’s an issue. There are plenty of road races though if I can’t make a little track schedule for myself.

I thought I’d be done with the track, but I think that bouncing back and forth might be good for me, just to make sure I don’t get too stale with all the marathon training.

By Erin Strout for Runners World

How Molly Huddle Is Bouncing Back From Boston was originally published in voltwomen on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I had a difficult last term here at university, everything got put on hold and I began to hibernate. I wasn’t studying, socialising or running. Running is such an important part of my well-being, and without it both my mental and physical health deteriorated.

Loughborough can be a daunting place when it comes to sport. The best sports university in the world…. but what does that mean for those who are not at the top? For those who are turned away from training because they do not reach a certain standard? For those who missed trials due to injury, who would love to be active but without pressure, commitment or stress.

At a time where I felt unable to get out of bed let alone get to the track, I realised what I was missing, I realised an atmosphere in sport that Loughborough does not quite offer to everybody.

A calm, safe and relaxed environment that can and should be accessible for movement and in bettering our strengths.

It’s taken time and a lot of effort, I’ve been fighting my demons, have accepted help and hope I’ve pushed past the worst of it. I’m back on track, attending labs and lectures and feeling more myself.

Something I feel strongly for after this episode is motivation to ensure that availability to running for enjoyment is there for those who might (or don’t yet realise they might) want it.

@NICERUNNING

NICE RUNNING was originally published in voltwomen on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The Kenyan village of Iten, a good five hours north of Nairobi, has served as a home to and training ground for Edna Kiplagat, Mary Keitany, Wilson Kipsang, and Stephen Cherono.

In running, it’s a place of legend, something like an Olympus (the elevation is 8,000 ft. after all) where those already at the top of their field venture in hopes of capturing some of the fire that gives Kenyan running mythological status.

Lyndsay Tessier still insists that her primary purpose in travelling to Iten was less to do with running and more to do with personal development and a need to maintain a positive outlook on life.

“In a word, Iten is magic,” Lyndsay says. “Life is pared down to the simple. It’s peaceful and so content. You cannot experience the culture, the people, the running, the lifestyle, and the attitudes and not be changed.”

Despite an intense training regimen, days seemed to dissolve and maintain a slow, leisurely quality. A morning run and breakfast was followed by the day’s first chai break and a stroll, which Lyndsay relished as an opportunity to “interact with the people or quietly observe my surroundings.”

Lunch might be followed by a trip to neighbouring Eldoret, which led into the second chai break of the day. An easy run in the afternoon coupled with strength training would be followed by dinner and some social time before lights out at 9:00.

The nine days spent in Iten were Lyndsay’s second trip to the village. “In Kenya, I feel privileged to talk to and learn from the people I meet,” Lyndsay says. “I get to share meals with complete strangers day after day who, by the end of the trip, feel like friends despite age, ability, or cultural differences. We’re all bonded by this running thing.”

With the joyful disconnect that came after her return from Kenya, January’s Houston Half Marathon snuck up on Lyndsay.

Prior to Houston, Lyndsay describes herself as still being out of the training mindset following her 2:36 personal best at last fall’s Toronto Waterfront Marathon.

Lyndsay recalls, “While I was in Kenya, my mind was lost in the red dirt and I was enjoying being almost completely disconnected. It wasn’t until I returned, jet lagged and facing the 21 eight year olds, that I considered the significant race I was to run in a week’s time.”

As all runners are sometimes apt to do, Lyndsay imagined several worst case scenarios. “I played out conversations in my head I would have with my running mates and thought about the email I would have to send to my coach afterward, explaining why I shit the bed,” Lyndsay says.

Feeling, in her view, out of her league standing at the start line in proximity to American wunderkind Jordan Hasay, Lyndsay says her attitude was especially laissez-faire as the gun went.

Suddenly, however, the elements synced and Lyndsay hung in with a fast pack of women for the first eight miles. “I felt their energy and let it drive me,” she explains. “Rather than letting them go without even trying when they surged, I checked in with how I was feeling and attempted to go with them.”

Though she won’t race at Valencia, the gutsy performance yielded and early 40th birthday present in the form of a 1:14 personal best, which met the 1:16 Athletics Canada standard for the World Half Marathon Championships.

Like Iten, the surroundings and personal experience are Lyndsay’s ultimate takeaways from Houston. As part of a large contingent of Canadian women that included Rachel Cliff, Leslie Sexton, Natasha Wodak, Emily Setlack, Cleo Boyd, Kinsey Middleton, Shelley Doucet, and Melanie Myrand, Lyndsay was one of seven Canadian women to go sub-1:16 in Houston.

Lyndsay says, “Quite honestly, it was a surreal feeling to line up with the athletes I look up to and who I consider my role models.” Lyndsay cites the Saturday morning shakeout run with her compatriots as the highlight of Houston, serving as a chance to “get to know them better — each of them kind, friendly, humble and exceptionally hard working.”

Returning in triumph from Houston, the Toronto school teacher faced down perhaps an even more intimidating beast, the first report cards of the year. Turning the evaluation on herself, Lyndsay summarizes 2018 so far:

“While Lyndsay does not take for granted the incredible opportunity she had to train in Kenya among the best runners on the planet, race with the top runners in the world in Houston, or PB at 39 so far in 2018, she needs to demonstrate a more positive attitude when she is forced to run workouts on the treadmill.”

By Ravi Singh for Irun.ca

Kenya to Houston to Scarborough was originally published in voltwomen on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

For as many years as I’ve been a competitive runner, people in the runningcommunity have made comments about my size and weight. The comments grew more frequent starting when I was in high school, around the time that my running transformed from hobby to sport. People often said they were surprised I could run so well for being “bigger.” Or they’d note that I was “strong,” a notoriously condescending word in running culture. Even my competitors discussed my size (although they weren’t quite as politically correct).

I’m done feeling like being thinner will make me better.

These comments followed me to college, where I competed as a Division One athlete. The scrutiny grew unnerving. I didn’t look like most of the women I lined up against, and, even worse, I increasingly felt like I had to in order to run well. Indeed, anytime I delivered a lackluster performance I was met with rhetoric that I needed to lose weight to perform better. My collegiate career did not live up to expectations, which only reinforced this idea. It seemed clear that if I wanted to achieve my athletic goals I needed to conform to the stereotype of the rail-thin elite runner.

I was passionate about my training and eager to compete as the fittest version of myself, and the criticism and negative messaging impacted my morale. It was also deeply confusing.

Off the track, I didn’t feel “big.” Actually, I felt beautiful.

I filled out the curves in a dress and cups in a bra. I knew, intellectually, that to people outside of the running community I was on the smaller side — and that in all other areas of life I benefited from the privileges that society bestows upon people who fit into straight-size clothing. But on the track, I felt different — uncomfortable and inadequate.

So after years of hearing it, I started to believe it: I was “too big” to be a competitive runner. In 2012 I wrote a series of blog posts about cutting weight. I documented how I tracked calories and fat, met with a nutritionist, did body fat tests, and eliminated entire food groups with unhealthy determination. My obsession with my weight, and losing that weight, wasn’t that different from other women in similar situations; I’ve known and heard of many collegiate and elite female runners who suffer from eating disorders because their coaches tell them that they need to be as light as possible to win races. The consequences of this messaging are severe, as I soon learned firsthand. Inevitably my unhealthy practices led to where this destructive pattern always does: injury. A stress fracture in my tibia prevented me from competing in the 2012 Olympic trials.

I recognize that the fact that I was made to feel big at my size — thin by almost any standard, and safely within society’s “acceptable weight” constraints — is curious and possibly offensive to many people who must bear the brunt of discrimination in all areas of their lives because of their size.

Of course, runners aren’t the only ones who shoulder this dangerous messaging that you should be as small as possible. In our society, women are led to believe that skinny equates with not only faster, but better; that we have to conform to stereotypes to excel; and that “strong” may be a derogatory euphemism. The criticism doesn’t discriminate; it takes on different forms for different women. For me, it took me years to come to a realization that, in fact, dropping too much weight for whatever reason will always be an unhealthy shortcut to an end-goal, laden with tremendous physical and emotional consequences; that weight is not a metric of success; that there is a better way to set our goals. That our accomplishments are about so much more than a number on the scale.

I feel lucky that I’m no longer so young and impressionable. Today I am confident in myself, and finally accept that I have never in my life been “too big” for anything, least of all running. Last year, instead of counting the fewest number of calories that could sustain me, I started a new habit: fitting as many nutrients as possible onto my plate. And in November at the New York City Marathon, I ran my fastest marathon time ever: 2:29:39, a 26-minute PR and swift enough to place fifth in a strong field of women. I was the second American to cross the finish line after winner Shalane Flanagan.

This time, while some commenters still focused on the superficial physical details that differentiated me from the other top women, I knew that I was not an outlier.

I knew I belonged with that field, running alongside women who also had spent the last few months envisioning this moment.

As athletes, how we got there varied — we all had our own specific training plans, workout habits, coaches.

But as women, we shared more similarities than differences: We were all perseverant, powerful, confident, and healthy. And, dare I say it, strong.

Allie Kieffer is a professional American distance runner and positive body image activist. She recently placed fifth at the 2017 New York City Marathon.

Story by Allie Kieffer for SELF.

My Weight Has Nothing to Do with How Good a Runner I Am was originally published in voltwomen on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.