Powdered Doughnuts and Packed Bags: My Unofficial Race Day Rituals

There’s something sacred about race day rituals—even if mine involve powdered doughnuts, sugar-free Redbull, and a checked bag stuffed like I’m prepping for a weeklong hike instead of a 3.1-mile race.

The night before a run, I do my usual routine: lay out everything I might possibly need—race bib, safety pins, shoes, socks (plus backup socks), hair ties, sweatshirt, throwaway windbreaker, and random snacks I probably won’t eat. I like seeing it all spread out. It makes me feel prepared. Like I'm going into battle… a very sweaty, smiley, slightly chaotic battle.

And then comes the everything shower. I shave my whole body—even parts that won’t see daylight under my shorts—and deep condition my hair like I’m prepping for prom, not a 5K. It's dramatic. It's probably unnecessary. But it’s my way of hitting reset. Clean body, clear mind. That post-shower glow gives me confidence heading into race morning.

I know rest is important. Every article says “get a good night’s sleep before your race.” But I usually spend that night wide awake—staring at the ceiling, wondering if I remembered everything, replaying training runs in my head, and hoping I don’t sleep through my alarm. It’s not ideal, but I’ve made peace with it. That nervous energy just means I care.

Race day starts early. I’m usually too anxious for a real breakfast, so I go for my signature combo: six mini powdered Donettes and a sugar-free Redbull. It’s the kind of “nutrition plan” that would make a sports dietitian cry, but it works for me. The doughnuts calm my nerves. The Redbull lights the fire.

But here’s the thing: no matter how many races I run, I always get nervous. Not just butterflies—full-on, stomach-flipping, overthinking-everything, feeling like I need to pee my pants nervous. I check the weather fifteen times. I question my shoe choice. I worry about my knee. I wonder if I should have brought that extra layer or eaten something different or trained harder.

I’ve learned that the nerves don’t mean I’m not ready. They just mean I care. I care A LOT.

So when I get to the starting line, I work hard to start calm. Not fast, not frantic—calm. I shake out my arms, breathe in through my nose, and remind myself: The first few steps don’t need to be fast. They just need to happen. Starting slow is my way of telling my body, “We’ve got this.”

And somewhere in that first mile, the nerves fade. My legs take over. My mind settles. I remember that I actually like this. I like the rhythm, the challenge, the feeling of moving forward, step by step.

The best part? I always ask friends to come cheer me on. Even if they can only make it to the finish line, hearing them scream my name as I push through the final stretch makes me feel like a superstar. I’m tiny, I’m probably red-faced, and I might be wheezing—but I’m flying.

And when it’s all over? I dig into my overpacked bag to find whatever hoodie, snack, or random comfort item I shoved in there “just in case.” And I smile, because I made it to the starting line, made it through the nerves, and crossed that finish line on my own terms.

Running isn’t just about speed or splits for me. It’s about the rituals—the silly, sweet, overly prepared ones—that turn a race into something meaningful. It’s about proving to myself, again and again, that I’m stronger than I think.