Every September, the same thing happens in my coaching practice. The trail runs get rained out, the evening light shrinks, and one by one my clients start asking about the same machine — the one gathering dust in the corner of their gym while they wait in line for a treadmill. By October, half of them have a rowing machine in their living room, and every single one of them asks me why they waited so long. I felt the same way in college, when my heptathlon coach stuck me on an erg for the entire off-season to protect a…
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The text came in at 3:14 a.m. My client Dana — 48, marathoner, more disciplined than half the college athletes I’ve coached — had woken up soaked for the fourth night that week. Her smartwatch, meanwhile, insisted she’d logged “excellent sleep, 96% recovery.” She sent me a screenshot with three words: “Make this make sense.” I stared at it for a long moment, because I’ve lived some version of that same mismatch myself. For years, the wearable industry built its algorithms around bodies that run like metronomes — predictable cycles, stable temperatures, textbook sleep architecture. Then perimenopause arrives and quietly…
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The first Tuesday after Labor Day has a smell to it. New sneakers, sharpened pencils, someone’s slow cooker bubbling at 6 a.m. In my house it also has a sound: the little beep of the bathroom scale waking up while I’m still half-asleep. September is when the reset happens, whether you planned one or not. The kids are back in school, the schedule firms up, and suddenly there’s room again for the version of you that got buried under popsicles and road trips. So this year, my team and I decided to finally answer the question I get asked more…
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There was a season of my life when I trained twenty-two hours a week. Two-a-day track sessions, lifting blocks at six in the morning, plyometrics while the dew was still on the infield. I was chasing an Olympic heptathlon qualifying mark, and my entire worldview could be boiled down to three words: more is better. It wasn’t, by the way. More was what left me with a stress fracture in my left tibia and a very humbling conversation with my coach about recovery — but that’s a story for another day. So when a new study crossed my desk this…
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There is a moment in my house every evening that used to go one of two ways. The plates would land in the sink, my husband and I would collapse onto the couch, and the night would fold itself around whatever screen was closest. Or — and this is the version that changed everything — we would leave the dishes exactly where they were, lace up, and walk out the front door for ten minutes. That’s the whole habit. Ten minutes, right after dinner, at an easy pace, most nights of the week. No heart rate targets, no tracker alerts,…
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Here’s something I don’t say at parties: the most important workout of my week is also the least impressive one. Nobody films it. Nobody cheers. On paper, it’s a 47-year-old woman marching up a gentle hill while a podcast plays in her ears, occasionally reciting Shakespeare out loud to nobody. And yet this unglamorous session — and three others like it — did more for my health than any gut-busting interval set I’ve done in the last decade. I spent my twenties chasing an Olympic berth in the heptathlon and missed it by a margin so small I can still…
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September almost ended my track career before it started. I was twenty, two weeks into fall heptathlon training, and I couldn’t finish a set of 400-meter repeats without stopping mid-lap, eyes streaming, sneezing so hard my teammates started timing the fits like they were part of the workout. My spike bag carried more tissues than energy gels. My coach kept telling me to “run through it,” and I did — straight into the worst month of my athletic life. What nobody told me then, and what I’ve spent two decades coaching clients through since, is that ragweed season is a…
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There is a moment every late August when I catch myself checking the long-range forecast for mountain ranges I will not stand on for another six weeks. My husband finds it endearing. My coaching clients find it excessive. The team I train with has simply stopped asking why I am squinting at October precipitation charts before Labor Day. Here is the thing, though: the best trail season of the year is not won in September. It is won right now, in these last quiet weeks of summer, while everybody else is still at the lake. Fall is the open secret…
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My dentist balanced on one leg for ten seconds during a cleaning last month. Okay — not literally. But she did make me do it, right there in the chair, after I mentioned I’d been feeling a little wobbly stepping off curbs during my morning runs. Timer on, foot off the ground, eyes forward. I lasted the full ten seconds, but I felt something I hadn’t felt since my heptathlon days: my ankle, knee, and hip having a frantic three-way conversation about who was in charge. That tiny wobble stuck with me. So my team and I spent six weeks…
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There’s a specific moment I replay for every athlete who asks me whether their watch is good enough for heart rate training. It’s 6:14 on a Tuesday morning, I’m ninety seconds into the third round of rope slams, and I glance at my wrist: 132 beats per minute. Meanwhile, the elastic band strapped around my chest says 174. One of them is lying, and my legs already know which one. That gap — forty-two beats at the exact moment the data mattered most — is what kicked off a month-long experiment my team and I now call the dual-wear project.…