Preparing for Bloomsday is harder than you think. Especially when your identity is wrapped up in it

The calendar says Bloomsday is approaching, but my mind says something else: My identity as a runner is in crisis.

For decades, I’ve defined myself by times and trophies, but this year, as I prepare to join my colleagues for the iconic Spokane event, I’m discovering the real challenge isn’t the 12K course – it’s reconciling who I was with who I am.

The problem is not that the aging train goes in one direction, or that for the past many months I’ve had a literal pain in my butt, or that since the COVID-19 pandemic I have not pinned a race number onto a shirt and toed the line, or even that my last Bloomsday, in 2019, was the first time it took me more than an hour (by 4 minutes , 29 seconds) to cover the distance.

The problem is one of identity. The problem, that is to say, is me.

For the past three decades – half of my life – I have been a runner. Not just a runner, but a serious and sometimes even pretty good competitor. I learned what I love and where I could excel – at longer (sometimes ridiculously long) distances and on mountainous terrain better suited to those with four legs.

I’ve written for every running magazine in the country and published in periodicals in two other continents. I’ve scored trips to run (and write) in Singapore, Thailand and Israel, and spent five miserable days racing 100 miles in the Himalayas. I’ve been sponsored by Athleta and get an influencer discount at Prana.

And I learned what gives me a sense of pride and joy: leading pace groups. For years, I was on the Clif marathon pace team, traveling around the country holding a wooden dowel with balloons tied to it announcing the exact time I would cover the 26.2 miles. While I kept an even pace, I talked with, encouraged and told stories to anyone who wanted to join me.

When my friends started the Missoula Marathon, in a town rich with fast runners, it was hard to convince others that running slower than their accustomed pace would be fun. After the first race, the pace corps grew because it is a profound experience. The only times I’ve cried after a race was when I’ve helped others get to the finish line.

This is all to say, my identity is very much tied up with being a runner.

Or it has been.

Five years ago, just before the world shut down, I met the man who became my husband – Toby, tall and lanky, tattooed and earring-ed, and much younger than me. We bubbled together during the long days of the pandemic. For years a bike commuter in Seattle, Toby didn’t run. With no movies or restaurants to go to, we began to hike and camp, and, on long mountain trails, I told him it made no sense to walk down. Let’s run, I said.

And so run, we did.

There were no races during lockdown, and the structure of competitive running quietly slipped away from my life. I wasn’t about to pay money to do virtual events that lacked the energy and community I’d always valued, so I simply didn’t. The weekly long runs with my old partner continued until he moved away, leaving another void in my running routine.

As the pandemic made us less social, I discovered I didn’t miss the prerace jitters or postrace celebrations as much as I’d expected. And I certainly didn’t miss the during – the uncomfortable truth that it hurts to run fast. Without making a conscious decision, racing simply faded from my life, like so many other prepandemic habits.

Last year, I agreed to run on an EWU team at Bloomsday, thinking it would be good for me to reconnect with that part of myself. Then I had an embarrassing meltdown and hissy fit. Like a straight-A student suddenly facing a C, I panicked at the thought of disappointing teammates who might be counting on my former runner self. The pressure of not measuring up to who I once was triggered all my deepest insecurities.

Turned out, I couldn’t even run because of an injury. That’s about all I’ve got when it comes to growing up.

This year, I decided it was time. I agreed to run on a team with other women members of Eastern’s English department where we have no chance in hell of winning anything other than a finisher’s T-shirt after crossing the bridge; our times will be measured in having had a good time.

My problem: Can I be adult enough not to care and to get over that awkward teen stage where you think everyone is looking at – and judging – you? I’ve long known that no one really even notices my times but me. Except that, having been raised by a father for whom no matter what I did, it was never good enough, getting over the identity issues is going to be far harder than running/walking/hobbling 12k on the first Sunday in May.

I have 37 days to prepare. Not just my legs and lungs, but my mind for a new relationship with running – one where crossing the finish line matters more than the time on the clock when I do.