Though he’s just 24 years old, Kai Lightner has been a kitchen-table name in the rock climbing world for more than a decade. After years of steady performance in the competitive youth circuit, Lightner took the outdoor world by storm in the spring of 2013, when during a four-week period he sent his first four 5.14s—including Southern Smoke (5.14c). He’s been in and out of the headlines ever since, climbing other hard 5.14s, winning a Youth World Lead Championship, and taking multiple golds at both Youth and Open Lead Nationals.

But talent wasn’t the only thing that set Lightner apart: he’s also Black. And as one of the first African American climbers to reach such a high level in the sport, Lightner found himself something of a poster-child for diversity in the climbing world, and the outdoors more generally. Yet while he won comps and acquired sponsors, appeared in Reel Rock segments and major corporate ad slots, Lightner’s experience with the wider climbing community was
 complicated.

In straight terms: “We encountered a lot of bullshit,” Lightner remembers.

Meanwhile, members of the climbing world used him and his accomplishments as evidence that climbing didn’t have a diversity problem—something that does justice to neither the demographic facts nor Lightner’s experiences in the sport. “There were multiple points in my career where I was like, ‘Well, we’ve reached the end of the road,’” he told me in an interview in March 2023, “but then, miraculously, something would come up and it would help me push through. So I find it funny when people use me as an example of diversity in the sport. Because I am not the rule, I am an exception—and I barely got here.”

While in college, Lightner chose to step away from competitive climbing, at least temporarily. “I’ve always wanted to look at how I could impact the community in a more holistic way, but when you’re in the grind training for competitions, you’ve got to have your head down. College gave me the opportunity to lift my head up a little bit, see what I could offer the climbing community.”

Then, in the summer of 2020, while Lightner was still a student at Babson College, George Floyd was murdered. Suddenly Lightner found himself the corporate climbing world’s “go-to person” for anything pertaining to race in the outdoor industry. “There I was behind the scenes,” Lightner remembers, “helping [companies] craft their DEI statements
 and I realized I could be more effective if I organized this work under an organization like .”

We about Lightner when he launched Climbing for Change, a 501c3 nonprofit devoted to expanding diversity across all levels of the climbing community, in late July, 2020. But that was a long time ago. So we thought it was time for a catch up. In our conversation, which has been condensed and edited, Lightner talked about his own experiences with racism in the climbing world, blew apart some common misconceptions about how climbing is accessible for people of color, and, in spite of it all, expressed a real and honest optimism about the future of diversity in the outdoor industry. We also talked about how Climbing for Change has evolved over the last two and half years and—of course—about his current climbing and training goals. (Hint: no comps!)

INTERVIEW

Climbing: Let’s start with your early years: What was it like to be not just a very good rock climber at a very young age, but a very good rock climber in a sport where there really weren’t many other Black athletes?

Lightner: It was difficult in a lot of ways. I did a lot of questioning of my identity. On the one hand I enjoyed this sport so much, but on the other hand, it was a sport that had made itself pretty exclusive to people who looked like me. When I told people that I liked to go rock climbing, people questioned my Blackness, people questioned my sanity, and my family questioned my safety. So it was scary in the beginning. And we encountered a lot of bullshit that made me question whether I belonged.Ìę

One thing that people don’t always appreciate is that, sure, there are plenty of people without jobs or a steady income who make climbing and travel work on a shoestring budget—but doing that requires community, it requires access, it requires knowing people who also do the sport. But if you don’t know anyone, and you don’t know the gear, and you don’t know where to camp, and you have no history of entering communities like this, it’s really difficult to piece things together enough to get started in sports like climbing.Ìę

The only way I made it in the beginning was that people saw my talent as an athlete and helped me along the way. There were multiple points in my career where I was like, “Well, we’ve reached the end of the road. We can’t afford to do more. This is it.” But then miraculously something would come up and it would help me push through. So I find it funny when people use me as an example of diversity in the sport. Because I am not the rule, I am an exception—and I barely got here. So I understand fully why there are not enough people of color in the sport, and that’s why I’m trying to close those gaps and give opportunities to people like me.

That actually reminds me of the book publishing industry in the 1970s, 80s, and 90s: it was wildly undiverse back then (and still has work to do) but people kept saying that this lack of diversity wasn’t a problem because Black writers like Toni Morrison and James Baldwin and Jamaica Kincaid were getting published and winning prizes. Do you feel like that’s something the climbing community has done with you—like: “Of course we’re a diverse sport. We’ve got Kai Lightner”?

I think history repeats itself. And I definitely think that I’ve been used to promote the message that the sport is diversified despite the underlying lack of diversity. As one of the only professional African American climbers, when people are trying to promote that message, my literal image gets used—but it’s just not telling the whole story.Ìę

This is not solely a climbing world problem. People use Barack Obama to say that the country is no longer racist. People use singular examples of Black excellence as examples that the whole system is changing, just because that one person made it through. I mean, we hope that that person opens doors in the future, but these people are the exceptions, not the rule. And the fact that nearly every one of them has a ridiculous story of extreme tenacity shows that the barriers are still hella high. They’re getting attention because they are exceptional, but why are they exceptional? Because they stand alone. We have a lot of work to do to make success like that more consistent.

Have you seen significant DEI change since you started climbing or is the record more mixed? 

I think that there’s been good work done, but I also think that there’s continued work that needs to be done to make it sustainable and fully impactful. We’re seeing more marketing and ad campaigns featuring diversity, but it would be nice to see more people of color in positions of leadership and power where their voices can be a little louder. So there’s work to be done. But the initiative and conversation is there. I mean, ten years ago this wouldn’t even have been a conversation. So there’s been progress in that respect.

What have you identified as some of the biggest barriers that our community faces when trying to make the sport more diverse?

The big ones we’ve tried to hop over at Climbing for Change are cost, access, and stigma. It’s expensive to participate in these sports. And not everyone can visit these areas or feel safe when they do. A lot of the outdoor areas that climbers celebrate have deep histories of racism that have steered people of color away from wanting to recreate there. So I think the work isn’t just to make the sport more accessible but also to make the wider environment more accepting of people who look like us. And that’s a big job. I don’t think in my lifetime I’ll see that fully worked through. But it’s got to be chipped away at somehow. And that’s the job I’m taking on at the moment.

When did you first decide to start Climbing for Change: it was in 2020 right?

All through my career I’ve done grass-roots community work, trying to make outdoor recreation more popular and available to communities of color, but in 2020, when the Black Lives Matter movement was going on and there were all these tensions, I became everyone’s go-to person for PR statements or business advice. Companies were asking me “What have we done wrong” or “What can we do better? How can we help?” and there I was, behind the scenes, consulting with companies, helping them craft their DEI statements or allocate funding. And I realized I could be more effective if I organized this work under an organization like Climbing for Change.

What were the organization’s early days like?

So in July 2020 we got a 501c3 and hit the ground running. We launched a few grant programs and our first physical program, in Atlanta, working with the local government and Stone Summit Climbing gym to create a sustainable access point to climbing for local communities of color. We used city resources to provide free transportation to the gym, and we partnered with Kevin Jorgeson and to build a climbing wall at a recreation center in College Park. We were able to do that within six months of launching. Which was God’s work, trust me. It was a lot of effort.Ìę

How have things gone since then?

Since January 2021, we’ve been able to work with our high profile donors like Clif Bar, Adidas, and Black Diamond to offer 10 different grant programs, each of them targeting different aspects of diversity in climbing. We’ve awarded over $136,00 in grants to 87 different individuals and organizations. And we’ve consulted with countless small businesses in the outdoor industry. We want people of color to look at this space and not just see themselves in the people climbing or skiing or hiking with them; we want them to be greeted at the door by people who look like them, see ad placements featuring people who look like them, and see people at the top making the decisions who look like them.Ìę

What are some of those grants like?

Our mission statement, our goal, is to diversify the outdoors from top to bottom. targets a different part of that mission statement, but I’ll highlight three of them. The first is the , where we aim to encourage BIPOC individuals to become leaders in the outdoor industry. In doing that, we’ve been able to help 31 people get route setter certificiations, single pitch instructor certifications, wilderness first responder certifications, and so on. These certifications help them become leaders and guides who can help others get outside. Through that grant, we’ve also funded some big projects like the Black Out Fest, which is the only festival in the United States that focuses on celebrating Black people in rock climbing, and the FAMU , which is the first outdoor club at a Historically Black College or University.Ìę

We also have our , which helps individuals move from indoor to outdoor climbing—something that I know from experience is a big leap. In that process we were able to fund 14 people to attend the at Ouray earlier this year. And we sponsor groups from places like to do outdoor bouldering trips outside.

The third one I want to highlight is our Project Based Opportunity Grants, sponsored by Adidas, which provide a conduit for corporate organizations to get talent from diverse pools of people. One of the big complaints we heard in 2020 was companies saying that they didn’t know where to find more diverse employees. But if you’re still pulling talent from Primarily White Institutions or spaces that don’t have any history of diversity, you’re not going to have a large pool of people to pull from. You need to be looking at HBCUs, or career fairs in diverse communities, places where intellectuals of color congregate. So with the Project Based Opportunity Grants we’ve tried to help bridge that gap, working  with HBCUs and other diverse organizations to create job opportunities.

You’ve devoted a lot of your life to being a great climber and expanding that sport for other members of your community. How do you pitch climbing to non-climbing communities who might be distrustful of it for those reasons you mentioned above?

Climbing is a lifelong relationship, not just with themselves and the sport but with nature in general. And it teaches so many fundamental lessons. Even as a kid I had to learn important adult lessons through climbing, such as how to transfer your failures into learning experiences, or how to slowly chip away at a goal that is too big to fathom at the moment but will slowly become possible as you improve.Ìę

It also teaches you a lot about community. At every level you’re relying on someone else. When they belay you or spot you, your life is in their hands, and that helps develop a level of trust that can break down certain barriers. When you’re putting your life in someone’s hands, it doesn’t matter what color their skin is or what kind of background they have. Instead you see them for who they are. And I think that’s not something that a lot of other sports give you.

Climbing also gives you a level of physical and mental focus that really helps with self esteem. A lot of the grants we give out with Climbing For Change are to people with PTSD or ADHD, and for some of these people, climbing is the only thing that helps them focus and center themselves in life. Because not only do you need to be physically engaged while climbing, you’re constantly also problem-solving in real time.Ìę

Lastly, I just think that climbing is a super holistic, lifelong, special sport. You know, it’s crazy: I’m not competing anymore, but I feel like my work is just beginning. There are so many genres of the sport. You’re never finished with climbing. And as you get older, you develop newer skills and can lean on different aspects of your physicality and mental game; you become mentally stronger and technically sounder. A lot of the best climbers I have been in the sport for decades and have so much to give to the next generation.

What’s your climbing like these days? Are you training for comps or for outdoor goals?

I’m not currently training for comps. I’m old. [Laughs]. But seriously, if I stepped back into competitions, I’d be one of the oldest in the room. So my calling and focus has been outdoor climbing. I graduated from college in May of last year, and I spent the summer and fall focusing on Climbing for Change. But I’ve been training all through the winter, and now that spring is coming I’m really excited to test myself outside in a way that I haven’t been able to before. Most of my outdoor climbing before now has been in short windows of time, during spring break or fall break, in between school and competitions. But now I have the time, so I’m going to do a trip to Spain, and I’ll do some trips to Colorado to try some multi-pitch climbing. But I also just want to climb outside more often and get used to regularly being in the dirt, because I’m not used to it at all.

Has your training changed with that new focus?

Funnily enough, it’s changed quite a bit. With comps, you’re really training all different types of skill sets. You basically have to walk into a competition with a full toolbox even though you know that you will only need to use two or three items in it. Whereas if you have an outdoor project, you can study that project, train for that project, and come prepared for what you need. That’s a very different mindset for me, but it’s been very fun. Outdoor climbing also puts more emphasis on muscle memory and learned movement rather than walking into a comp over-prepared and super strong and hoping that it works out. It’s a bit more predictable, which I can appreciate.

Anything you want to add?

Climbing for Change also accepts through their links. No donation is too small. One dollar, five dollars, ten dollars. The only way that we can provide the grants that we give is through the money we get through donations. It’s accessible on the website.Ìę 

Steven Potter is a digital editor at Climbing. He’s been flailing on rocks since 2004, has successfully injured (and unsuccessfully rehabbed) nearly every one of his fingers, and holds an MFA in creative writing from New York University.

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At the start line of the Falmouth Road Race in August, a smattering of languages cuts through an otherwise monolingual field. A hum of nervous chatter blends with the rhythm of the Atlantic Ocean, drumming the Cape Cod shore. Then, Spanish, and lots of it.

Thirty runners stand at the ready, clad in black singlets with red equal signs across their chests. These athletes are all part of , a nonprofit running organization composed mostly of immigrants. A few wrap their arms around each other. Some laugh. Others shake out their legs. While any onlooker might notice camaraderie in this crew, they won’t understand the full extent of these runners’ bonds. Many Stride for Stride athletes would do anything for each other. In some cases, they’d even give a kidney.

The Beginning of a Dream

Stride for Stride was founded by Tom O’Keefe, not an immigrant himself but, rather, a 50-year-old social impact entrepreneur with a background in business development, known for his viral Twitter account, . O’Keefe started BostonTweet to uplift local businesses during the 2008 recession. Such was the mindset with which he proceeded to co-found Flutter in 2015—an organization that empowered folks to donate to local charities—and launch various other social impact projects.

O’Keefe also brought this mindset to his first starting line. Upon completing the seven-mile Falmouth Road Race in 2018, O’Keefe was struck by the feeling of invincibility that comes after pushing one’s body across the finish. But alongside glee was a less positive feeling, a disappointment of the high registration cost, and the race participants’ overwhelming whiteness. He sought to make road races more diverse and accessible. Later that year, he launched Stride for Stride, with the goal to buy race bibs for immigrant, BIPOC, and low-income runners.

‘We’re Part of a Family’

In 2018, Estuardo Calel, a runner from Guatemala and an acquaintance of O’Keefe’s from the Boston running scene, became the first Stride for Stride sponsored athlete. Calel shared news of the nonprofit with his friend and fellow runner, Jessica Colindres, also from Guatemala.

Colindres, a marathoner, preschool teacher, and mother of two, often couldn’t attend her dream races due to the high cost of registration. After contacting O’Keefe, Colindres and her husband, Douglas, became the second and third sponsored athletes, and today, Colindres has completed 65 races, including 12 marathons and 24 half-marathons. Before joining the team, Colindres and her husband “might be able to buy one race bib, not two,” she says. “Now, we run together more, we run in more races, and we feel more freedom. And we’ve made very close friends.”

Today, Stride for Stride sponsors 368 runners from 26 countries and has spent $146,705 in bib purchases. The largest contingent of runners reside in Boston, although the team extends to New York City, Miami, and other cities in the U.S.

“There are runners on the team who I don’t know personally, and yet somehow we still feel connected,” says Karen Mejia, a Boston-based runner, social worker, and mother of two, originally from Honduras. Local runners will often host out-of-town teammates in their homes.

“When [teammates] come to Boston from New Jersey and New York, we feel like we’re part of a family. We take care of each other.”

RELATED: Running the Boston Marathon for the First Time

Over the past five years, O’Keefe has supported a growing roster of athletes through a combination of financial sources, the most lucrative being charity partnerships with the New York City Marathon and the Boston Marathon. Stride for Stride has also received grants from the Boston Athletic Association and REI (the latter of which “really helped us get through the pandemic,” O’Keefe recounts). Individuals can donate online, and some organizations give race proceeds or free bibs to the nonprofit. O’Keefe built a structure positioned for growth, while the runners built something more akin to a family than a team.

“A lot of immigrants come to this country totally alone. They don’t know anyone, and they don’t speak the language,” says O’Keefe. “I can’t imagine how scary that must be.” To find a community of people with “your passions, who speak your language, and who understand your struggles
It’s beyond what I can understand.”

Although he cannot fully understand the depth of these runners’ bonds, O’Keefe is bound by them. He runs with the Boston-based athletes every week, races in his Stride for Stride singlet, participates in team traditions like the post-Falmouth bonfire, and commits his life and career to Stride for Stride. The nonprofit has become O’Keefe’s full-time job, and the runners are his extended family. (In 2022, Calel asked O’Keefe and his wife, Bridget, to be godparents to his twins.)

Finding a Match

In 2020, O’Keefe was diagnosed with chronic kidney disease (CKD). O’Keefe needed a kidney, or he’d have to go on dialysis, a treatment during which the average lifespan is 5 to 10 years. Soon, he had 10 percent kidney function, and was wrecked by fatigue—the main symptom of CKD—so severe that he’d sleep for two hours every afternoon and fall asleep by 9:30 P.M.

, 90 percent of people with kidney disease don’t know they have it. Not everyone experiences the telltale sign, “proteinuria,” or foamy urine. Plus, the main symptom of CKD is fatigue, easily attributed to other ailments. O’Keefe urges anyone with proteinuria, unusual fatigue, or other symptoms to get checked by their doctor.

When Boston-based Stride for Stride athlete, Jorge Rosales, heard that a family member was rejected as a donor and O’Keefe still needed a kidney, he called Tom immediately.

“I have one for you,” said the 44-year-old father of three and car mechanic from El Salvador. Rosales contacted the hospital to begin the testing process. So did Colindres. Soon afterwards, Mejia did, too. For Rosales, the decision was a no-brainer. During the early months of the pandemic, he watched as O’Keefe launched another donation-based program, , which purchases supermarket gift cards for families struggling to buy groceries.

“I saw everything Tom was doing to help people during the pandemic,” says Rosales. “He was always worried about [Stride for Stride runners], asking us how we were doing. He’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. I’d love to help with anything he needs.”

When reflecting on her decision to undergo the vetting process, Colindres expresses similar sentiments. “I cannot explain how I see Tom and [his wife], Bridget. There are no words.” Colindres’s voice quivers, and she looks up at the ceiling. She throws her hands in front of her face in a T-shape. Time out.

By August, 2023, Rosales had undergone five months of testing, including two MRIs, a CT scan, countless blood tests, and meetings with social workers to confirm his wish to donate. One last test would decide whether he was a match.

In early October, he received a call from the hospital: the final test result. Hands shaking, he called O’Keefe to deliver the news that would either save his life or make it markedly more difficult. The two padded their conversation in pleasantries—the weather, the miles run that morning, the races upcoming that fall—but eventually, Rosales’s voice broke to a more serious tone: “The doctors called and I’m 100 percent compatible,” he said. O’Keefe released a breath like a deflating balloon, heavy and forceful against his lips.

Action from Intention

According to a administered by the Running Industry Diversity Coalition (RIDC), 93 percent of running organizations express a commitment to diversity, equity, and inclusion, but only 70 percent of these organizations have DEI goals, 41 percent track their progress, and 14 percent publish their goals for the public. If this data provides any indication, far too many running organizations consider inclusion within the confines of an Instagram square or pithy marketing campaign.

Stride for Stride, however, is powerful because it rejects such a narrow approach. It also rejects the notion that DEI can be a bandwagon, that companies can hop on in 2020, then hop off when a trendier ride comes along. Stride for Stride serves as a reminder that efforts at inclusion must be seen, heard, and felt by the folks they seek to serve most directly. They must question norms and constantly strive for better.

On Saturdays, the Boston-area Stride for Stride contingent gathers for a long run. Together, “we all speak Spanish; we speak at the same time,” says Mejia. “So, I feel [bad] for Tom.” (O’Keefe claims to not speak Spanish very well but plans to take more lessons while recovering from his transplant.)

“It’s fine, it’s totally fine,” O’Keefe interjects, laughing. For their non-Spanish speaking teammate, runners seldom feel the need to translate. Which is to say, runners know that Stride for Stride belongs to them.

RELATED: Meet the People Making Running More Inclusive

Still, something else burgeons beneath Stride for Stride’s intended outcomes—the languages spoken, bibs purchased, and charity dollars earned. There’s a unique closeness that comes from pushing oneself to physical limits beside a teammate, falling so deep into the pain cave that one’s labored breath becomes inseparable from the other’s. Such bonds are often intrinsic to the culture of high school and college sports teams, but can too often be lost after adulthood. Stride for Stride reminds of one of the simplest elements of the sport, the “I’d give a kidney” sort of bond running can create.

In early January 2024, both O’Keefe and Rosales are set to undergo surgery—Rosales to lose a kidney, and O’Keefe to gain one. When asked how he is feeling, Rosales breaks into a wide grin.

“I’m excited!” he exclaims. As Rosales speaks over Zoom, he sits at home in Boston, a picture of himself, his wife, and their three kids on the wall behind him. Below the frame lies a cursive scrawl that spells “family,” a word that spans far beyond the five people in the photo, thanks to Stride for Stride.

“[Rosales] keeps saying he’s excited, which shocks me,” O’Keefe says. “He’s doing this amazing thing, taking an organ out of his body, and he’s excited?!”

Once the two recover, O’Keefe and Rosales both plan to race a marathon, side-by-side, Rosales’s kidney filtering the very blood that pumps through his teammate’s veins.

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In spring of 2022, our parent company, șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű, Inc. launched and partnered with 14 nonprofit organizations that share our mission to get everyone outside in support of a healthy planet. During this giving season, we’re hoping to raise at least $1,500 for each of our partners—a modest goal that is attainable with your help! Please consider a tax-deductible donation of any size to one of these incredible organizations.Ìę

Earth Guardians

Training and empowering youth to be effective leaders at the intersection of the environmental and climate justice movements

The goal: $1,500 will allow to award four of its crews with grants they will use to host youth workshops on resisting fossil fuels; cleaning up trash; creating community gardens; organizing nonviolent protests; or conducting energy audits of school buildings.

Intersectional Environmentalist

Radically imagining a more equitable and diverse future of environmentalism

The goal: $1,500 will buy 75 BIPOC-authored books for to give away to its community.

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One-third of Americans—including 28 million children—don’t have a park, or other natural area, within a 10 minute walk of their home. And most areas lacking in parks are home to low-income or BIPOC communities, in which the parks that do exist are four-times smaller on average than those in wealthy areas.

This didn’t happen by accident. “Decades of systemic racism and redlining have led to chronic disinvestments in parks and recreational facilities in many marginalized communities, resulting in too few parks as well as parks marred by cracked asphalt, barren fields, and broken play equipment,” reads the conclusion of a conducted by the Trust for Public Land.

And that’s a problem, because access to nature is a major factor when it comes to quality of life, and both mental and physical health. “Spending time outside can reduce mental fatigue and improve concentration, cognitive function, memory and creativity,” Alicia Harvie, the Manager of REI’s Cooperative Action Network tells șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű. “Living near nature also provides more regular opportunities for physical activity like walking, biking, and playing sports, which helps improve physical health and reduces the risk of chronic conditions such as diabetes and heart disease.”

As we’re all experiencing during the prolonged, nationwide heatwave, urban parks are also a crucial adaptation for the climate disaster. “Improving access and closing the park equity gap will provide benefits like shade, reduced flooding, and clean air that are critical as we grapple with the intensifying effects of the climate crisis,” states Bill Lee, Senior Vice President of Policy, Advocacy and Government Relations at Trust for Public Land.

Since 2014 the Outdoor Recreation Legacy Partnership (ORLP) program has been addressing the disparity in access to nature through grant assistance targeting park building, rehabilitation, and improvement projects in economically disadvantaged communities. In its nine-year history, ORLP has provided $45 million in one-to-one matching grants to 50 different communities and is currently considering applications for $192 million more. , and paid for by the (LWCF) State and Local Assistance Program.

What is the Outdoors for All Act?

In 2020, with the passage of the bipartisan Great American Outdoors Act, LWCF was permanently funded with a $900 million annual budget. But ORLP remains a discretionary grant program—subject to the ups and downs of politics. That’s a problem the Outdoors For All Act—introduced in February by Senators Susan Collins (R—Maine) and Alex Padilla (D—California)—seeks to address. Should it be signed into law, Outdoors For All will .

How REI Is Working to Make a Difference

Now, REI is taking action. “We all have a responsibility to address this issue,” continues Harvie. “That’s why the co-op recently launched , a multiyear, nationwide initiative to ensure everyone in America has immediate access to outdoor spaces. We’ll be supporting local projects and national, state, and local legislation in pursuit of our goal of getting 100m people outside in five minutes or less, no matter where they live.”

REI is directly targeting passage of the Outdoors For All Act. A form on its website allows members of the public to in support of the bill. As of the time of publication, more than 45,000 people have taken the time do that. The Co-Op is also directing $5 from every $30 membership to its new Cooperative Action Fund, which will target grassroots advocacy, and partner with local non-profits to also help improve access to parks in disadvantaged communities.

“We’ll be supporting local projects and national, state, and local legislation in pursuit of our goal of getting 100 million people outside in five minutes or less, no matter where they live,” says Harvie. “The Outdoors for All Act would permanently secure funding for parks and green spaces in the communities that need them most across the country.”

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To honor Juneteenth, the day in 1865 when enslaved people were emancipated, we celebrate some of the amazing people working to advance diversity, equity, and inclusion in the outdoors.

We have a long way to go before the outdoors—and society at large—is truly equitable. But it’s the work of people like these (listed in alphabetical order by last name) that’s taking us in the right direction.

Rahsaan Bahati

Bahati grew up in Compton, California, amid gangs, drugs, and crime. Early exposure to cycling changed the course of his life. He created the Bahati Foundation in 2009 which runs youth cycling camps, mentorship programs, scholarships, and community outreach activities. Bahati’s goal is to engage and inspire young people from disadvantaged backgrounds and using cycling as a tool for personal growth, education, and positive life choices.

Follow Rahsaan Bahati on Instagram:

Teresa Baker

Baker is a co-founder of the , and the founder of the African American National Park Event and the Outdoor Industry CEO Diversity Pledge, which asks C-level executives at outdoor companies to commit to creating, promoting, and enforcing policies that expand the diversity, equity, and inclusion of their employees, board members, and customers. She is a self proclaimed “good troublemaker” who works tirelessly to promote inclusion in all outdoor spaces.

Follow Teresa Baker on Instagram:

Kareemah Batts

Batts is a cancer survivor, paraclimber, and diversity, equity, and inclusion professional who founded the nonprofit which is the U.S.’s largest nonprofit climbing group for people with disabilities. For her tireless work with brands, events, and guiding companies on accessibility issues, she received the 2019 Climbing Advocate Award from Access Fund. Hear more of her story–in her own words–on The Daily Rally podcast.

Follow Kareemah Batts on Instagram:

Faith Briggs

Briggs is an ultrarunner, intersectional environmentalist, former sprinter, documentary filmmaker, and co-host of .  Her goal: use media as a tool to raise awareness, and ultimately to change lives. One of her recent projects includes a series called , a three-part short documentary series highlighting how communities of color can reclaim water as a healing and enjoyable experience for all through the lens of each subject.

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Patricia Cameron

Cameron is the founder of , a nonprofit that lowers the financial barrier to entry in outdoor recreation and teaches people the basics of hiking, camping, skiing, swimming, and more. Before founding Blackpackers, Cameron struggled as a single mother with the means to take her young son outdoors to enjoy nature. She saved up money working overtime as an EMT to buy her first set of backpacking gear—an experience that motivated her to help others find the means to get outside. Cameron recently achieved her Wilderness EMT certification and launched Blackpacker’s Outdoor Skills School to teach free Wilderness First Aid (WFA) and Wilderness First Responder (WFR) courses, free to her community.

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Jamicah Dawes

Dawes is the founder Slim Pickins Outfitters (SPO), the first Black-owned outdoor gear shop in the U.S. Just three years after opening, the pandemic forced the Texas store to close. It might have been for good, but a digital media company decided to create a short documentary about Dawes, his family, and his store, which launched SPO into the big time. Dawes uses his platform (which has grown to almost 32K followers on Instagram) to share family stories, product highlights, inspiration, and to uplift marginalized voices.

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Alison Desir

Desir is a co-founder of the , a nonprofit that aims to unite the running industry to provide resources, measure progress, and hold the industry accountable to equitable employment, leadership, and ownership positions and improve inclusion, visibility, and access for Black, Indigenous, and people of color. She’s also the author of Running While Black: Finding Freedom in a Sport That Wasn’t Built For Us and the host of the Out & Back podcast. In 2022, Alison was recognized with an Award for Excellence by Running USA for demonstrably driving positive change in the running industry.

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Latasha Dunston

Dunston is a trained in scientific and preparatory medicine illustration who specializes in plein air landscape painting. Through her work, she aims to challenge the underrepresentation of people of color in the outdoors. “I want to showcase myself and the people like me who spend time on trails,” she said of her art. “We are a reflection of nature, and nature is a reflection of us.” Here at șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű, Dunston is one of our favorite artists to work with. She recently created a beautiful for our Earth Month celebration.

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Latria Graham

Graham is a writer, editor, and cultural critic with bylines in The New York Times, The Guardian, The Los Angeles Times, Harvard Law Today, and șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű. Her writing examines the dynamics of race, gender, class, and popular culture. Graham says she uses her talents to write for publications that are “invested in celebrating the diversity of the human experience.”

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Rahawa Haile

Haile is a queer Eritrean-American writer from Miami who currently lives and works in Oakland. “Going It Alone,” her riveting 2017 story in șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű about hiking the Appalachian Trail during the summer before the 2016 presidential election, led to a forthcoming book called , which will present a wider examination of freedom of movement and race in modern America.

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Ron Griswell

When Ron Griswell attended North Carolina Agricultural and Technical State University (NCA&TSU), one of 107 Historically Black Colleges and Universities (HBCUs), he lamented the fact his school didn’t have the opportunities for outdoor recreation that he had grown to love. So much so that he actually thought about transferring to the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill, because of its robust outdoor program and giant gear library. “That’s when it clicked,” says Griswell. “These outdoor activities won’t come to my school unless I do something about it.”

So In 2018, Griswell founded his nonprofit HBCUs șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű as a way to create more outdoor opportunities for Black students and a more diverse pipeline of talent in the outdoor industry. Today HBCUs șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű runs outdoor clubs on seven (and counting!) different college campuses, introducing hundreds of Black students to the joy of outdoor experiences and opening pathways to outdoor careers.

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Bobby and Angel Massie

Bobby Massie is a former American football player (offensive tackle) who played for the Denver Broncos, but had grown up fishing and hunting in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. Angel Massie is a former journalist and TV producer with work appearing in BET (Black Entertainment Television), Complex, Vibe, and Essence, who grew up in urban Baltimore but always felt a connection to the outdoors. “We had a yard with this huge, huge tree,” she told CBS recently. “And I used to wonder to myself, I know that there has to be a place where there are more big trees like that.” Her love of hiking arose through an annual camping trip at her school, and as a young professional in Washington, D.C., she started a hiking group with destinations such as Shenandoah National Park. Today she hikes, fishes, and camps in the Rockies with her husband and their two children. After unsatisfying experiences with other outfitters, the two launched their own business, Wanderland Outdoors, in May. A guiding outfit with a diverse team (currently 11 guides and four wranglers), it is intended to make the outdoors more accessible through outings including fly-fishing trips, trail rides, mindfulness hiking—Angel is a certified Kripalu Mindful Outdoor Guide—and gourmet “excursion meals” cooked by Chef Bobby.

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Eliot Jackson

Jackson is a former World Cup downhill mountain bike racer devoted to improving diversity in cycling. During his racing career, he was almost always the only Black competitor. Following the murder of George Floyd and time to reflect on his career during the Covid pandemic, he founded the nonprofit to promote education, access, and opportunities that advance diversity and inclusion in the sport he loves. One recent project, a 30,000 square foot pumptrack in Los Angeles, California, is set to open this summer. The pumptrack, which is a circular bike park with berms and rollers, will serve more than 150,000 kids and adults in the urban area who lack access to mountain biking opportunities.

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Mercy M’Fon

M’Fon is the founder and executive director of , a Portland, Oregon-based nonprofit that leads outdoor adventures and education sessions for BIPOC and LGBTQ+ communities. Through their programs, they hope to foster personal connections between members of these communities and the natural world. M’Fon is an outdoor guide and community leader who founded the organization after feeling the effects of the outdoor industry’s lack of diversity firsthand. You can listen to their story on The Daily Rally podcast.

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James Edward Mills

Mills has worked in the outdoor industry for more than 30 years as a guide, outfitter, independent sales representative, writer, and photographer. He is the founder of the Joy Trip Project, a news-gathering and reporting organization that covers outdoor recreation, environmental conservation, acts of charitable giving, and practices of sustainable living. He is the author of and the co-writer/co-producer of the documentary film . A recent project is an online book club called , an exploration of the intersection of the natural world and the cultural identities of the human beings that live within it.

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Kriste Peoples

Peoples is a guide, runner, writer, and mindfulness meditation teacher who serves on the board of the and and is the newly appointed executive director of Women’s Wilderness, which is a nonprofit in Boulder, Colorado. For years, Peoples has been on the front lines of fighting for equality and inclusion for women, girls, and non-binary people in nature. Here more of her inspiring story–in her own words–on The Daily Rally.

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Mirna Valerio

Valerio, a.k.a. The Mirnavator, is an ultrarunner, author, and educator who was named a National Geographic șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍűr of the Year in 2018. Her memoir, , was a bestseller, and in 2017 she appeared on the cover of Women’s Running. A native of Brooklyn, New York, Valerio now lives in Vermont, where she has become obsessed with skiing and is working on her second book, a novel about a Black woman with Type 1 diabetes who embarks on a solo backpacking trip in the Appalachians, against the advice of her doctor and friends.

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Nailah Blades Wylie

Wylie is the founder of , a nonprofit that helps women of color harness the power of the outdoors to create joy-filled lives. A communications strategist and community builder who has worked with businesses small and large—from startups to Fortune 500 companies—Wylie founded Color șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű after moving from San Diego to Salt Lake City and feeling unmoored, without a community to support her. Color șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű leads coaching, workshops and retreats to help fellow outdoor lovers feel welcome and joyful doing what they love.

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Rue Mapp

Mapp is the founder of , a nonprofit that celebrates and inspires Black connections and leadership in nature. In 2022, 60,000 people across the country participated in over 1,000 Outdoor Afro events to find joy and healing in nature. Last year, Mapp published her first book, .

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The running industry, particularly at executive and leadership levels, remains largely white and male. Only 15 percent of outdoor companies are led by women, and 85 percent are white, according to the most recent data gathered by Camber Outdoors.

Alison DĂ©sir, activist and author of , is working to change that. Now in its second year, , co-founded by DĂ©sir and Martha Garcia, Senior Director of Brand Marketing at Parks Project, is bringing together women and female-identifying leaders of color from around the running industry to network, problem-solve, and work in a space that centers their experience.

Last year’s inaugural event was held in Seattle, Washington, at Brooks’ headquarters, where they hosted 64 participants representing brands from around the industry, including Brooks, Feetures, Salomon, ON Running, New Balance, Strava, and Oiselle. This year’s event will be held in Chicago, Illinois, from August 14-16, and those interested . The organization is

“The gender and racial pay gap leave, for women and femme of color, make significantly less than our white women counterparts, who themselves make even less than white men. What this means for women and femme of color currently in leadership positions—or looking to get into leadership positions—is that we often feel isolated, without a network of anyone who might share similar cultural experiences,” says DĂ©sir. “Take the Lead exists to nurture existing and future leaders, normalize our experiences, advocate for equity, and provide opportunities for us to show up as our full authentic selves.”

WOC Take the Lead co-founder, and co-founder of BibRave, Jessica Murphy, says this retreat acts as a corrective to inequities found in c-suites and boardrooms. “Many WOC are the only ones in their organization, or at their level within their organization,” says Murphy. “This is a rare opportunity for WOC to connect with others at their level, or at similar organizations, for peer-to-peer connection and mentorship.”

Many women of color feel pressure to conform to “professional” expectations that center the needs and experiences of white men in the workplace, and this retreat seeks to act as a corrective to that culture, to give leaders a space where they can show up, skill-up, and connect more authentically.

“Spaces like these are important for women of color in the running industry because we’re still operating in such a homogeneous and male-dominated industry, especially at the corporate level,” says Kailin Rodriguez, who is co-organizing this year’s retreat. “Creating safe spaces, free from retaliation, where we can share our experiences in confidence, feel seen and heard, build one another up, and feel empowered to create the change we want to see are necessary for us to keep doing the work we’re doing and progressing conversations forward. If we don’t, who will?”

The retreat offers opportunities to network, communicate with sponsors, and connect directly with resources that feel out of reach for many WOC, like the opportunity to get professional headshots, which can feel out of reach for many women of color. Professional assets like these might be taken for granted by some, but the opportunity to be professionally photographed can lead to tangible career advancement for many.

“Intentionally providing these tools and resources is important because too often these are gatekept or require certain access or funds that might not be readily available,” says Rodriguez. “With access to mentorship, conversations, and resources, we can empower ourselves, evolve, and continue to show up.”

DĂ©sir agrees that mentorship opportunities, like the ones offered at WOC Take the Lead, are critical, because many participants report that these resources feel out of reach. “Plugging people into resources is an essential part of career development, and we want to ensure that everyone leaves with valuable and tangible takeaways,” says DĂ©sir.

The retreat will also feature panels on topics like career development, community development, connecting with mentors, and mentoring other WOC in the run space. Panelists at different career stages will discuss challenges they’ve faced in their work and the specific tactics they’ve used to overcome them. They’ll also share how they’ve used their platforms and influence to make a difference in the running industry, and how mentorship can extend that positive influence.

Joy and connection are central to the retreat’s mission. Each day of the retreat will also feature dance breaks, group runs, and downtime so that participants can balance career development. Often, WOC in white-centric spaces don’t have the opportunity to let their guards down, take a deep breath, and have fun.

“I had never been in a room with only women and femme of color in a professional setting! I had been so used to attending running industry events where I was one of the only or a few, where the women of color found each other in a sea of white people, or during a scheduled BIPOC happy hour,” says DĂ©sir. “What a relief to look around and realize that there are indeed a lot of us—we are not alone and that we can reimagine what the running industry looks like, centering our needs.”

Murphy, who attended the event last year, says the connections she made have been critical.

“Don’t underestimate the power of connection,” says Murphy. “Since September, I’ve been able to connect with others I met through Take the Lead when at other events, the New York City Marathon, TRE, etc. Spaces that normally you would feel like the ‘only’ one, now there is another friendly face to connect with. It’s been invaluable.”

Rodriguez hopes the retreat will underline the fact that WOC don’t need to change anything about how they show up professionally, and that it’s the systems of support that need changing.

“You have everything you need within you already,” says Rodriguez. “And when you equip yourself with a supportive network, mentorship, menteeship, allies, and folks who not only have your back but who are actively rooting for you, you are that much more powerful.”

DĂ©sir, Rodriguez, and Murphy agree that while the industry has made some progress, there is deeper work to be done to create an industry truly built on equity. Many feel that the running industry’s short attention span often tokenizes or takes advantage of WOC and that the affinity space created by this event can help radically re-conceptualize what a truly equitable running community might look like.

“This event is for us, by us. This is not an event where there will be a single conversation that centers us and everyone pats themselves on the back. Everything—from the music choices, to the topics of conversation, to the food—will celebrate us,” says DĂ©sir. “You will leave with not only tangible resources but the deep sense of knowing that we have your back.”

ZoĂ« Rom is the Editor in Chief of Trail Runner and Managing Editor of Women’s Running.Ìę

The post This Retreat Is Helping Support Women of Color in the Running Industry appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

career as a snowboard photo­grapher and cinematographer began when he was still a grom chasing powder with his friends in the Alps. After realizing that he wasn’t quite as rad as his buddies, many of whom would later turn pro, Tanon turned his attention to capturing their stoke instead. The Parisian has since spent over a decade on the slopes, perfecting the art of shooting action sports on traditional film. The medium presents challenges: he’s limited to ten images per roll, must focus manually, and can’t ascertain whether he’s nailed a shot until he’s back in the darkroom. Yet his work has a timeless quality that’s difficult to achieve with digital devices.

A few years ago, Tanon realized that snowboard media rarely showed female riders, despite an abundance of talented women. “There were no photographers who only shot female snowboarders, no magazines that ran portfolios of them, and way less funding available,” he says. Tanon decided to spend two years addressing the issue, riding alongside women at competitions and down backcountry lines in Europe, the U.S., Canada, and Scandinavia.

Photos from the project were compiled into the coffee-table book , which was published in the fall of 2021 and features hundreds of portraits, including the likes of Canadian professional freerider Robin Van Gyn and up-and-coming Icelandic park star . The images are accompanied by quotes and stories from the riders, printed alongside or etched directly onto the film negatives. The words depict the women with all the ferocity and grit you’d expect. For example, from Van Gyn: “Fear is the sign that lets me know I am crossing the boundary to something extraordinary, pushing the limits.”

The project opened Tanon’s eyes to the gender disparities in the sport. “Spending time with these women, I saw that representation is not something that’s going to get better naturally. It’s an everyday fight for equality.”

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Anyone who has regularly consumed running media over the last couple of years is undoubtedly familiar with the work of activist, advocate, and self-avowed “disruptor” . In addition to founding New York City club and the movement supporting women’s reproductive rights, and serving as co-chair of the , DĂ©sir has published her highly anticipated memoir, , which will be released Oct. 18. DĂ©sir sat down with Women’s Running to discuss the inspiration behind the book, how her personal running story is intertwined in it, and her hopes for the future of the sport with regard to inclusivity among people of all marginalized groups and genders.

Women’s Running: Congratulations on the release of Running While Black. I feel like I’ve known you and followed your story for such a long time, yet still learned so much about you as I read through it. Can you share how the book came to be? 

Alison Mariella DĂ©sir: I’ve always wanted to write a book and had made many previous attempts at writing manuscripts over the years. Many of them are very difficult for me to even look at now because they were focused on mental health and the period of depression I experienced, which I also discuss in this book. I was attempting to write all those manuscripts while I thought I was better, but I still was very much in a dark place. Once you start feeling better and start taking care of yourself, you can’t even believe that that was once who you were.Ìę

This particular book came about in 2020, after I had an op-ed published by șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű titled “Ahmaud Arbery and Whiteness in the Running World.” What was really unique and what made this book so important to me was having a Black son (Kouri, who was nearly 10 months old when I learned about Arbery’s murder) and then living through the COVID-19 pandemic. It wasn’t that police murders of Black men had necessarily increased, but we were in this moment where there was a lot less chatter happening and these murders and vigilante killings were more visible. Thinking about that and thinking about how my son will one day be a Black man compelled me to write this. I had to share that moving through space as a Black body is different from moving through space as a white body and that historically and presently, we have never had access to freedom of movement. I just had to tell that story because it also creates a possibility for change and a new world where my son could be free to run, and free to show up as his full self.

You share so much of your personal story in this book, which resonated with me as a peer to you both in age and as a fellow runner and a woman of color working in this industry. But obviously, this book isn’t just important for people like you and me to consume. Who would you say this book is for, and who do you hope to see choosing to read it?

There are two audiences for this book and they’re both big. I, for sure, hope that Black people and other people of color read this and say, “Finally, my experience is represented in a book.” The complete experience is the joy, but also the pain, the fear, and the “otherness.” 

But then what’s also important is white folks reading this book and recognizing that a world exists beyond their own, which is difficult in a world that’s rooted in white supremacy and that intentionally centers white people in every situation. It is by design that white people are unaware that Black people and people of color move through the world differently, despite the fact that it has been white people and white supremacy who created the laws and environment and maintained that. So I hope that for white people, it humanizes our experiences without shaming them, and while still offering them ways to take action to do better.

When you first announced that you were writing this book, it had the working title The Unbearable Whiteness of Running. I never thought about it until I took note of the change, but to me, Running While Black is 100% the perfect name for this book because it immediately speaks to and centers your experience, which is one that will resonate with a lot of runners from marginalized groups. How did you settle on the final title? 

With the original title, the book was more sort of a manifesto and in the category of anti-racist books, which are more instructional and intended solely for a white audience. It was my editor, who is a white woman, who said “What’s missing here is you.” That made me realize that what’s always been powerful for me in books is when you can go on a journey with the author when you can understand their worldview and what made them who they are, and then you get on board with their struggles and their way of seeing the world. However, that required me to be a lot more vulnerable than I had ever intended to be, and that’s where you get these stories from my childhood that build an understanding of who I am.

It almost feels like an honor to be able to have the title Running While Black because that is an experience that Black people and people of color (and white people, too) understand in some way. The name is provocative, and so it’ll get people interested in the book. The harder part was actually coming up with the subtitle, “Finding Freedom in a Sport That Wasn’t Built For Us,” because we wanted to make it clear and make sure that people understand using the word “us” also lets you know that this is Black-centered, that the “us” is me and my people. The whole title allowed me to reconcile the fact that running has brought me so much freedom and joy, but it was never intended with somebody like me in mind.Ìę

I’ve heard you comment about how one of the biggest challenges you expect in getting white people to read this book or even having these conversations in general, will be getting them to see that this isn’t about hating white people; it’s about hating white supremacy. Were you worried the original title might immediately make people defensive and opt not to pick up and read the book?

I think that because white people don’t learn this concept of white supremacy or whiteness, they’re not forced to think critically about their identity because they’re seen as a default. Therefore, something like that simple title is seen as an attack. While I wanted my title to be provocative and confrontational, I didn’t want people to bristle so much and feel so hateful for the title alone without getting into the meat of what I’m actually talking about. What I hope I do well through the book is take people on that journey of me asking the questions, “Do I hate white people? Or do I hate white supremacy? What does that mean, and what are the ways white supremacy and this concept of whiteness actually harm white people too?” I hope this will be a lightbulb moment for folks recognizing that we are all harmed in this system, obviously to different degrees, but it is in our own best interest for all of us to want to rethink how this society, and then on a more narrow level, how our running industry and community function.

I loved reading about how you started Harlem Run. You talked about how in the beginning, you stood alone on a New York City street corner for weeks before people finally started showing up. Most people would easily give up too soon because they would feel like their big idea was a failure. It’s easy to picture you as the resilient Alison I know now and assume that you were just that determined to make it happen. But I did read the book and I also know that you’re human and that did leave you feeling somewhat defeated. So what was it that motivated you to keep showing up?

I think it was just that finding long-distance running had been such a pivotal piece of my life. As you said, I think people see me now and it’s consistent with my life that I am bold and disruptive. But I was also coming from a place where I would stay in my house for weeks, with no reason to even leave the couch. Yes, I had just run this marathon and started to feel good about myself and had gone to counseling, but I was not this person who was taking all of these risks and feeling like certainly it’ll happen. But the fact that running had done so much for me, I just felt like it was my calling. I’m not a religious person, but perhaps someone who is would say that it was fate or some kind of divine message and I really just felt like I had to do this.Ìę

A part of my own mental health was also hinging on building this community because I had loved the running experience, but I hadn’t seen a lot of people like me. So I thought, if only I can create this space, then I can have the best of both worlds. I can have the thing that is keeping me alive, happy, and functional with people who look like me. So there was a lot at stake.Ìę

Seeing how Harlem Run started from you just wanting people like you to run with, to showing Black people the physical and emotional benefits of running, and eventually, being centered as a vehicle for inclusion and social change, how does it feel to see how much it’s grown and how much of an impact it’s had on the running community, now on a national level, over the years?

Yeah, talk about the unexpected, right? Harlem Run has very much followed my own personal growth in terms of recognizing, “Okay, first, I want to do this to bring other people into the sport like me.” Then recognizing, “Oh, the impact of seeing Black people running through a neighborhood of mostly Black people and how our community was not just our run community of people who show up, our community was this larger community of Harlem.” And then recognizing that the media were interested in this story because I am a Black woman leading this group that centers Black and Brown people, recognizing, “Oh, we are actually tapping into this narrative of who moves and who leads movements.” 

As my own development happened, Harlem Run sort of came with me. I think another critical piece of this is recognizing that there was this industry and that these messages weren’t just falling from the sky; that there is an industry that perpetuates and fuels these messages, whether it’s magazines, podcasts, retailers or brands saying, “Oh, there are people who are creating this, and sometimes we fit into the narrative that they want and sometimes we don’t.” But what if we were able to actually take control and be part of creating a new narrative? There’s so much I didn’t know was possible and I’m really proud of it. I love seeing the ways that other groups borrow from what we’re doing and find us to be an inspiration or a source of hope for their own communities.

In the book, you also talk about some of the challenges you faced in the beginning of getting Harlem Run off the ground, such as when male leaders and other run groups expected you to run your event plans by them before finalizing anything and making any decisions. Would you say experiences like that prepared you for some of the challenges you’ve faced as a woman of color leading the charge on inclusivity in the running industry?

Absolutely. I wish I could say that a lot has changed, but the New York City running community remains a very male-dominated space. You’d like to think that other Black and Brown men will be in support of Black women, but we know that patriarchy is also a strong force. That’s why in this book, I try to be sure that I’m talking through an intersectional lens. What I found was that, as a Black woman, I was coming up against patriarchy and these men were looking out for each other and their own interests, and they were fine having a Black woman or another woman of color being second in command, or the one who’s doing the logistical support. And this idea of the frontrunner, the front-show person being a Black or Brown man was really hard for me.

So that’s what I just started focusing on, on creating my own space. I realized collaboration is what I would’ve loved and I would’ve loved the support of these folks, but I’m just going to build something that authentically feels good to me. But this is, once again, where everything about our existence is political. The running community, of course, has the influence of white supremacy, of patriarchy. I was coming up against those same issues that I would when I go into rooms, and I’m also one of the only Black people and the only Black woman in a room in this male-dominated space, recognizing that I’ve been here before. This has always been my existence; it’s just a matter of context.

As someone who spent more than a decade working to qualify for Boston and who has actually never experienced the event in person, much of the chapter about your experience running the 2017 race was eye-opening and admittedly a little hard for me to read.

But at the same time, even before reading your book, I grappled with similar feelings when I was struggling with , and had moments when I had to ask myself “Why exactly is this goal so important to me?” I’ve realized in recent years that a lot of it did come from being a minority in these spaces and how the majority of runners who pursue a Boston qualifier and eventually make it to Boston don’t look like me.Ìę

Having people express overt skepticism when I’d share this goal fed into all kinds of feelings of imposter syndrome as I pursued it, which is what motivated me to share my training and goal – I don’t want to just send the message that we as runners of color deserve to be here on the starting line. I wanted to show everyone, white people and BIPOC runners alike, that we’re capable and deserving of pursuing and achieving these lofty goals, too. How have your feelings and relationship with events like the Boston Marathon shifted over the years?

I appreciate you sharing that. Whether it’s the Boston Marathon or the Abbott World Majors, I’m always sitting here just thinking critically, “Well, what is this goal about and what is the reason you’re pursuing it? What does this actually mean to you?” I’ve run some of them myself, and, yes, they’re amazing marathons. But the Abbott World Marathon Majors challenge was created, at least from my understanding, in order to create incentives around bringing people to these races and creating this hype, that completing the six of them was this monumental achievement.

Now, in my opinion, there are so many amazing races and marathons across the country that you could complete six of them and also feel that sense of accomplishment, right? So what is it about the World Marathon Majors? What is it about the Boston Marathon that you’re actually invested in and excited about? And when you start to think about that, if it’s just this idea that those particular six events mean something more than any other events, well, why? What is it that you’re chasing? And if the pinnacle of this sport that’s supposed to be for all people, is to get into this race that is extremely exclusive, whether you qualify or whether you fundraise sometimes $10,000, then there’s a real mismatch here in terms of what we’re saying running is about and what the pinnacle running experience is supposed to be or mean. And as you shared, there are obviously important reasons why people would see Boston or the Majors as meaningful for them. But I hope through what I say here in the book, whether you agree with me or not, you start to question why something is of value to you. And if the value comes from other people just saying, “Hey, this is valuable,” then maybe you should rethink it.

After that first, not-great experience running Boston, you returned last spring for the 2022 race, this time collaborating with , which is known to be Boston’s first Black- and Brown-led running club, in holding pre-race events and spectating the race. What was the experience this year like in comparison? Was it somewhat of a full-circle moment to be there in such a different capacity?

Yes; I think what I was able to experience this year was what the Boston Marathon could be like, if Black and Brown people were centered and given space to be ourselves. So I credit that to PIONEERS Run Crew and the , who have really taken back this idea that Boston is only for a certain type of people and brought in just joy and our culture and our spirit. Part of that is , which is an unsanctioned marathon that takes place the day before the Boston Marathon and takes you through towns in Boston, such as Jamaica Plain and Roxbury, that are mostly Black, mostly immigrant communities. This challenges the idea that the Boston Marathon is actually a Boston Marathon, since it starts in the small town of Hopkinton and goes through mostly white suburbs before finishing in Boston itself. And believe it or not, I later found out that the police were called because our cheer station at 26.True was too loud and disruptive. Isn’t it literally the point of a cheer station to be loud and disruptive? But this man in this small, white town felt the need to protect his “space.” This just emphasized the juxtaposition of the 26.True, like, “OK, that’s your version of the Boston Marathon. Well, we will show you the real Boston Marathon the day before.” This isn’t just something that is happening in Boston; it’s happening all over the country. My message in that really, is it’s important and we, as Black people, are creating our own stuff. And we will continue to do that whether you get on board or not.

Will you be back in Boston for part of your book tour this spring?

It’s not on the schedule right now; I have not been invited in any particular way. I would love to be there because Kara Goucher, Des Linden, and Lauren Fleshman also have books coming out before the race, and I think this is the most books being published by women in running ever. So, if I could put that into the universe, I would love to see all of us on a panel together, talking about our books, all of which are critical of the industry.

You recently about meeting a woman during one of your book tour stops who shared that she never knew our national parks were once segregated. Did you expect to hear comments like that and was that why you chose to include the timeline of key moments in both American Black history and running history even though this book is largely a memoir of your own experiences?

Yes, absolutely. This woman also had no knowledge that there was a point where Black people could not go to public pools, that they shut down rather than let Black people swim there. That wasn’t her history; that was her upbringing and her experience. But these were contemporary laws, and for many white folks, it is that intentional erasure and miseducation that leads people to just live in isolation of anybody else’s experience.

The people in power are the ones who create the narrative, the histories and the stories that we learn and it’s by design that white people don’t know their own history. Slavery is as much, if not more white history than it is Black history because white people designed and perpetuated the system. So contextualizing what this world actually looked like during this period of running and what our experience as Black people was, was essential to help white people and all people really understand. I’m not just saying I felt this way; I’m actually showing the conditions that create the environment such that I would feel a lack of belonging, when that’s not what I want to feel. This is the society and industry and community that I inherited.

And in the book you also talk about the initial meetings with the Running Industry Diversity Coalition, before it was officially launched with you as co-chair, and how those meetings were particularly tense, to put it mildly. But you’ve also talked about how you do your best to avoid goading white people into guilt and shame when it comes to carrying out RIDC’s mission, while also emphasizing that it’s important for white people to acknowledge the role they’ve played in marginalizing minority groups. What would you say are some other key components in keeping these conversations going and getting brands and industry leaders to take real action toward inclusivity and racial justice?

Something that I’ve become accustomed to doing is to show how I, as a Black woman, also have privilege, and that this is not something that is exclusive to white people. Often what happens when you talk to white people is that they say, “But I grew up in poverty,” or “I’m an immigrant,” Or “I’m a first-generation American and I’ve struggled, too.” But being white has never been a point of struggle for them.Ìę

I say this because I think it’s important to mirror and be instructional. And I say, “I’m a Black woman who is able-bodied. I’m a Black woman who is cisgender. I’m a Black woman who isn’t neurodivergent.” All of those things gave me privilege to be able to write this book, to be able to show up in spaces and move my body. And so I also have to be a disability activist, I have to be championing trans and non-binary folks. It’s not just white people; each of us has our role. I hope that helps people see “Oh, she doesn’t hate me. She’s talking about these systems that are set up to prioritize certain people and even she exists within it.” It’s really a call to action to get on board like, “Oh, you have only had this blissful experience while running. Guess what? I want that, too. Let’s work together.”

You’ve shared that you expect to get “hate mail” about some of the book’s chapters, but say that’s a good thing because it means people are talking. But do you typically engage with those people? How do you navigate figuring out where it can actually be productive, especially when you hear the same tired comments like, “Stick to running” and “keep politics out of running?”

Honestly, it depends on where I’m at and how I’m feeling. Sometimes a comment lands for me in a way that I feel like I’m in the right frame of mind where I can answer it and don’t feel personally attacked. Other times, it is exhausting and I will not engage. But people who have genuine questions like, “I’ve never seen the world that way. I can’t even understand. Can you explain it further?” Folks who come from a place of curiosity, I am interested in engaging with because we have to remain curious. That’s really the only way that we build empathy and then we can make change. I think I have a good feeling at this point in my life to see when there’s a genuine conversation, and when somebody just wants to incite a feeling or troll me, and that will be my guide.

You’ve also shouted out athletes like Alysia Montaño and Mirna Valerio for being unapologetically themselves in sharing their experiences and navigating the running world as Black athletes and how that has helped to validate your own experiences. Who are some other women in the running scene who you think are changing the game or have had a significant impact on your running journey?

, co-founder of (CSRD). The more I get to know her, the more I’m blown away by how honest, intentional and just brave she is. Also, , who is not somebody whose role is to talk about anti-racism. There should not be the expectation that every Black and Brown person is talking about racial equity. Does every Black and Brown person want equity? Of course. But our sole role on this Earth is not to talk about and try to deconstruct systems. For me, this is my passion and racial justice and equity is actually the work that I do. But India is a Black woman, this work isn’t what lights her up. She’s a coach who is the voice of a lot of races and does a lot of content focused on getting beginners into running, which is a beautiful thing. She is taking up space and showing her joyful, lived experience. Another one is , who served as one of the original leadership partners of RIDC and who I’ve heard say, “I’m not a runner-runner.” But she runs, she moves, and she is also somebody who’s always speaking unapologetically and has just done an incredible amount of good in the running industry.

You’ve talked openly about how, as a Black woman, you’ve always needed to be cognizant of your personal safety and just watch your back when you’re out for a run. The recent tragic murder of Eliza Fletcher re-bubbled up some of this discussion about how these cases usually don’t get as much attention when they involve women of color. You’ve been asked before if women’s safety concerns affect you differently as a Black person, which has made you see how even womanhood is typically reserved for white people. How would you like to see the running industry improve when it comes to prioritizing and centering our safety and truly making this sport open to all?

Damn, good question. I mean, the murder of Eliza Fletcher absolutely was tragic and traumatic, but what it also showed me is that representation does in fact matter. Because when it’s a white woman who’s murdered, other white women and other white people feel like that could be them, so it matters to them. But when it’s a Black person, when it’s a Black woman or Black man, the response is not the same because they don’t relate to that story. And that’s where the problem is, that there is a sense of humanity and a sense of womanness or a sense of being centered, that is coupled with whiteness. Obviously, I don’t want anyone to be murdered while doing anything. But I want the same outrage, I want the same outpouring of support and demand for resources to come when our lives are taken. It’s even been reported that several months earlier, reporting that she had been attacked by Fletcher’s killer, but her account was not taken seriously. The way our lives are valued is not the same, which is why we say “Black Lives Matter.”

You’re juggling so much now between writing and now promoting this book and everything else you’ve got going on in your career. The first thing you have listed in bios such as your LinkedIn headline is “disruptor,” which I think is awesome. Is that how you want to be known and remembered?

Yes, absolutely. I do a lot of things and that’s also just who I am. My nickname that my father gave me from a very young age, “Powdered Feet,” speaks to that. I think that it’s really led by my curiosity of saying, “Are we doing this just because things have always been done this way? Is there a better way of doing this? Are we doing this and leaving people out?” That doesn’t mean that I always have the answers or even the resources to address the system or the story or the place that I’ve disrupted. It is powerful when somebody says something that causes you to pause and rethink the way you do something, rethink why you do the thing that you do. That’s what I hope my legacy is.

You recently held your first for women of color in the running industry. What was your vision for the event? Do you plan to make it an annual tradition?

Yes; we will absolutely be doing it next year. We say this is for women, femme and non-binary folks of color, and we had all of those people attend. But there were probably over 65 women of color who were there. And I was just looking around, “I know there are more women of color in this industry, why aren’t they here?” The goal for the retreat was, on one hand, simply just to provide a space where these folks could feel seen. We wanted to affirm, “You are not the only. Look at how many of us there are.” We wanted to create networking opportunities, so that somebody who maybe is junior level could find mentorship and support that they may not have internally. Our goal for Year 2 is to be even more intentional with creating tracks for people who are entrepreneurs, as well as for people working for brands, retailers, and events. Our goal is to really shift the industry and ensure that more women, femme, and non-binary folks are in it and can see what it means to have a career in the industry.

How has your trajectory in your running journey and doing so much work in the industry impacted your identity as a runner? What have you learned about yourself both as a woman and as a runner?

As a runner, I’ve learned that I really don’t care about accolades. Medals don’t matter to me. Particular races don’t matter to me. And maybe that’s because I’ve been there, done that. That doesn’t mean that I won’t ever get excited about or train for a race. But running is just something that’s an important practice in my life and an important teacher in my life. And then as a human being, it’s taught me that you can really love something and also want to change it. Something can be transformational for you and still not be accessible for other people, and you can and should pursue that.Ìę

What other projects do you have going on in the coming months?

I have a PBS show that’s coming out in December that is very much about Black, Indigenous and People of Color who are reclaiming their space in the outdoors. Through that, I’ve been able to kayak, fly fish, hike and more. So when I think about running or movement, I think about it in terms of the places that I want to see and the communities that I want to connect with.

I’m also planning a retreat for BIPOC of all genders in Alaska next summer, which I am super excited about. I was presented with the opportunity to create this retreat with , where they handle all the logistics, and I provide the experience of going to places that probably were not on our radar, and also have conversations about belonging, safety, and joy while running incredible trails and learning about the Indigenous land that we’re running on. I’m really grateful that I can curate these types of trips that typically don’t have somebody like me leading them and I invite everyone to check it out.

Even though it’s still being fleshed out, you already have quite the book tour planned out going into 2023. What are you most looking forward to about it?

I am excited to be disruptive in new places, to say things that make people really grapple with and rethink what they thought they’ve known, whether about running or about history. I’ll be in communities where I won’t know most of the people who show up, which will be new for me. Some of these are spaces where I don’t imagine that conversations around racial equity are happening a lot. I’ll feel safe, since I’ll be with folks who I love, including Chris Lampen-Crowell and John Benedict, who are with RIDC and who have gone through some difficult conversations with me. Many of the stops will include a 5K run and a conversation, and people are welcome to join for either or both.

What do you hope readers, both white runners and runners of color, ultimately take away from this book when they finish reading it?

I hope they leave feeling empowered to run, take action, question their beliefs, and learn true stories, not just what is taught in history.Ìę

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.Ìę

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Like every other competitor in Thursday’s Ironman World Championship in Kailua-Kona, Hawaii, Chris Nikic had moments when he struggled mightily.

Completing a triathlon that includes a 2.4-mile swim, a 112-mile bike ride, and a 26.2-mile run is no easy task for anyone. It’s especially difficult when mid-afternoon temperatures top 90 degrees, the humidity is a muggy 85 percent, and it feels like you’re breathing through a straw. But Nikic is a unique kind of athlete, fueled by an enormous amount of determination, purpose, and the belief that anything is possible.

Late last night, after battling fatigue, dehydration, heat, wind, and moments of self-doubt, the special needs athlete from Florida became the first individual with Down syndrome to finish the 140.6-mile world championship race in Hawaii.

With help of his volunteer guide, Dan Grieb, Nikic completed the race in 16 hours, 31 minutes and 27 seconds, finishing to a cascade of cheering fans, many of whom returned to the finish line long after in 8:33:46. Sodaro made sure to be there, too, alongside Ironman legend Mark Allen, a six-time winner of the race, to experience the heart-warming, tear-inducing moment.

 

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When Nikic crossed the finish line, he jumped into the arms of Grieb, who was at his side the entire way. They were tethered together on the open-water swim, in the choppy water of the Pacific Ocean. They rode side-by-side on the hot and windy bike course from Kona out to the remote town of Hawi and back along the Queen Ka’ahumanu Highway. They jogged and walked stride-for-stride on the 26.2-mile out-and-back course, to the Natural Energy Laboratory and back, to the seaside finish, a stone’s throw from where it all began.

Amid the crowd’s roar and Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love” blaring on the sound system, Nikic marveled in the moment as he saw his finish time posed on a digital display board and then was greeted by his girlfriend Adrienne Bunn, his dad, Nik, and numerous other family members and supporters. All of this was an incredible way to celebrate his 23rd birthday, which Nikic did by not only finishing the grueling race, but by stunning the already weepy fans by presenting Bunn, a Special Olympics triathlete, with a promise ring.

A Heartful Highlight

It was an amazing finish to a challenging day that began at 6:27 a.m. local time and finished at 10:58 p.m. Given the harsh conditions, — 1:42 for the swim, 8:05 for the bike, and 6:29 for the run. He finished 2,265th place out of 2,314 competitors on the day, but at the finish line late Thursday night, he was No. 1 in everyone’s heart.

“This is something that changes perceptions for every parent worldwide with children with Down syndrome,” said longtime Ironman finish-line announcer, Mike Reilly. “Now they all know one thing for sure – anything is possible.”

Nikic’s resounding effort was one of the biggest highlights for the first Ironman World Championship, as it returned to Kona for the first time since 2019. The championship race was postponed in 2020 and again in 2021 because of COVID-19, and eventually the 2021 race was moved to St. George, Utah, last spring.

Other age-group highlights included 78-year-old Cherie Gruenfeld of Cathedral City, California, winning her 14th Ironman age-group world title in 16:20:07, and the 17:58 finish of Team James — 57-year-old Beth James, of Crested Butte, Colorado — who towed and pushed her 26-year-old daughter, Liza James, who suffered a traumatic brain injury in a 2004 car accident that rendered her nonverbal and unable to walk.

Because of so many backlogged qualifiers, the race was split into two days this year, with professional women and age-group women racing on Thursday, along with physically challenged athletes, hand-cycle competitors, and competitors from several men’s age-group divisions. The men’s pro race and the remainder of the men’s age-group divisions will compete on October 8.

“I Want To Open Doors.”

Although he had been involved in a lot of sports growing up, Nikic’s triathlon journey started four years ago with a much shorter triathlon at the Special Olympics event in Florida. When that went well, he and his dad focused on something bigger, something they knew could change his life. He knew that if he could do big things, maybe one day he would be able to fulfill his ultimate dream of living independently, getting married, and having a family of his own.

Nikic has parlayed his triathlon success into as a platform to show what is truly possible, a foray into motivational speaking as a means to help others with Down syndrome. He and Grieb both competed in the race wearing bright orange 1% Better shirts.

“I want to be an example for other people with Down syndrome. I want to open doors,” Nikic said previously. “And I want to raise awareness. Anyone who sees people with Down syndrome: don’t look away or walk away.

In 2020, at age 21, he became the first person with Down syndrome to finish an Ironman triathlon. For this accomplishment, Nikic was awarded the Jimmy V Award for Perseverance as part of the 2021 ESPY Awards.

After that race, he was invited to participate in the 45th Ironman World Championship in Hawaii. To prepare, Nikic had been training three to four hours a day, six days a week, including strength training and yoga. It’s not an easy thing to do for anyone, but especially for Nikic, who suffers from reduced muscle tension (muscular hypotonia).

But Nikic has been overcoming obstacles his entire life. Nikic was born with several birth defects that affected his heart function, hearing, and balance, requiring several serious surgeries. , Down syndrome is a condition in which a baby is born with an extra copy of a chromosome. That changes how an infant’s body and brain develop, which can cause both chronic mental and physical challenges for the individual.

At 5 months old, Nikic endured open-heart surgery. He was so weak and had such poor balance that he did not walk on his own until he was 4. To keep him from choking, his family fed him baby food until he was 6. When he finally learned to run, it took him months to discover how to swing his arms at his side, instead of holding them straight above his head. It was a long journey from a challenging boyhood to the Ironman World Championship, but Nikic has always been up to the challenge.

“The second Nikic gets in the water for the start of the race, people all over the world with intellectual disabilities have won and become part of the larger endurance community,”.

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On August 26 and 27, 1,046 teams finished the Hood to Coast relay race in Oregon, one of the most popular running relays in the world. The race starts at Mount Hood and goes west for 198 miles, finishing along the Pacific Ocean at Seaside.

One of these 1,046 teams featured 12 adaptive athletes: Several are amputees who run on prosthetic legs, one is blind, two have spinal cord injuries and race in push-rim wheelchairs, and others have different physical challenges. The 12 of them took turns covering the 198 miles from Mount Hood to the coast.

Each athlete’s road to Mount Hood—and to sports in the first place—is different. While growing up, some of them had no idea that becoming runners and endurance athletes could be an option for them, and they got the equipment and support they need to do so relatively recently. Others have been competing in sports since they were young kids. They include professional athletes, Paralympians, triathletes, and beginners to running, plus one guide and one prosthetist.

About 20,000 people participate in Hood to Coast, and about 1% of them are athletes with disabilities, estimates Dan Floyd, COO of the Hood to Coast Race Series. Athletes with disabilities who participate in the event often have teammates who don’t have disabilities. In some years, the race has one or two teams of blind athletes, but this team may be the first consisting completely of athletes with a mix of disabilities. Floyd says he’s unaware of any other team like them.

The team’s name is Forrest Stump, named after a that one member of the team, triathlete and amputee Nicole Ver Kuilen, founded with prosthetist Natalie Harold to advocate for amputees. Along with Ver Kuilen, includes Jamie Brown, Mary Kate Callahan, Scott Davidson, Ashley Eisenmenger, Lina Garada, Josh George, Mallorie Hoyos, Leah Kaplan, Dee Palagi, Patrick Pressgrove, and Travis Ricks, plus prosthetist Harold and guide Anna Griessler.

Most of these athletes were either born with their disability or acquired it as children or young adults. Some lacked the equipment they needed to play sports and be active as kids, because insurance companies typically don’t cover it—they deem it not medically necessary. For a kid whose leg has been amputated, for example, most insurance companies cover a walking leg but not one made for swimming, biking, or running.

These athletes know the physical and mental benefits of being active and participating in sports. So, in conjunction with their race, they partnered with the American Orthotic and Prosthetic Association, the National Association for the Advancement of Orthotics and Prosthetics, and the American Academy of Orthotists and Prosthetists to launch a campaign called “So Kids Can Move,” to get states to require insurance companies to cover recreational prostheses for kids.

In May, Maine enacted a law requiring insurance companies to cover prosthetic devices for kids’ recreational purposes, such as running, biking, and swimming. It’s the first state to do so, at the urging of amputee Jordan Simpson and Maine state Rep. Colleen Madigan. Now, the So Kids Can Move campaign is working to get similar legislation passed in Washington and Oregon and then expand to other states.

When Access Is Out of Reach

Nearly half of adults with disabilities get no aerobic physical activity, and adults with disabilities are three times more likely to have heart disease, stroke, diabetes, or cancer than adults without disabilities, according to the. So Kids Can Move wants to spread the message that people with disabilities deserve the right to exercise, but lack of insurance coverage for medically necessary assistive devices and care prevents equitable access to participation in physical activity.

The cost of adaptive equipment like prosthetic limbs and wheelchairs varies, especially because prosthetic limbs must be highly customized for and fitted to the individual. Ver Kuilen says that, as a below-the-knee amputee, her running prosthesis costs between $12,000 and $15,000. The Veterans Administration typically covers prostheses like running blades, but most health insurers do not. Most athletes with a running blade have funded it themselves or received a grant from a nonprofit like, which is how Ver Kuilen received her running blade.

For years, Ver Kuilen ran on a prosthesis made for walking, which broke frequently and caused her back pain.Ìę In 2017, she completed her own along the West Coast on her walking leg to raise awareness for amputee rights. Upon completing the triathlon, the Challenged Athletes Foundation gave her her first running blade at age 26.

Ver Kuilen lost her left leg below the knee to cancer at age 10, which made it hard to be the active kid she had been before that. “The confidence that came from having access to a running prosthesis has completely changed my trajectory as both an individual personally and professionally,” she says. She has since summited Cotopaxi, a volcano in Ecuador; become a Paratriathlon National Champion in 2019; and been named to the USA Paralympic Development Team in 2020.

Although nonprofits like the Challenged Athletes Foundation are essential in getting many people the devices and care they need to be active, people shouldn’t have to rely on nonprofits for that, Ver Kuilen says. And many people with disabilities don’t know these nonprofits exist, she says. “This is a system level issue, and it’s not something that nonprofits can just solve.”

Patrick Pressgrove agrees. He was born with a rare genetic disorder that affected the development of his legs and feet and resulted in a cleft lip and palate. “I had a lot of operations to help me walk. I couldn’t walk until I was six, and even then, my legs were malformed, so I could never really get around normally. And by the time I was 13, I had severe arthritis in both of my knees,” Pressgrove says. “So when I hit the age of 14, it was either continue like that or have elective amputations.” He decided to have his legs amputated above the knee to preserve his health and quality of life.

“I wasn’t even aware that running as an amputee was possible until I was in my mid-20s,” Pressgrove says. “If my family had known that insurance would have stepped in to help cover the costs, if not the full cost, they may have pursued that a lot sooner for me in my childhood.”

Pressgrove received his running prostheses from the Challenged Athletes Foundation in 2015 and ran his first race in 2016, after joining, a nonprofit that supports physically challenged people in endurance sports. Since then, he has run half-marathons, marathons, and a triathlon and has become a leader in the Houston running community. He founded Freaks Run Club in Houston, is now COO of Team Catapult, and has run the 200-mile Texas Independence Relay with teams of adaptive athletes.

Pressgrove ran Hood to Coast in 2021 and didn’t notice any athletes with visible disabilities. At their race this year, the team noticed two other adaptive athletes.

A common thread with many of these athletes is that sports boosted their confidence. Leah Kaplan was born in China with a congenital limb difference—she is missing her left arm below the elbow, and she was abandoned when she was two days old because of it. When she was a kid, her mother encouraged her to try swimming, and she loved it. But, she says, “I would hide my arm during some sporting events, just because other people were uncomfortable.”

She stopped hiding her arm and competed around the country in para swimming in high school, appreciating the community she found in other athletes with disabilities. More recently, Kaplan also started competing in triathlons, and this past summer, she received her first-ever prosthesis, which makes it easier for her to bike safely. “Sports have taught me how to embrace my own uniqueness,” she says. “And don’t quit until you’re proud of yourself.”

Making a Team for Hood to Coast

The idea to put together a team of adaptive athletes to participate in Hood to Coast originated with Ver Kuilen and Palagi, both lower-limb amputees, in 2019. “We wanted to assemble a team of people with all different types of disabilities, and showcase what it is that we can do when we have access to appropriate prosthetics, orthotics, and wheelchairs—and all the adaptive equipment that’s necessary specifically for physical activity,” Ver Kuilen says. They registered a team, but the 2020 race was canceled because of COVID-19, and then they deferred in 2021 because of the ongoing pandemic.

But 2022 was a go. So they started planning. An overnight relay that requires vans is a logistical challenge for any team, but Forrest Stump needed an extra van for their push-rim wheelchairs and bike guides, Ver Kuilen says. “You just add on another layer of complexity, figuring out which exchanges are accessible, which ones aren’t, how we’re going to coordinate handoffs and getting people their equipment.”

They pulled it off. “We essentially set a precedent for what was possible at that race, as far as people with disabilities or just the logistics around it, because it was a lot of work. And we showed that it can be done,” Pressgrove says. Their race might serve as an example for Hood to Coast officials and for future participants with disabilities to follow.

They also forged a bond among athletes with disparate experiences, supporting each other along the way. “I already knew I loved everyone in this community, and I knew what we were capable of,” Pressgrove says. “It was fun to watch people realize that about themselves.” When one of the athletes completed a leg of the race, it was his longest run ever, he says. “So that was really cool, to watch them realize what they’re capable of.”

Kaplan says she appreciates the camaraderie and the way the team motivated each other. “Being part of the team felt very empowering,” she says. “I just loved walking around with the team and kind of repping Forrest Stump. I feel like we’re kind of like our own Avengers team.”

Because the team included people with different levels of athleticism, their participation also shows “that these types of events aren’t just for Paralympic athletes—they’re for anybody with a disability that wants to be involved in an adventure that is Hood to Coast,” Ver Kuilen says.

Meeting Other Competitors

On the second day of the race, Pressgrove says, “All the teams kind of catch up to each other, so you run into a whole lot of people at all the handoffs, so the last four or five handoffs were just like a party every time you stop. It’s a really fun atmosphere.”

Many of the people the team encountered on the course were encouraging and supportive, and some asked about So Kids Can Move. The Forrest Stump team met some people whose family members have disabilities, so they made some connections with the nonprofits that they’re involved in and that might be able to help.

“Overall, it was an enormously positive and uplifting event,” Ver Kuilen says.

But not all their encounters were positive. On the course, some other competitors stared at the team, laughed, and yelled at three of the athletes. Someone called a wheelchair racer a cheater because she wasn’t running. Someone else yelled that they couldn’t believe they were being passed by a blind person.

“One guy I passed up in the middle of the night yelled out, ‘What the f—?’” Pressgrove says. “I don’t think he understood what he was looking at. We were running in a pitch black, and I ran past him pretty fast.”  “There were a number of comments that were made that made our team feel very ‘other’ and like we weren’t expected to be there,” Ver Kuilen says. “People just were so startled by our presence.”

These reactions from fellow athletes may show that they lack awareness about adaptive athletes. But they solidified the team’s determination to show up and try to ease the way for others. They have been through much bigger challenges than ignorant comments.

Athletes with disabilities are often told they’re inspiring, and some people said so to the Forrest Stump team. “We were like, ‘Oh, thank you. But you know, we’re doing the run just like you guys,’” Kaplan says. “I’ve been told I was inspiring for even ordering food at a restaurant.”

Pressgrove agrees. “It’s great to inspire people, but we’re not out there for that. We’re just trying to be a part of the same community,” he says. He appreciates when people share positive comments, but he hopes they take it further—by spreading awareness of So Kids Can Move, for example. “And the next time you come across someone that could benefit from any of these nonprofits, or just meeting another athlete that has a similar disability, hopefully take that moment and say, ‘Hey, I know someone I can connect you to.’”

Identifying and Removing Barriers

The Forrest Stump team praised the Hood to Coast staff for being accommodating and responsive when problems arose. But the team ran into some obstacles, including not having an ADA accessible porta potty or bathroom anywhere on the course, which one of the athletes needed. So she had to restrict her water intake. Also, the race ended on the beach in the sand, which was not accessible for some of the athletes. “So our team ended up having to leave Seaside early and just kind of had our own celebration party,” Ver Kuilen says.

Since the relay, Ver Kuilen has joined Hood to Coast’s Inclusion and Multicultural Engagement Advisory Committee, where she looks forward to representing the disability community and helping to make the race more diverse, equitable, and inclusive.

Floyd says that the Forrest Stump team pointed out some areas where the race can make improvements. “And we will definitely make changes. We invite it,” he says. Having Ver Kuilen on the committee gives her and the disability community “a voice within our event, which means she has a voice within the race industry,” he says.

“Our number-one message is to get the world to move,” Floyd says. “We want everybody to move, participate any way they can,” so he sees it as Hood to Coast’s responsibility to help show that adaptive athletes can participate. “We have to create an inclusive environment where people know that,” he says.

Ver Kuilen notes that more triathlons have been made accessible to paratriathletes. “There’s a checklist that race directors can go through to make sure that things are accessible,” she says. And some races are adding adaptive or para divisions. The was the first of any of the Abbott World Marathon Majors to include a competitive para athletics division for ambulatory para athletes, alongside its wheelchair division. Zachary Friedley created a trail run for adaptive athletes, as part of the Born to Run Ultra festival.

The Forrest Stump team is proud of what they accomplished—and the space they hope they created for more adaptive athletes to come after them.

“When I think of my journey as a person with a disability, I did not have this community or this camaraderie growing up. I really was the only person with a disability I ever knew,” Ver Kuilen says. “So being able to do this race alongside people who’ve had a similar life experience and trajectory, and just that community, is really special.”

Being in vans with people for 36 hours, while pushing yourself physically and supporting each other through challenges, is a special kind of experience. “You might not be family when you go in, but you are when you’re done,” Pressgrove says.

Supporting Adaptive Athletes

Learn more about the campaign ‘‘ from the National Association for the Advancement of Orthotics & Prosthetics in collaboration with Ver Kuilen’s organization. Their work focuses physical activity being a basic human right. They works aims to raise money and awareness to increase access to the medical equipment and care needed for adaptive athletes of all levels.

Other organizations are also doing their part to make the outdoors and sport more accessible. For example, Paradox Sports helps expand the adaptive community’s access to climbing and mountaineering by funding group trips, giving athlete grants, and training guides, gym staff, and veterans organizations in adaptive climbing practices.

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