Thoughts – Kati Chen

August 23, 2020January 25, 2021

Running Report: One Year Later

One year ago, when I became head-over-heels obsessed with running, I had big dreams for myself. I thought I’d have run a marathon by now. I imagined myself decked out in all the flashy running gear – Hoka Hokas on my feet and Gu tubes in hand. I thought my mile would be down to 8:00, 7:30, (dare I say it) sub-7:00?

To no one’s surprise, none of that happened. What is kind of surprising is that today, I ran a 5K in 32:21, 34 seconds slower than my 5K time one year ago, on August 21. And it was a great run. I feel happy. Here’s what’s happened and what’s changed in the past year of my on and (mostly) off running.

August 11, 2020January 25, 2021

Yellowstone and Grand Teton Trip Report

Another long-form vacation recap. Now that we’re back in 100-degree blazing temps, it’s hard to believe I spent a slice of this summer in the Wyoming mountains.

July 22, 2020January 25, 2021

Life Recap: Two Weeks of (Mostly) Veganism

Somehow, I have spent the past two weeks following a (mostly) vegan diet. (We’ll get into the “mostly” later.) This is one lifestyle I never, ever thought I would follow. But I watched a vegan documentary and became determined to give this a try. And it hasn’t been the experience I thought it would be. This recap covers all your burning questions for my short stint into the ~vegan~ lifestyle. Bon appetit.

July 16, 2020January 25, 2021

Texas 4000 Summer Ride Reflection

Once I put the jersey on, everything else starts falling into place. The shorts go on my legs. The gloves go on my hands. The socks go on my feet and the shoes go over them. I fill up my water bottle, grab an energy chew, and turn on my laptop. Turn on the A/C and the fan. Connect my watch. Clip in. Time to bike.

May 22, 2020January 25, 2021

Rejection Resume

A healthy dose of perspective.

Updated as of May 2020. Focused on rejections throughout my four years at college.

April 16, 2020May 28, 2021

a love letter

I wrote this for you last year. I used to write love letters often. I remember we went to East Side King’s that day. I remember I got a rose on campus and gave it to you. You asked me if I told my parents that I had a Valentine. I said, “Do I have one?” Then I said, “Do your parents know?” And you said, “Of course they do.” And I remember thinking that we were going to be okay.

Did you know that the ancient Greeks didn’t have a word for the color blue? I wonder how they described the sea, or the sky when it was a particularly blazing day. How did they say “I’m feeling terribly sad?” Maybe: “I’m feeling green.” Or “lavender”. Or maybe even “yellow” on opposite days, if they had those. Probably they just said, “I’m feeling terribly sad” without using colorful euphemisms.

July 23, 2019January 25, 2021

Running Report: My First 5K

A lot has changed from middle school to now. My innate lack of talent at running has not.

There’s a lot that I’ve managed to selectively forget about middle school, but one track meet will always stay with me. I joined track in eighth grade because I was tall, and because the basketball and volleyball teams were filled with white girls who went to church camp. It didn’t take me long to realize that “tall” did not equal “fast”. I had tiny lungs and bowlegs. There went my sprinting dreams.

July 24, 2019January 25, 2021

Australia Trip Report: 6/27 – 7/14

A recap. Wanted to experiment with a cut-and-dry vacation log. Lack of proper paragraphs quickly becomes overwhelming.

Austin – Dallas: Left work early and flew with no issues. It was around 8PM when we arrived in Dallas, and we were missing Night 2 of the Democratic Debates. I was hungry, and decided to go buy a pretzel at Auntie Annie’s. The cashier asked, “Are you Korean?” “No,” I said, pleased. “Do I look Korean?” She nodded. I told her about our 17-hour flight ahead, and she said, “When I go home, I have to fly 21 hours.” I couldn’t believe it. “It’s too long,” she said. “When my father was sick, I couldn’t make it back in time before he died. 21 hours is too long.” Her face was pinched. I began saying something about keeping his memory alive. “I was never close with my mother. We always fought,” she said. “But with him… I haven’t been back since.” I said I was sorry. She said, “You know what? We’re almost closing now.” She got another pepperoni pretzel out of the case and handed it to me. I thanked her and we got on our flight.

June 24, 2019January 25, 2021

Why I Ride

On the topic of why someone with zero athletic background would want to bike 4500+ miles to Anchorage, Alaska. Also featured on my rider page.

I’ve never met my grandfather. Even so, I feel like I intimately know him. When my younger cousins were born, my mother told me about how he adored children. When I complained about our mandatory family dinners, she told me about his emphasis on family bonding time. When we were in China on the Qingming Festival, we laid his favorite foods down in front of his tombstone. Through her descriptions of him, I feel the presence of his warm heart and steady character.

She’s told me a lot about him, but what she doesn’t have to tell me is how rapidly leukemia began to destroy his body, and how devastating the news was. I’ve seen pictures of my mom, barely 30, sitting next to his hospital bed wearing a flimsy surgical mask. I’ve studied her face and wondered what she thought when she heard the diagnosis from halfway around the world, or when she boarded the plane back to China, or when she saw him again for the first time in that tiny hospital room.

June 23, 2019May 27, 2021

Middle Ground

An essay about second generation immigrant blues. In short: culture clashes and Mommy issues.

I wrote this piece for a college literary magazine, and rode quite the high afterwards when it got over 100 likes on Facebook. Unfortunately, I have yet to collect any royalty payments.

My first memory of making my mother angry starts with a mirror. When I was a kid, I spent countless hours staring at my reflection, pinching and poking my face. Everyone told me they saw my mother’s features in my brows, my eyes, my long, slender fingers. I didn’t get it. Was my face mine, or was it hers?

I would trace the shape of my eyebrow. “This is ma ma’s,” I’d try. My reflection’s brow would furrow up, and I’d try again. “This is mine.” Neither sounded right.