I don’t have a philosophy of running
This may be slightly disappointing, considering that I have been running since I was 21 and, since 2012, throughout the year. Surely after all this time I should have developed some profound thoughts about discipline, perseverance or becoming a better version of myself.
I haven’t.
I simply love running.
And perhaps one of the reasons I still love it is that running doesn’t have to be the same thing every time.
Sometimes I do intervals. I have always been a better sprinter than a long-distance runner, and sometimes I want speed. Sometimes I run five kilometres. Sometimes more than ten. Sometimes I stop caring about kilometres altogether, slow down, walk for a while and stare into the distance.
Not every run needs to be a training session prescribed by a sports watch.
Sometimes I run to collect sunrises and sunsets.
Running is also one of the easiest things to take somewhere with me. Shoes take up some space in a suitcase — and judging by photographs from different years, I have gone through quite a few pairs — but otherwise there isn’t much infrastructure required.
The landscape does the rest.
I love running by the sea, but I love running by the ocean even more.
There is something about the Atlantic that doesn’t need any additional philosophy. The wind, the salt in the air, the freshness, the noise and sheer force of the water. On the Azores I found a running path following the coast, with the ocean beside me. I could feel the salt in the air while I ran.
If anything here is meditation, it is the ocean.
Apparently, I have also been taking variations of the same photograph for years without really noticing it: I finish a run, sit somewhere, stretch my legs in front of me and photograph whatever happens to be there.
Sometimes it is a beach in Barcelona. Sometimes black volcanic sand. Sometimes mountains.
Looking through these photographs now, I realise that when I talk about running, I often end up talking about places.
Perhaps Haruki Murakami has something to do with that association. What I Talk About When I Talk About Running has been sitting somewhere in my literary memory for years. But I don’t think I could write my own philosophy of running even if I tried.
Running gets me outside after hours spent writing. I listen to music. I look around. Sometimes I notice something useful. Sometimes I take a photograph. Sometimes I come back with an idea. Sometimes I come back with nothing except several kilometres in my legs and some fresh air in my head.
That’s enough.
I don’t run because running means one particular thing to me.
Maybe I have kept doing it for so long precisely because it doesn’t.
