The Unambitious Runner
There’s an unspoken rule that if you care about something, you should want to be great at it.
For over a decade, I’ve run consistently. Outsiders can see it in my social media. My neighbours witness it firsthand as I huff up and down the nearby hills. And I see it in the mirror, in the way my body has held its edge while others have rounded with time.
Yet, when the topic of running comes up in conversation, I often feel like an imposter. I identify as a runner, but I don’t compete. I don’t run marathons. I don’t religiously track my pace or distance. I have no plans or goals tied to running, whatsoever.
I just run.
Sketchy pace. Sketchy drawing. Consistency is key.
I came to the pursuit of running organically. Like many young men, I spent a lot of time in the gym working on my physique—and in some ways, it felt good. In hindsight, I realize much of that effort was actually spent in the pursuit of looking good.
Something began to shift—I realized I wasn’t just looking for a change in my body, but how I felt. I started craving movement that felt more natural, less controlled. I began to find solace in exploring deep in the forest and running simply became the most efficient way to get there.
What began as brief and breathless jogs turned into longer, steadier runs as my body and mind adapted. Running, for me, became the ultimate expression of feeling balance. A way to even out the highs and lows of daily living and come back to something that asked nothing from me, other than my time and focus.
Unlike many of my running peers, my story never led to a desire to perform publicly or to outperform anyone else. The mere thought of queuing up at a race line with dozens (or hundreds) of other runners fills me with a sense of dread. While others fixate on gear, pacing strategies and race schedules, I’m content to simply be out there—feeling the exertion and gratitude of watching my body perform. Something that can and should come naturally to humans.
For many, structured training and competition offer motivation and a sense of accomplishment, and I can appreciate that. But I’ve never felt the need to measure my runs that way. Instead, I’ve been drawn to something quieter, something more primal. Something that doesn’t need a finish line to be meaningful.
I’m fascinated by how running—one of the most natural, unremarkable, and instinctive human actions—has somehow become so remarkable in modern life. An act that’s been reframed as a sport, a struggle, or a means to an end, instead of something we simply do.
But why?
At what point did movement become something we had to train for, optimize, or force ourselves to do? Is it because we’ve evolved sufficiently that we no longer must hunt down our food source—or to escape from becoming food ourselves? Or did we decide that movement is only worth the effort if it can be measured, improved or turned into an achievement?
Whatever the reasons, there’s a deep-rooted cultural belief that if you run, you should train for a race. If you enjoy something, you should get better at it. And, if you’re doing an activity, there must be a goal attached to it.
I am self-aware enough to acknowledge that if I followed the conventional wisdom on training and optimizing, I would be a better runner, perhaps even much better.
However, I am a competent runner. I can run race-level distances and maintain a respectable pace. But a good run for me isn’t about numbers, pace, or progression. It’s about reaching that effortless state where it stops feeling like work.
Instead of seeing my daily run, or weekly mileage as a prerequisite to unlocking some future achievement, I run because it moves me forward, because I am capable, because I exist. I simply do it because I can.
There’s something unique about running, or perhaps anything that requires significant mental or physical exertion. Running has a steep entry cost. It’s painful at first, uncomfortable, awkward.
In fact, I don’t think people actually hate running. I believe they just hate the way they’ve experienced it.
If you view running through the lens that the natural progression is from the couch to a 5k and then to a half, or full marathon, you might be missing out on some of the beautiful and difficult lessons running can teach. Lessons in patience, in breath, in listening to your body—an awareness that movement can be about something joyful instead of punishment.
When running isn’t tied to a training plan or a performance goal, it also offers something else: a change in perception. You start to notice the way your body naturally adapts to shifts in terrain. How the density of the ground responds beneath you and how your effort ebbs and flows with each passing minute.
Instead of running toward a goal, you run to listen. To pay attention to what your body is holding onto and what your mind is working through. A training plan can teach you about pace and endurance, but running without an agenda teaches you something deeper; how to feel before, during, and after, without rushing to the next milestone.
If anything, my experience offers a counterpoint that—despite what social media would have us believe—our interests don’t have to be a performance or a pursuit of perfection. You don’t have to master everything you enjoy. And that it’s okay to just do things for fun, imperfectly, and without an endpoint.
For a lot of runners, every run is in service of some greater goal or future accomplishment. But for me, each run is the accomplishment.
You can be a painter, a singer, a sculptor, a writer—anything that brings you joy—without feeling the weight of validation or the pressure to constantly level up in the eyes of others.
After all these years of running, I couldn’t tell you my fastest mile or my longest distance. But I can tell you how the sunlight flashing through the trees makes me feel alive. Or the way my feet feel against the hard-packed earth, issuing a defiance and temporary reprieve against gravity. A quiet reminder that movement is both an act of rebellion and surrender.
And maybe that’s the real measure of success—not how far or fast we go, but that we’re still doing what we love, without needing a reason beyond itself.
At some point, we started believing that hobbies needed to be productive, that interests had to be achievements.
But life isn’t a race, and not everything has to be optimized.
The most radical thing we can do is simply engage with what we love, without looking for a finish line.
Presence matters more than progress.
The author fears he is dangerously close to entering the foot pic economy 😩
No personal bests were set writing this, but sharing would be a strong finish.
