Running can be a powerful way to unwind and unplug, boosting both our physical and mental health. It can be a space to build and nurture the communities we’ll rely on in the years ahead. But it’s up to us to ensure that everyone has access to this experience, not just a privileged few.
As the post-election landscape takes shape, I find myself reflecting on the responsibilities we hold as runners—white runners, in particular—to learn from past mistakes and work toward a future that includes everyone.
At this year’s Western States, a coalition of mostly white women wore shirts with the slogan “Here for the women’s race.” Though intended as a show of support and to celebrate women athletes, the campaign sparked an important discussion about the centering of white experiences in running.
The lack of representation of Black, Indigenous and other people of color in endurance sports, and at Western States, is stark. Less than 1% of Western States finishers are Black. In this atmosphere, celebrating small gains that primarily benefit thin, cis, non-disabled white women is exclusionary, despite its intentions. Instead of a mark of progress, the campaign echoes the long history of exclusion in white feminist movements where white women have attempted to move forward by leaving people behind.
The reality is that the struggles of cis white women have always been deeply connected to the struggles of all marginalized people—even in running. Endurance sports are a microcosm of broader society, where any gains for one group are inherently limited and temporary. Instead, we must move forward in solidarity in the push for genuine equity.
Earlier this year, an article on I Run Far celebrated women’s advancements in trail running and outlined what some contributors saw as the next steps for equity. However, the article didn’t include perspectives from Black, Indigenous, or other women of color. Among the article’s recommendations to race directors were equal podiums and awards, women-specific apparel and swag, menstrual products at aid stations, and pregnancy and postpartum policies.
We must ask: Does women’s specific swag and podium spots take precedence over the representation, inclusion, and safety of trans women, Black women, Indigenous women, and other women of color in these spaces?
Does women’s specific swag and podium spots take precedence over the representation, inclusion, and safety of trans women, Black women, Indigenous women, and other women of color?
These examples reveal the subtle but powerful ways that whiteness shapes running spaces while erasing or minimizing the lived experiences of Black and Indigenous athletes. Endurance sports are not immune to these dynamics, and if we want real progress, we must confront the ways white supremacy shows up—even in places that may seem neutral, like an ultramarathon.
As we move forward, we must be vigilant to the ways we (white, non-disabled, cis, thin women) are pressured to leave people behind. And we must resist.
As white athletes, we have a responsibility to examine the ways we take up space and the ways we feel compelled to speak for “women” when we are really speaking for cis white women. This work requires staying accountable to our communities, being open to honest dialogue, actively de-centering our experiences, and calling each other in when we see harmful practices. As we push for more inclusive, safe and representative running spaces, we must be co-conspirators with trans people, disabled people, immigrants, gender nonconforming folks, queer people, Black people, Indigenous people and other people of color, understanding that this is one small part in the fight toward liberation.
Octavia Butler once said, “You’ve got to make your own worlds. You’ve got to write yourself in.” Let’s write ourselves into worlds where everyone in our communities is safe, included, and celebrated. And to do that, we cannot stop fighting for equity and pushing back against white supremacy when we put on our running shoes.
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