I’ll never forget the first time I ran in a women’s only race. It was a 10k through Central Park that started on the streets at Columbus Circle. While I’d run larger races before, I was unprepared for what it would look and feel like to have 9,000-plus women all gathered in one place, crowding the streets, standing on lampposts to try to spot friends, doing warm-up stretches along the sidewalk. Walking out from the subway, I was immediately overwhelmed. But there was no denying the energy at that starting line; it was electric.
I love running races. I love hearing the racers around me map out their goals and overhearing the folks who are just there to support a friend or can’t believe they actually got themselves out of bed for this. It’s a very a specific type of community.
Women’s only races have this community too, of course, but there’s also something extra. It’s hard to pin down, but the closest I’ve come to identifying it is as a sort of familiarity that makes it easier to relax, to let the craziness in your mind melt away and become your most honest self.