Thomas Eller is on a mission to become the world’s first deaf-born person to complete all six of the World Marathon Majors prestigious races: Berlin, Boston, Chicago, London, New York, and Tokyo. When someone runs all six, they become a Six-Star Finisher.Ìę

Eller was born deaf into a supportive hearing family in Essen, Germany. His mother was protective, especially because she knew how difficult it would be for a deaf child to live in a hearing world. But Eller was particularly resilient, and went on to take speech therapy three times a week and learn to speak and sign in three languages.ÌęÌę

He was always an excellent runner, and in 2018, Eller’s friend Dr. Rafael Lochowslo convinced him to take on his first marathon, the Petra Desert Marathon in Petra, Jordan. Although he was hesitant to compete at first, Eller placed fourth overall, and hasn’t stopped running races since.ÌęÌę

A teacher at David-Ludwig Bloch School in Essen, a popular school for deaf people, Eller was motivated to become a Six-Star Finisher to show his students that deaf-born people can go out into the world and follow their dreams without fear. To this day, he hopes to build a bridge, through running, to connect the hearing and deaf community.Ìę

The Six-Star Stories episode takes us through Eller’s final days of training for the final Six-Star Finisher, the Tokyo Marathon. He was coached by Olympian Petra Kurkova, who is also deaf. Eller notes that he was lucky to find a coach like her, because team sports are often more popular in the deaf community compared to individual sports like running.Ìę

“They feel separated, so they protect themselves and stay in this circle,” he says in the documentary. “I left the circle to run marathons all over the world. I want to show the deaf community that it’s possible to make connections with the hearing community.”Ìę

When he arrived in Tokyo days before the marathon, Eller had a reunion with all the runner friends he’d met over the years. He was especially excited to see Kevin Hii, who Eller met while running the Berlin Marathon in 2019. The two share a close bond and would run the race side-by-side, becoming Six-Star Finishers together. Eller says that the special thing about Hii is that he doesn’t care about his disability.

“I was first and foremost impressed by his ability as an athlete before anything else,” Hii says. “For somebody who ran his first marathon close to four hours, to then improve by almost an hour, I thought, This is an exceptional athlete.”Ìę

People approached him at the start line to offer words of support and thank him for being an inspiration. During the race, he thought of his family, his students, and the people who supported him—it all came to a head when he crossed the finish line and broke down, becoming emotional over the idea that he had just made history.Ìę

“Hellen Keller once said, ‘Blindness separates people from things, but deafness separates people from people.’ I don’t think I agree with Helen Keller. I’m living proof that Helen Keller may be wrong.”Ìę

Watch on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Watch.

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When Cam Levins passed under the Tokyo Marathon finish line clock on March 5, the clock read 2:05:36.

Not only had he lowered his personal best by a minute and a half, but the time was a new Canadian record and, as he would discover in the post-race doping control room, the fastest time ever run by a North American—two seconds under Khalid Khannouchi’s 21-year-old mark and faster than Galen Rupp, Meb Keflezighi, or Ryan Hall on a record-eligible course.

Moreover, battling with the leaders into the last mile and winding up fifth in Tokyo’s World Marathon Major field also validated—for the second time in eight months—that he could legitimately call himself a world-class marathoner, something he had been working toward for the better part of a decade.

The first validation that Levins had turned a corner in his career came last July when he finished fourth in the world championships in Eugene, Oregon, with a then-Canadian record of 2:07:09. That performance was a real surprise to anyone who had witnessed his dreadful 71st place finish at the 2021 Olympics.

“Tokyo was an improvement over Eugene,” Levins said. “I was very close to the win, and I think that was probably my biggest takeaway. Being competitive until the very end in a very high profile marathon is a big step forward again.”

Levin’s road to these results wound through surgeries on two stress fractures and a heel spur, coaching changes, being dropped by his sponsor before the 2021 world championships, and a generous dose of self-doubt. Now he eyes the 2024 Paris Olympics.

Fast-Tracked to Oregon

Levins grew up in Black Creek, British Columbia, a small town on Vancouver Island. He mostly ran by himself, always heeding his mother’s warnings to avoid the forest trails when cougar and bear sightings were posted. A couple of third-place finishes in the B.C. high school championship cross country attracted a scholarship offer from Southern Utah University (SUU).

Under coach Eric Houle’s tutelage, he piled on the mileage, sometimes running three times a day and regularly exceeding 160 miles a week. The altitude of Cedar City, Utah, also agreed with him, and he went on to complete his collegiate career, winning both the 5,000m and 10,000m at the 2012 NCAA championships. That achievement earned him the acclaimed Bowerman Award as the NCAA’s top male track athlete of the year.

In the spring of 2013, Levins received an invitation to join the prestigious Nike Oregon Project (NOP) in Portland, under coach Alberto Salazar. Nike supported this select group with money and science; it was a dream come true. But Levins knew he would miss the close relationship he’d had with coach Houle at SUU, who advised him on both running and personal matters.

“They come in as young people; they leave almost as partners,” Houle says of student runners at SUU like Levins. “It is sometimes tough to let go but, that being said, when you have that kind of relationship you can really talk about anything.”

Training with Britain’s Mo Farah, already a double Olympic champion (5,000m/10,000m), and Galen Rupp (2012 Olympic 10,000m silver medalist) appealed to Levins, but it was his wife’s career that ultimately proved the catalyst for his move to Portland, when she got accepted into pharmacy school at Pacific University. “Honestly, if she hadn’t managed to get into pharmacy school, it probably wouldn’t have worked out with the NOP,” Levins says.

Once on the team in Oregon, Salazar reduced Levins’s training volume and increased the intensity. Improvements came quickly, with personal bests at 1,500m (3:36:88), 5,000m (13:15:19), and 10,000m (27:07:15).

But all was not rosy. Whereas Houle invited input when planning training sessions, Salazar was more dictatorial, and Levins found some of his methods extraordinary. Occasionally, the NOP athletes would follow a race with an intense workout. Sometimes they’d wear “sauna suits”Ìę for easy runs to mimic humidity. And at the 2013 World Championships in Moscow, Levins showed up with his head completely shaved because Salazar told him it would help him deal with humidity better. It didn’t. He finished 14th in the 10,000m.

Two years later, he ran a Canadian 10,000m record (27:07:15), while finishing behind his NOP teammates Farah and Rupp at the 2015 Prefontaine Classic. That ranked him fourth fastest in the world ahead of the world championships, but he failed to deliver in Beijing, finishing 14th in the 10,000m once again. Doubts surfaced—about himself, and his place in the program.

“There’s a lot of experience to gain by training with guys like Galen and Mo. Obviously, they were a couple of the best athletes in the world at that time,” Levins says. “I had some success here and there. But at this point it’s not something I look back as a super positive point in my career. Obviously there was some improvement, but I was not particularly happy at that time. I was not much of a priority to the coaches there.”

His time with the NOP ended with surgery and, he says, “Some neglect leading to that point.” If he draws satisfaction that his marathon personal best is now faster than Galen Rupp’s, and just 22 seconds slower than Farah’s British record, he won’t show it. “I think it’s a good contrast to what I have now,” Levins says. “I am in a much more positive situation. For me it is all water under the bridge at this point.”

In 2017, after four years with NOP, Levins sought Eric Houle’s guidance again. A year later, Levins beat the 43-year–old Canadian record in his marathon debut, running 2:09:25 at the 2018 Toronto Waterfront Marathon, and Houle was at the finish line alongside Lizzy and Levins’s parents. The prize money included a $32,500 Canadian record bonus which Levins used for a down payment on their Portland house.

Then came some lean years. Three attempts at the Olympic qualifying standard saw him squeak onto the Canadian team for Tokyo, but then came that devastating 71st-place finish, a debacle most likely due to it being his fourth marathon in ten months. Fatigue, both emotional and physical, took its toll.

Distraught, he considered retirement. “After the Olympic cycle, it’s a reasonable thought to have,” he concedes. “It’s like ‘do I want to keep doing this or not?’ I felt I had more. But I’d certainly been struggling.”

New Coach, New Approach

After talking things over with family, he decided he had fallen short of his potential and wanted to keep moving forward. Last November, he signed a contract with Asics, while training under a new coach, fellow Canadian Jim Finlayson. The partnership appears to be working well.

“Jim has been exactly what I want in a coach,” Levins says. “I am not afraid to give him feedback. I am very good at buying into a training program, but having someone who respects my opinion as well is also very important. I haven’t always had that.”

Finlayson, who represented Canada at three world cross country championships, took on Levins at a very low point, but quickly established trust. He soon realized what Coach Houle had also discovered—Levins is a sensitive and introverted person. “Cam puts a lot of emotion into running, so when the races don’t go well it’s a pretty big knock to him,” says Finlayson. “But there doesn’t ever seem to be any doubt that he is going to keep pursuing the results he is capable of.”

Levins has set up a treadmill inside an altitude tent at his house in Portland. In addition to running on roads and trails around Portland, he also puts in between 70 and 80 minutes daily at altitude on that treadmill. By his reckoning, he can get in more than 170 miles a week during a marathon buildup. He also sleeps in an altitude canopy, which covers just the top half of his body.

“I am able to get in some pretty fast workouts and, getting the altitude component in, I don’t feel the need to go to an altitude training camp,” he says. “Honestly, I have always felt more comfortable just being home training anyway.”

His Tokyo performance went a long way toward erasing self-doubt, and he now looks forward to another Olympics, where a medal might be a tangible goal. Levins has already worn the Canadian vest for two Olympics—he finished eleventh in the 2012 London Games 10,000m in addition to his unfortunate Tokyo Games.

His 2:05 is well under the automatic qualifying mark (2:08:10) for the 2024 Olympic Games in Paris, removing that stress from his buildup. “I have more or less taken care of my qualifying for the Paris Olympics,” he says. “I have never really done that early in any other qualifying window. That’s a very big relief.”

Levins will be 35 at the time of the Paris Olympics, a year younger than Eliud Kipchoge was when he claimed his second Olympic marathon title in 2021. Finlayson says that every decision the pair now makes is designed to have the best possible result in Paris. Next up for Levins is the Canadian 10K championships on May 27.

“I have at least a couple of Olympics in me,” Levins declares. “I feel that I will be finished when I am ready to finish and don’t want to do this anymore. I have no idea when that will be.”

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Note: this article includes discussion of eating disorders and eating disorder recovery. To seek help for yourself or a loved one, please reach out to the ÌęÌę

The video opens with Allie Ostrander, clad in a cutoff t-shirt and hyperventilating. It’s June of 2021 and Ostrander has a message for her fans. The words are delicate, though, and fear is palpable. She pauses, breathes deeply, and begins to speak.

“Yesterday marked five weeks, for me, of intensive eating disorder treatment,” says the professional track runner and three-time NCAA steeplechase champion. At the time, she is in a partial-hospitalization program, and “eating disorder” is a diagnosis she has never shared publicly before. But her silence is about to end: the YouTube video will eventually amass 93,000 views.

Nearly two years later, 26-year-old Ostrander continues to take fans along for the ups and downs of recovery. Her outspokenness trickles into her professional career, as she recently signed a new sponsorship contract with , a company that supports her mental health advocacy in addition to her racing career. Her openness introduces an important question for athletes, coaches, and anyone involved in the sport of running: what role does transparency play when it comes to eating disorder treatment and prevention?

Eating Disorders and Runners: The Facts

Eating disorders are common in endurance sports. suggest that up to 47 percent of elite runners may suffer from clinical eating disorders. Far from “fad diets” or “phases,” eating disorders are serious, life-threatening mental and physical illnesses. Though research is evolving, the best available evidence shows that they stem from a complex overlay of social and psychological What we do know for sure is that eating disorders do not discriminate. They affect people of all genders, races, ethnicities, ages, religions, sexual orientations, body shapes and weights. The earlier an athlete (or anyone) seeks treatment, the greater their likelihood for recovery. And treatment can be dire: eating disorders rank second, only to opioid addictions, as the mental health condition with the highest mortality rates.

Over the years, various professional runners—such as Mary Cain, Molly Seidel, and Amelia Boone—have shared their stories and raised awareness. Mary Cain’s 2019 launched somewhat of a #MeToo Movement for sports—athletes sharing their experiences, not only with eating disorders, but also with coaches and programs that cultivate unhealthy behaviors. Still, in a sport ripe with disorder, Ostrander’s decision was unique: she shared her story in the early throes of treatment.

“I was feeling pretty alone,” Ostrander reflects. “I had heard stories of people who had gone through recovery and come out the other side stronger. But I hadn’t heard anything about the middle-of-the-road details—where things got hard, where they struggled. All I had heard of was the rainbows on the other side.” Of course, Ostrander clarifies, recovery is individual, and she would never fault an athlete who chooses not to share.

Kylee Van Horn, a sports-oriented registered dietitian nutritionistÌę (RDN) and founder of FlyNutrition, who specializes in working with athletes in eating disorders and low-energy availability recovery, believes transparency can serve a positive role in recovery.

“Everyone’s eating disorder journey is personal and unique,” she says. “Some may find it triggering [to share] or get caught up in the comparison trap,” which may impede recovery. Overall, athletes must ask themselves: is sharing now supportive of my recovery? If the answer is yes, the outcome is almost always positive—for the athlete, and for their fans.

Paula Quatromoni, DSc, RD, an associate professor of nutrition at Boston University, agrees.

“Those who share their stories often say that it helps them stay motivated for recovery,” explains Quatromoni, who is also the chair of the Health Sciences Department at Boston University. “This transparency saves lives when it educates and builds awareness
It allows some to recognize their own behaviors as problematic and leads them to seek help.” However, seeking help is only the beginning.

A Long Process

Runners often speak of eating disorder recovery like they speak of race day. For both, we assume a clear start and finish. As fans, we know a common story: a young athlete struggles with various injuries. Perhaps they drop away from competition for a bit—maybe months, maybe years. When, or if, they return, the athlete shares that they underwent eating disorder treatment. Just like in a race, we think, finished, done. As runners, we know mile markers. We know race distances and water stops. We plan to dress for rain, for snow, or for sun. Though eating disorder recovery involves none of that—there are no neatly measured courses or clear finish lines.

“It’s such a strange misconception,” reflects Ostrander. “That if someone goes to treatment, that means they’re recovered. Or, if someone’s body changes, that means they’re recovered. But it’s one of the more difficult mental illnesses to recover from.”

Difficult, indeed.

According to the , 60 percent of individuals who undergo professional eating disorder treatment will make full recoveries. In other words, 40 percent don’t recover, or don’t fully recover. And this statistic does not account for the folks who never receive professional help.

Furthermore, eating disorder professionals disagree on what “recovered” even looks like, and whether to use that term. “People don’t usually say ‘I am recovered from an eating disorder.’ They say ‘I am in recovery’ because it is a perpetual state that people move in and out of,” Quatromoni told . “They continue to deal with it pretty much the rest of their life, but they’ve learned how to manage the thoughts and manage the impulses.”

Regardless of the term you use, reaching a healthy state is possible. It requires work. It requires time. But after all the work and time—after all the ups, downs, wrong turns, and curving roads—the person each athlete is meant to be awaits. And that person is always worth it.

Plus, the alternative to recovery is far too dangerous. Eating disorders overlap with (RED-S), a condition characterized by insufficient input to match output energy, missed periods, and recurrent bone injuries. The potential impact of RED-S includes decreased metabolic capacity, dangerously low heart rate and blood pressure, long-term heart damage, GI disorders, poor immunity, worsened mental health, and a heightened risk for suicide. To decrease such outcomes and encourage runners to stick with recovery, we must set clear expectations about the process.

Enter athletes like Ostrander.

In lieu of the road race, she suggests another metaphor for recovery: “They say it takes half the time of a relationship to get over that person,” she explains. “Well, an eating disorder is like a really abusive relationship. If you’re in an eating disorder for 12 years, like a lot of people are, like I was, you can expect full recovery to take five or six years, or more.”

Here lies another rarity of Ostrander’s story: she continues to bring fans along for the journey, even though she never treats recovery as the central facet of her personality. In her college days, Ostrander gained a following not only for her talent and work ethic, but also for her humor. In 2019, after winning her third NCAA steeplechase title, she told an ESPN reporter about the brutal race conditions: “I’m so hot right now. And not like in the attractive way. I feel like I’m really low on the scale in that department.”

Now, on Ostrander’s social media, she intermixes mental health content with zany reels and photo dumps. She speaks of challenging herself with foods she previously feared, like ice cream, and competing at the U.S. Olympic Trials in 2021 during the early days of recovery. She adopts a miniature dachshund, Georgie, and invites fans along for the car ride to get him. She completes a three-mile uphill time trial and brings fans into the pain cave, too. She dances, laughs, and competes in arm-wrestling matches with her partner (“It’s like I’m on iCarly and someone keeps hitting the ‘random dancing’ button,” she writes). Here lies that specific brand of vivacity and quirk that fans have come to expect of Ostrander. Only now, it’s interspersed with mental health advocacy.

An Inaccessible Process

Importantly, Ostrander’s recovery story is just that: her story. To truly treat eating disorders with the attention and transparency they deserve, we must be clear about their breadth. Contrary to the common eating disorder narrative—that they affect small-bodied, white women—these illnesses can affect anyone. And the expectation that athletes with eating disorders “look a certain way,” only harms those who don’t fit the stereotype.

“Many people in certain demographic groups—persons of non-female gender, people of color, people in bodies that don’t appear thin or ‘sick enough,’ those in the LGBTQ+ community—are missed or invalidated,” explains Quatromoni. All athletes face impediments to eating disorder care. Many athletes don’t recognize their own behaviors as disordered, but rather consider them signs of dedication. Further, much shame surrounds mental illnesses, and many coaches and athletic programs overlook, even promote, disordered eating. For athletes of the demographics listed by Quatromoni, these barriers are compounded by bias.

In the future, Quatromoni hopes eating disorder screenings will become the norm in athletic programs. With such tools, eating disorders could be detected in an equitable, unbiased way. Even so, access barriers would remain. Currently, few health professionals are trained in eating disorder care, and eating disorder treatment remains unaffordable and not well reimbursed. “Simply put, ‘accessible to all’ feels like an unattainable goal right now,” says Quatromoni. “Because access to care is insufficient, inequitable, extremely costly, and challenged by discriminatory practices.”

Is There Hope?

Take the statistics on the prevalence of eating disorders in runners, and the prospects for recovery. Add up the widespread health consequences of RED-S, and the barriers to detection and treatment. It’s hard to not feel dejected about the state of eating disorder recovery for runners. But one should not despair completely.

Recent years have brought an influx of media attention to the topic of eating disorders and athletes. Lauren Fleshman’s a dual memoir and reckoning on the harmful systems that impact women runners, reached the New York Times bestseller list in early 2023. Research into eating disorders and RED-S has also increased in recent years. Notably, the Stanford FASTR (Female Athlete Science and Translational Research) Program, launched in 2022, aims to close the gender gap in sports science research, empowering women to learn about their bodies and grow into lifelong athletes. Furthermore, an organization called is working to break down systemic, healthcare, and financial barriers to eating disorder treatment.

For Ostrander, progress came in the form of a contract and a sleek collection of trail running apparel. This February, she signed with her new sponsor, . When , the brand identified her as a “content creator, mental health advocate, and world-class athlete.”

“I’ve spent the past two years building an identity for myself that isn’t athletics-centered,” she says. “I wanted a brand that supported me in that.”

Far beyond writing a pithy tagline, NNormal will support a mental health project of Ostrander’s choice—an agreement that’s built into her contract. NNormal joins a growing list of outdoor footwear and apparel brands placing a premium on athletes’ social impacts and personal wellbeing. At least on paper (and often in practice) these companies challenge the win-at-all-costs, performance-or-bust ethos of more traditional contracts with an intent of partnering with individuals who are more than just athletes.

Creating a sporting environment where eating disorders are rare, and recovery is accessible, may seem like an infeasible goal. Though certain realms of research, media, nonprofit and for-profit work provide some assurance. Perhaps most encouraging of all are the individual athletes sharing their stories and pushing for a better culture. At the end of her , a teary Ostrander says, “I do not want the next generation to feel the way that I feel.” As she and other runners continue to share the realities of eating disorder recovery, we move closer to granting that wish.

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If you’ve spent time on social media the past couple of years, it’s likely you’ve come across . The 28-year-old crafts her pieces with upcycled clothing and gear from recognizable outdoor brands and household items: she’s transformed Carhartt beanies into shorts, Patagonia fleeces into a beach set, an Arc’teryx jacket into a bikini, and reused CamelBak water reservoirs to make a jacket and bucket hat, among a long list of other really cool shit—like pickle jar shoe.

While are often functional (the CamelBak jacket held water), they aren’t meant for use in the real world; she says the goal is to get people to see just how reusable existing materials can be and start a conversation around sustainability. After she photographs each one-off piece for the ‘gram, she deconstructs it so the materials can be used in future projects. McLaughlin has used the same volleyball material in a shoe, chair cushioning, a glove, and a handbag commissioned for Gucci. “It’s lived so many lives,” she says, and it’s currently in her materials library, waiting to live yet another life. “I’m always trying to use everything I have, every scrap of every project.”

McLaughlin’s work stands out because she knows how to create visual impact, a skill she honed while working at Reebok, first as an intern, then a full-time graphic designer. “That’s kind of where everything started to kick off in terms of my personal work,” she recalls of her time creating footwear and apparel graphics. “I think I had that childhood sense of wonder where I wanted to just work with my hands and create something tangible.” She began sifting through boxes of old merchandise and started to take things apart and put them back together in different ways. She immediately recognized she’d hit a vein. “This is something so special,” she remembers thinking. “There was just so much more life left to these products.”

 

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She made the transition to being a full-time freelance creative in 2019, and she’s since amassed nearly 800,000 followers on Instagram and collaborated with the world’s biggest outdoor and fashion brands including Arc’teryx, Rumpl, and Hermùs. With profiles in and , the fashion audience has always been drawn to her work, “but my intention was always very much rooted in sport. I think the visual language is so strong,” she says. “I love outdoor gear. It’s the utility aspect. There’s so much going on with a lot of the pieces, and for me, it’s a bit nostalgic.”

Outdoor sport has always been a big part of her life, but in recent years, climbing has become a big passion of McLaughlin’s, as evident in many of her designs. She began to hit up the climbing gym during her Rebook days in Boston and has since transitioned to outdoor climbing and bouldering. In May, she moved to Boulder, Colorado for easy access to the outdoors, but will still keep her Brooklyn design studio. Other than her personal work, climbing is about the only other thing you’ll find posted on her social media. “I think I gravitated towards it [because] it’s a very problem-solving type of experience where you’re plotting your next moves, and you really have to work things out.” She even has a built-in rock climbing wall in the studio. “It’s a nice mental reset during the day. Sometimes I’ll get on and do a couple of climbs or do some pull-ups, and it feels good to get my brain moving.”

Like many artists, she finds inspiration everywhere; walking the streets of New York, perusing thrift shops, and through outdoor activities. At a recent community cleanup, a found piece of trashed packaging inspired a new project. “It’s right there in front of us. It’s turning that part of your brain on to be able to recognize it.”

Because her pieces are rooted in the notion of potential, there’s an apparent optimism to her work, but there’s a satirical element, too. She plays off brand reputation by putting logos front and center and incorporates universally recognized items like Jansport backpacks and The North Face puffy jackets as a playful, yet pointed, nod to capitalist consumption. “If it didn’t have the brand logo, it probably wouldn’t get as much attention. For better or for worse, our consumerism habits really do come out.” You can’t help but chuckle at a thong made from Dickies workwear that actually holds tools. “I find the humor in all of this and I think that’s what gets people involved,” says McLaughlin. “It’s a way to connect people and talk about sustainability in a more approachable way. Hopefully, they’ll come for the designs and stay for the conversation around upcycling.”

One of her most important partnerships to date is with Arc’teryx, as their . “Arc’teryx has been a great support for me when it comes to material, [and] it’s really been an opportunity to help with education,” she says. McLaughlin leads workshops teaching people how to make upcycled products of their own through the partnership, and she credits the brand for facilitating a place for connection. “Connecting people, connecting the outdoors to it, is important. The more people get outside, the more they want to protect the world and the nature around them.”

On choosing what outdoor brands she partners with, “it’s all about a connection that I have,” says McLaughlin. “It is very interesting for me to take on a project where I see potential within sustainability and upcycling.” Many of her closest partnerships involve brands actively achieving their sustainability goals, but she won’t turn away a company if she sees an opportunity to move the needle. “It makes me want to push to figure out we could be doing better, and trying to implement a circular model into a company has been a huge goal of mine.” She wants brands to see the potential of the materials they already have lying around and help them create blueprints they can work with.

She hopes her work inspires others to see the value in the things they do have and to give upcycling a shot. “There’s something about taking a secondhand piece of clothing, an item from a thrift store, or something from your closet that you’re ready to throw away or donate, and use that to try to make something,” she concludes. “[The] possibilities are endless.”

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Brendan Leonard’s new book, Bears Don’t Care About Your Problems: More Funny Shit in the Woods fromÌę, isÌę.

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In , from filmmaker , legendary Death Valley, California,Ìęcanyoneer Scott Swaney reflects on a career of self-taught outdoor skills andÌęmore than a few close calls.

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It’s standard practice when writing about people with disabilities to use person-first language: “a person with a disability” is preferable to “a disabled person.” Proponents argue that it prioritizes the subject’s humanity over their condition.Ìę

disagrees.

“It inherently implies that being a person means being able-bodied, or we wouldn’t need the additional descriptor,” Nagakyrie explains. “People don’t use the term ‘person with abilities’ to describe able-bodied people.” The 37-year-old disability advocate, who uses the pronouns they or them, refers to themself as a disabled person.Ìę

Nagakyrie is the nature lover behind , a website that publishes free online trail guides tailored for the disabled community. A freelance writer and community organizer of 15 years, Nagakyrie has long, loosely curled brown hair and a gentle demeanor. As a child, they were diagnosed with Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, a relatively rare connective-tissue disorder that causes frequent joint dislocations and chronic pain. They’ve dislocated almost every major joint in their body—manyÌęmore than once. Nagakyrie also has postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome, a condition that causes dizziness and fatigue when standing up from a reclining position, among other symptoms. Combined, these things make attempting the average trail feel like “one long trip of pain and frustration, second-guessing myself and my abilities,” they say.Ìę

Nagakyrie has found solace in nature since they were a child, observing flora and fauna in their family’s yard, but it wasn’t until their teens or early twenties that they really started exploring what their body could and couldn’t do in the outdoors. But there was a lack of infrastructure for the disabled community. “Being on a trail meant for able-bodied people reminds me that my experience is of less importance,” says Nagakyrie.

There are lots of straightforward worries—How exposed is the trail? What’s the grade? Are there any crossings? How slick are they? Is there cell service in case of an accident? And then there are the complex emotions that come with the territory. “Sometimes I’m afraid of getting stuck: reaching a place in the trail where I won’t be able to continue forwardÌębut turning around would be equally difficult,” says Nagakyrie, who experiences anxiety and depression as well. “I often berate myself, wondering why I can’t do this when people are passing by me with no problem.”

Nagakyrie, who is mostly able to walk unaided but sometimes uses a sleek green cane (or more rarely a wheelchair), has long been vexed by the lack of nuanced information available about trails. Physically and mentally disabled people, as well as those with chronic illnesses—people who arguably need nature even more than the able-bodied community—are precluded from outdoor recreation because they don’t know what to expect. Hours of research before hitting the trail still often doesn’t solve the problem. “Short of a trail saying it’s ADA accessible and paved, that’s the only accessibility information that’s out there for trails,” says Nagakyrie. “A,Ìęit’s not always true. B,Ìęit’s not always accurate or helpful for people.”Ìę

Even so-called accessibleÌętrails present physical challenges that the able-bodied might never consider, such as bumpy boardwalks, inaccessible parking areas, and visual barriers at sitting height (let alone the dearth of signage and interpretive programs for people with visual, aural, and other impairments). Things that are ostensibly trivial to the able-bodied, such as the size of gravel bits, can be a determining factor forÌęa trail’sÌęaccessibility with a wheelchair or rolling walker—but good luck finding that information ahead of time.

In Nagakyrie’s opinion, few parks excel at being truly accessible for the —that’s more than one in ten—who have disabilities. “Most parks and organizations that I speak with are open to hearing about changes that need to be made and are working on possible solutions, but change is very slow,” Nagakyrie says. Compared with the costs of constructing new facilities, merely providing detailed information about existing trails, campgrounds, park buildings, and other recreation sites would be a relatively quick way to start getting more disabled people outside. But even that’s rare.

In early 2018, Nagakyrie’s frustrations came to a head. A supposedly easy trail on the Olympic Peninsula, near their home in Forks, Washington, started out with steep stairs and a narrow path along a scree-filled drop-off edge, then branched off with no markers. Nagakyrie and their dog, Ranger, an elderly beagle–Jack Russell mix, eventually made it to a waterfall. Exhausted, Nagakyrie leaned on a bridge railing, observing the early-spring flow. “It was a light-filled moment where I said, ‘Why don’t I do something about this?’”

Disabled Hikers was born shortly thereafter with three goals: organizing group hikes, celebrating disabled people’s experiences in the wild, and facilitating those experiences by making specific information readily available. The organizationÌęmakesÌędetailed , of which there are currently 11Ìęwritten by Nagakyrie about destinations in the Pacific Northwest. The guides are intended for disabled people, but can also be useful forÌęa range ofÌępeople, like friends and family of disabled people, parents of young children, elderly people, and those with temporary injuries (although Nagakyrie notes that the experience of being injured temporarily is very different from that of the permanently disabled).Ìę

Nagakyrie also thinks broadlyÌęabout trail use when putting together guides. “I define a hikeÌęas anything that you’re doing outside—any form of movement—whether that’s moving in a chair, or walking, or biking,” they say. To approximate the difficulty of hikes, Nagakyrie uses theÌę, a rating system that accounts for the limited energy reserves that disabled people have to ration. The guides weigh potential hurdles versus the regenerative potential of an outing; a beautiful vista, for example, could be worth the exertion, even if it means you have to spend the next day or two recuperating in bed. “I can’t decide for someone how difficult the trail will be for them,” Nagakyrie says. “Only they can do that. That’s why I try to provide as much information as I do.”

At present, Nagakyrie is the sole person working on the back end of the site. They from those in the disabled community as well as behind-the-scenes help from peopleÌęwho aren’t disabled. The website’s blog component, Tales from the Trails, is the foundation for a more sophisticated community forum that Nagakyrie would like to build out. It currently features post, about an accessible cabin in Wisconsin’s Blue Mound State Park, written by a couple from the state.Ìę

Although the website is somewhat limited—Nagakyrie maintains the site for free, but we’ll get to that later—Nagakyrie has plans for more diverse offerings. They hope to expand the trail-guide library to a national scale and create PDF guides to distribute to other organizations. They’re chipping away at a proposal for a guidebook, as well as curating all the online research that’s already available from other websites into a sort of e-book, to make researching trails easier. On the ground, they give presentations and work with local groups, like the Washington Trails Association, and Olympic National Park to enact change. This summer, for example, Nagakryie convinced the National Park Service to widenÌęthe pedestrian entrance toÌęOlympic Hot Springs Road, which will allow people who use wheeled mobility devices to access the area. Nagakyrie is also developing an ambassador program, which would train chronically ill and disabled folks from throughout the U.S. to lead hikes, write guides, and do advocacy work in their own communities.Ìę

Nonprofits like , which creates partnership opportunities to help disabled people get outside, andÌęadaptive groups, such as ÌęČčČÔ»ćÌę,Ìęalready exist around the country, but they’re predicated on able-bodied people assisting the disabled. Disabled Hikers is—in addition to being a disabled-led organization—a resource that helps disabled people get outside independently.

On the Olympic Peninsula, Nagakyrie coordinates group outings and leads private hikes on a donation basis, a service that’s less rare but equally valuable. (If outings are farther afield, they request compensation to cover expenses.) “This is really important,” says Sadaf Hussain, a 48-year-old retired physician from Seattle who has done one guided and one group hikeÌęwith Nagakyrie so far. “Disabled people often cannot work, or only work part-time, and have limited resources to be able to hire an experienced guide that can provide you with the confidence and support needed to be on the trails.”Ìę

Hussain says she was ecstatic to discover Disabled Hikers. Multiple autoimmune diseases, including neuro-sarcoidosis and autonomic dysfunction, have left her unable to venture out alone, even though she considers nature part of her treatment plan. “I often feel guilty when I hike with my healthier, active friends, as they would need to stop frequently for me. So I stopped asking them to join me on hikes,” Hussain says. “Syren has eliminated any reservations or guilt I may experience in slowing others down, because the group hikes as fast as the slowest hiker. When one person rests, we all rest.”

Nagakyrie goes out of their way to be inclusive, noting Native land names and adding descriptive captions to help screen readers pick up on informative text; one reads, “The rectangular photo captures the scene at an angle. Aqua blue water flows between a moss covered rock wall on one side and rounded rocks on the other. There is a small waterfall in the background.” It’s an intersectional approach informed in part by their own identity: a queer, disabled person from a working-class background. This acknowledgement of diversity has proven beneficial not just in their work but in their personal life, too. “Noticing the diversity in nature—and the ways in which all beings have a place—has been healing for me,” they say.

Nagakyrie is still recovering from a series of traumatic events that unfolded a few years ago. In the spring of 2016, their younger sister, the middle child of three, died suddenly from disability-related causes, an experience Nagakyrie describes as “absolutely devastating.” Six months later, a knee injury left them unable to walk for a time. The circumstances enabled Nagakyrie’s increasingly abusive husband to become physical. Nagakyrie knew they needed to get out. After a drawn-out separation process, the two eventually divorced in 2017, a few years into their marriage. Left without a stable place to live, Nagakyrie bounced around before landing in Forks that autumn.Ìę

Through all of it, Nagakyrie says that nature felt like a place to come home. At one point, they lived near the waterfalls of the Columbia River Gorge, on the Washington-Oregon border. “I would just kind of sit, and relax, and breathe,” they say. Around the same time, Nagakyrie started a Patreon page to help crowdfund their community work, which also includes volunteering with their local land trust, organizing grief circles, and other projects. Their disabilities prevent them from full-time work, and it can be tough to get by livingÌęalone in a rural area. “It was the first time I had really asked for financial support from my work, and since then, it’s been
” They give a big sigh. “It’s been challenging.”

Nagakyrie says people push back on social media about accessibility work: “You want us to pave over the wilderness just so a few people who use wheelchairs can see it?” Strangers quibble about how a disabled person can lead hikes, to which Nagakyrie explains, “Just because I could hike a moderate trail one day doesn’t mean I’m not disabled, and it doesn’t mean I’ll be able to do it again tomorrow.” Some people ask how Nagakyrie can spend so much time on Disabled Hikers. “The truth is, it comes at a huge cost,” Nagakyrie wrote in one . “But that doesn’t mean the work isn’t important.”

Nagakyrie has a love-hate relationship with social media that extends beyond the trolls. While Nagakyrie recognizes the value of using and as community-organizing tools, much of their frustration with the outdoor community stems from these platforms. They find that social media tends to perpetuate ableism—even, somehow, when the subject of a post is disabled. Nagakyrie is tired of hearing about “how inspired [able-bodied people] are to ‘live their best life’ and stop making excuses for themselves about climbing the next 14,000–foot peak,” they say. “That is an experience that is entirely inaccessible to a great many disabled people, and using our everyday lives as inspiration to do the epitome of able-bodied privilege is very frustrating.”

Nagakyrie rails against what they refer to as “inspiration porn,” those viral, feel-good videos that do little to advance the ball.Ìę

“I hear a lot of ‘the only disability in life is a bad attitude,’ and that is just not true,” they say. “The only disability in life is a society that is inherently ableist in an inaccessible world.”

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For a stretch of more thanÌę20 years, Dave Mackey rarely took a break from running. The 49-year-old physicianÌęassistant spent those two decades putting together a stellar ultrarunning career, earning national championships in 50K, 50-mile, and 100K distances. He set the record for the Grand Canyon Rim-to-Rim-to-RimÌęrun in 2007 and was named UltrarunnerÌęof the Year twice by USA Track and Field. His only injury during that time was a rolled ankle in 2007 that madeÌęhim rest for a few weeks. “I’ve always been lucky with injuries,” Mackey says from his home in Boulder, Colorado. “Well, except for falling off a mountain.”

In 2015, Mackey was running 8,459-foot Bear Peak in the Rocky Mountains’ Front Range when he decided to scramble down a series of boulders off the backside of the summit. An experienced rock climber, he had taken the route plenty of times before. ButÌęduring his descent, a boulder jostled loose, and he fell 50 feet, breaking his left tibia in eight places. For a year after the accident, Mackey and his surgeons were hopeful he would keep the leg.ÌęBut after suffering constant pain from scar tissue and low-grade infections, it became obvious that itÌęwould never fully heal. Mackey says the decision to amputate was an easy one. “It was about quality of life,” he says. In addition to being a dedicatedÌęultrarunner, Mackey is also an accomplished adventure racer, skier, and mountain biker. “Keeping my leg would’ve held me back for years, if not my whole life,” heÌęsays. “But I knew after the amputationÌęI would run again. People do amazing things with one leg, or no legs for that matter.”

After the surgery, Mackey spent almost a year adjusting, learning how to walk and run again while also undergoing multiple fittings for his prosthetic leg due to shrinking muscles in the residual limb. But he wasn’t down for long. Less than two years after his surgery, Mackey completed the Leadman Series, a succession of six races over the course of a summer that includes the legendary Leadville Trail 100 Run and LeadvilleÌęTrail 100 MTB. “The vast majority of people who lose a leg never work again,” Mackey says. “They never establish the same mobility as they had before. I’m really fortunate, and I was motivated.”

Finishing the Leadman Series was just the beginning for Mackey, who has largely resumed his old routine since losing his leg. He runs every day with aÌęblade prosthetic—there’s an 11-mile route he likes to knock out in the morning before sending his kids off to school—he mountain-bikes regularly, and he skis with his family during the winter. Although Mackey figures he’s half as fastÌęon rocky trails now,Ìęit’s all relative. Last yearÌęhe finished 12th in the , just over seven hours behind the series winner’s accumulated time for all six races. This yearÌęhe ran the Leadville Trail 100 in 25 hours, 54 minutes, roughly six hours slower than his 2014 time. Still, he placed 98th overall out of 841 runners and wasÌęthe first runner to everÌęfinish the race with a prosthetic leg. “The more technical the terrain, the slower I have to go,” Mackey says. “Rocks that are smaller than a fist are easy to work through, but with the baby-head-sizeÌęrocks, the blade can roll more easily. I have to watch my steps more.”

Mackey alsoÌęsays he’s enjoying the training process more than he ever did before. “I just want to get out there and make the most of it,” heÌęsays. “I’m more appreciative now of every individual run or ride. Or skiing with my kids. It feels so good. With the accident I had, I could’ve died.”

Recovery has been a fact of life since Mackey’sÌęaccident. He’s had more than 13 surgeries during the last four years. When I talk to him, he’s fresh off a three-hour mountain-bike ride, slowly working his way back into “normal” life after having two screws removed from his leg two weeks earlier. “It can be hard,” Mackey says. “Taking time off in your fortiesÌęis different than taking time off in your twenties. You don’t necessarily bounce back like you used to. But this whole process has taught me patience. You have to stay patient so you don’t get hurt again. But if you’re motivated, you can come back.”

Although Mackey is still getting after it postaccident, his motivation to keep moving has changed slightly. At one time, pre-accident, it was pushing himself to the brink of collapse in order to win races and crush records.Ìę“You feel like a train wreck one moment, then an hour or two later you feel great, because your body cycles throughÌęit,” he says.ÌęBut while he continues toÌęloveÌęthe physical challenge of ultras,Ìęit’s not the podium that motivates him these days. It’s the process itself.

“Being in the outdoors is what keeps me going,” Mackey says. “The longer the trail run, the more I get out of it. It takes energy to make it happen, but the net return of those runs gives me more energy for everything else. It gives me a better attitude, a better perspective. Being outside, moving, it’s like therapy.”

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On his YouTube show ,ÌęKevin Nealon doesn’t look like a former Saturday Night LiveÌęstar. He looks like a dad out for a morning walk: slightly sweaty and disheveled, wearingÌęa bucket hat and big glasses. But that’s kind of the point. The SNL veteran and formerÌęWeeds actor isÌęusing thoseÌęmundane morning walks to provide an unexpected, slightly voyeuristic—and surprisingly unvarnished—glimpse intoÌęthe lives of celebrities.

The twentyish-minute videos feelÌęhandmade—it’s just him and a camera mounted on a selfie stick—but over the past two seasons, he’s managed to land high-profile guests like , , and . Brad Paisley, who was on an early episode, wrote the theme song. Matt LeBlanc almost pushed him off a cliff on one of their hikes. Aside from the occasional moment of danger, the showÌęattracts almost 200,000Ìęsubscribers, because Nealon has dug into something that a lot of outdoor types already take for granted: hiking is a really good way to get to knowÌępeople.

Nealon is back withÌęa third installment of episodes in September. We asked him why he wanted to go for hikes in the first place, who was the least prepared person he’s hiked with, and how rambling around in the Hollywood Hills has opened up surprising doors.

How It Started

“It kind of came about organically. I was hiking with Matthew Modine, who is a friend.”

https://www.youtube.com/embed/2lYT8Ejg_Tw

“We’re hiking, and it’s really steep, and we’re an hour in, huffing and puffing, and I asked him, ‘Did you ever turn down anything you regret?’Ìęand he said, ‘Yeah, after Full Metal Jacket,ÌęI turned down the Michael J. Fox role in Back to the FutureÌęand the Tom Hanks role in Big. I blew it.’” We both laughed, but it felt like we were getting into something, and I thought, Wouldn’t it be funny if I recorded it and posted it to Instagram?”

How It’s Made

“I started with selfie stick and an iPhone camera, and then people were commenting, saying, ‘Get a steady cam. Come on, you can afford it!’ÌęI got a rig with a GoPro, an EvoÌęGimbal, and an external mic, so it’s not so fuzzy. It’s not highly produced, and I think people are attracted to that, because they can relate to it. Sometimes I’ll make a list of what I’m going to ask people, but usually it’s organic. When you’re out hiking, it opens up your mind.ÌęWe’ll talk about anything from rattlesnakes to moving to Europe. It’s fun for me, because I get to hang out with these fun, creative people. I like hiking alone, but hiking with people makes things go by faster.”

Why Hiking in L.A. Is More Intense than You’d Think

“I’ve lived here for 40 years, and I’m still discovering all the canyons. When I first moved to this neighborhood in west L.A., I was on Weeds, and in the morning, I’d go hiking and bring my scriptsÌęso I could work on them. I was usually the first one on the trail in the morning, all the cobwebs were still there, and one morning I heard a deep guttural growl—definitely knew it was a mountain lion. The next day, they caught a 200-pound lion right there.”

Why Hiking with Celebs Works

“I think that when you’re hiking, and you’re not looking eye to eye, you feel more free. I don’t know if it’s endorphins or what, but when people pass me on the trail, they’re always talking about heavy stuff. Surprising stuff comes up. When I hiked with Conan O’Brien, he revealed that anxiety is in his family.ÌęI found out that Adam Sandler was in a private jet that almost crashed. David Spade told me that his assistant tried to kill him once.”

The Celebs He’s Hiked With

“At first it was my friends, then it was people that I thoughtÌęwould be interestingÌęor that I admire.ÌęI’ve hiked with some people who are flatlanders. Howie Mandel had to buy hiking clothes. showed up with a cup of coffee. got so lost that he couldn’t find the trail, so we ended up hiking for two hours in the dark.”

The Celebs He’s Going to Hike with This Season (and Beyond)

“I can tell you that Molly Shannon and Chelsea Handler are both in really good shape. I went hiking with Eddie Izzard for season three. We went up to the Hollywood Hills. He’s a marathoner, and I was dying. It was a hot day, but I kept pushing myself. It’s made me realize that when you’re tired, you can go farther than you think you can.”

“I want to get Ellen or Oprah. And the Obamas. Either Obama.”

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didn’t know what she was getting into when she bought her first mountain bike 30 years ago. Fresh out of college, she was working in her family’s restaurant and just wanted to get fitÌęČčČÔ»ćÌęmaybe raise some money for charity. She started riding the roads around her Pennsylvania hometown. A few months later, she signed up for a charity ride for multiple-sclerosis research to honor her mother. She loved it. She tried a local mountain-bike race and was hooked.

Three decades later, Van Gilder is now the winningest American womanÌęin professional cyclingÌęand has dominatedÌęa variety of disciplines. “I tried everything at first: road, time trials, track, mountain biking,” Van Gilder says. “I did 75 races a season and worked full-time at the restaurant for the first few years of my career.”ÌęIn 2000, Van Gilder wonÌęthe women’s U.S. criterium championship,Ìęand throughout her mid-forties, sheÌęwas the top-ranked woman on the Union CyclisteÌęInternationaleÌę(UCI) world cyclocross standings. All told,ÌęVan Gilder has more than 350 victories to her name.

For most of her time as a cyclist, Van Gilder raced as an independent, turningÌędown multiple offers to join high-profile professional teams—and the salary, logistical support, and training that comes with them. Van Gilder says it made more sense for her to tackle the peloton alone. She liked having complete control over her training and race schedule and thinks it helped her avoid burnout. “I joined a big team during one season, and I was so unhappy,” sheÌęsays. “But it made me realize that I just love riding my bike. Period. I didn’t want it to feel like a job, and that’s what racing for a big team felt like.”

But in 2009, Van Gilder found ,Ìęan Atlanta-based team that she saysÌęstill givesÌęher the autonomy she craves while providingÌęa certain amount of logistical support. She wasÌędrawn toÌęthe group’s comradery, which she says feels more like a big family than a race team. Van GilderÌęalso discovered cyclocrossÌęthat same year and instantly became a powerhouse in theÌęniche discipline.ÌęShe now divides her year between criterium races in the spring and summer and cyclocross races in the fall and winter. Unlike many professional cyclists, for Van Gilder, there is no off-season. Still, she says the two styles are complementary and feed off each other. Cyclocross requiresÌębikers to race laps on short dirt courses full of mud, hills, singletrack, and stairs, while criteriums see them peddlingÌęaroundÌęroad courses closed to traffic.Ìę“They’re both short and explosive,” Van Gilder says. “You’re racing for an hour, really hard, in both disciplines. I usually come into the spring road season pretty tired, but I love both so much, I can’t pick just one.”

Van Gilder also takes an unorthodox approach to her training: She doesn’t have a coach and doesn’t even followÌęa set plan. She doesn’t hit the gym,Ìęand she doesn’t runÌęor cross-train. She simply rides her bike. “I don’t use a heart-rate monitor or power meter, I don’t do intervals,” Van Gilder says. “I ride about five times during the week and let the terrain and riding partners dictate the effort. And then I race every weekend.”

That lack of structure is atypicalÌęfor professional cyclists, who generallyÌęfollow a strict training regimen.ÌęBut Van Gilder says it helps her keep cycling enjoyable. SheÌędiscovered that when she’s happy, she wins. And after almost three decades of racing professionally, her approach still works. At 55 years old,ÌęVan Gilder dominatesÌęboth cyclocrossÌęand criteriumÌęevents:Ìęshe won back-to-back cyclocross national championships and 2018Ìęand the Masters Cyclo-CrossÌęWorld Championships in her age group last year.ÌęShe’s also stillÌęcompetitive in a field of pros half her age—in May, she took second place behind 20-year-old , a former national track-cyclist champion and one-time overall winner of the U.S. Criterium Series. “I don’t look at myself as a fifty-something-year-old athlete,” she says. “Mentally, at the start line, I’m very much the same as the 17-year-old I’m racing next to, and I want to accomplish the same thing that person does.”

Even though Van Gilder is aware ofÌęher limits—she’s added more rest into her trainingÌęand can tell she doesn’t recover as quickly as she used to—sheÌęhas no plans to slow down any time soon.ÌęShe’s racing every weekend, andÌęif all goes well, she’s looking forward to competing in the again this year.ÌęNext year will probably bring more of the same. “In the winter, when it’s dark and cold and I’m training alone, I wonder if it’s time to find something else,” Van Gilder says. “But then spring rolls around, and I love it again. It’s such a big part of my life, I don’t know how I’d replace it. I can’t imagine a day when I’m not pedaling my bike somewhere.”

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