
Kelaine Conochan
Your tomboy little sister. Writer, ultrarunner, women's sports advocate. Contributor @espnW / @wcp / @runnersworld, editor @thepromptmag. she/her
Articles
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Nov 5, 2024 |
thepromptmag.com | Kelaine Conochan
It’s 2001. I just got back to my dorm room, and the light on my landline answering machine blinks flirtatiously. I press the button and angels sing. It’s the front desk, telling me there’s a package waiting for me in the lobby. I know my mom sent it.
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Aug 6, 2024 |
thepromptmag.com | Kelaine Conochan
I love a good underdog story. I also love a good cycling race. When the two combine, I’m excited and energized for days—my mind turning over seemingly endless possibilities that were previously difficult to imagine. Kristen was not favored to win—she was not even slated to compete until a few weeks before the race, when original qualifier, Taylor Knibb, dropped out to focus on triathlon. Kristen took over Knibbs’s place, yet was not planning to excel at the road race, or even necessarily work hard.
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Aug 4, 2024 |
thepromptmag.com | Kelaine Conochan
When most people think of my sportswriting, they assume it’ll be about long distance running. If not that, then CERTAINLY something about women’s sports, right? Well, today I’m doing almost the polar opposite. Because I want to… nay, I must write about Noah Lyles, whose gold medal performance in the men’s 100m final last night was nothing short of inspired. In a crowded field of the most talented sprinters in the world. On a fast track.
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May 4, 2024 |
espn.in | Dana Lee |Kelaine Conochan
DISASTER STRIKES JUST past the 16-mile mark of the 2022 Flying Pig Marathon in Cincinnati, Ohio. It is, in Ben Crawford's mind, the worst thing that can happen when you're running 26.2 miles with your 6-year-old son. Rainier Crawford trips, skins his knee and drops his popsicle, which melts on the hot pavement. Rainier clings to his mom. His tiny shoulders heave with sobs. "Oww," he cries.
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Mar 21, 2024 |
thepromptmag.com | Kelaine Conochan
Square dancing could not have been less relevant as a life skill. This was middle class suburban New Jersey. We didn’t have hoedowns or promenades or cotillions or debutante balls or Paula Deen’s butter-laden diabetes slavery parties. We had shopping malls. None of us wore cowboy boots or ten-gallon hats. We wore t-shirts with Bugs and Taz on them, obviously listening to “Motownphilly” and about to do the OG running man.
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