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A WEEKLY NEWSLETTER EXPLORING THE POSSIBILITIES OF STORYTELLING

ISSUE 047:
KEEPING UP WITH MY FAMILY ON STRAVA

Strava, the exercise tracking app that doubles as a social network, has more than forty-seven million users worldwide. I’m one of them. In fact, it’s one of the half-dozen apps I open daily—not to peep the route segment leaderboards or to analyze my stats, but to check in on my family and to allow them to check in on me.
 

When I came home from school each day as a teenager, my stepdad would greet me with, "How was your workout?" I’d tell him about practice—cross country or track, depending on the season—and whether I felt fast or slow that day. Then I’d climb the stairs to my bedroom and he’d return to his office.

The rest of the family worked out, too. My mom went for walks and did pilates. My stepdad John and my brother Adam went for bike rides. My dad, two towns over, is still getting over the first time I beat him in a 5k. Exercise was our common language.

In 2012, John and Adam downloaded Strava. I waited a few years, stubbornly sticking to my no-technology running rule, before giving in during my sophomore year of college—as did my mom, shortly after, due to FOMO. Bored by John and Adam’s straightforward workout titles—“Island Lake Yellow Loop,” “Morning Gravel Ride,” “Sunset Cruise”—I posted unrelated life updates with each workout, sometimes accompanied by photos: a 5k and my new haircut, intervals and a picture of my homework. I posted angrily that my school didn’t have a snow day; Adam posted that his did.
 



 

On Strava, we supported one another.


 





We recorded milestones, personal and universal, and offered up our social commentary.

 









 

When the temperatures dipped into the negative, I posted gym workouts; when I injured myself training for a marathon, I posted yoga class.
 










 

I kept posting about my workouts even when I wasn't running. My family roasted me for this.




 

A workout didn’t count without GPS tracking. On more than one occasion I was accused of lying. Though my mom, whose Strava presence can only be described as adorable, always believed me.

 



 

Amid all the teasing, the app remained our primary means of keeping one another updated on our lives. I moved to Detroit for a bit, where the GPS caused a series of glitches.

 



 

Adam moved to the Upper Peninsula, then back. 

 


 

Nothing went unrecorded.

 



 

A couple years in my notoriously tech-challenged dad found out that the app existed, and soon he was logging kayak rides and runs. Sure enough, the app’s technology seemed to fail him frequently.

 









 

When I moved to New York City over two years ago, I started running less in favor of reading books and making friends. But I still use Strava; we all do. Some families have group chats, some families FaceTime. We keep track of each other’s fitness. But I’m convinced it’s more than that.

 












 

My family’s Strava posts are as emotional as they are statistical. We share our relationships (my high school friend Eric now lives and runs in Brooklyn; I shared my first run with my boyfriend Ben); we poke fun at one another; we show each other we care. Midwestern emotional expression is often inconspicuous. John leaves the oatmeal ingredients out for me when I’m in town. My grandma sends me cookies every month, but has never said, “I love you.” My family can go months without talking on the phone, but we will always give each other kudos on Strava.

 












 

I sometimes worry that my life isn’t being documented closely enough, that I’ll someday have kids but no photo albums to show them what my life was like, as I do with my parents’ and grandparents’ lives. I fear that when Instagram and Facebook and iCloud are gone, the evidence of everything I’ve done, all the relationships I’ve formed, will be gone. At the same time, I know Instagram isn’t an accurate representation of my life. Sometimes I scroll through photos I’ve posted, unable to recognize the life I’m viewing. It’s nauseating.

When I scroll through Strava, I don’t feel that. Maybe it’s because the only people to impress there are the ones who have known me my whole life, or maybe it’s because when you post every day you’re forced to include even the boring stuff. Maybe it’s just more difficult to curate a clever photo-caption combo when you’re out of breath, post-workout, stumbling around the kitchen to fill a glass with ice water. When I look at my Strava posts from the past five years, I can see myself at every phase: raw, unedited, confident of my unrehearsed jokes. I see this in my family, too—Adam’s dedication and his love for fluffy animals; John’s unending support masked by winky-face sarcasm; my mom’s coping mechanisms and capacity for peace-making; and my dad’s perseverance and desire to connect, in any way possible, to his children. Strava is my family photo album, and I pray that the internet gods never take it away. —Alexis Nowicki, Publicity Assistant, FSG

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