Why I Run: Not Fast, But Far

I wasn’t a sporty kid. Not by a long shot.

Back in school in China, sport was just another subject, like maths or history. You didn’t get medals or join weekend matches. There weren’t any fun runs or school teams to cheer for. Physical education was something you did because it was on the timetable, and at the end of the year, you sat a test for it, just like every other subject. It was never treated as anything important, so I never gave it much attention. I wasn’t good at it anyway. I couldn’t throw, jump, or sprint to save my life. That was just how it was. Some kids seemed naturally athletic; I wasn’t one of them.

Then something changed. It crept in slowly, around the time I was nudging 30. Life was busy, complicated. I didn’t pick up running with a grand plan or fitness goal. I just laced up a pair of shoes and tried. Maybe I needed to clear my head. Maybe I was looking for something I couldn’t name. Whatever the reason, that first jog turned into something much bigger.

And here’s the strange part: I fell in love with it.

You’d think after all these years, I’d be fast. But I’m not. My comfortable pace still hovers around 6 to 6:30 per kilometre. That hasn’t changed much, and honestly, I don’t care. Because running, I’ve realised, isn’t about how fast you go. It’s about how long you can keep going.

Something is humbling and pure about that. No matter your background, if you’ve got legs and a bit of determination, you can run. No need for fancy gear. No complicated rules. No one is shouting instructions from the sidelines. Just you and the road, and the rhythm of your own breath. It’s beautifully simple.

And running’s got this uncanny way of mirroring life.

Each run is just a series of steps, one after another. You don’t have to think about the finish line. You just focus on the current step and the next. That’s it. That’s enough. When it hurts, and it often does, that pain reminds me I’m still alive. It’s like life itself whispering: “You’re here. Keep going.”

Sure, there are days when it feels like I’m slogging through wet sand. My legs are heavy, my breath ragged, and every part of me wants to stop. But I keep going. Because I know what comes next. There’s always that moment, the one where my breath settles, the rhythm kicks in, and something shifts. A kind of peace washes over, and suddenly I’m not fighting the run anymore. I’m part of it.

I don’t listen to music or podcasts while I run. Never have. For me, they’re distractions, pulling me away from what’s real, what’s here. When I run, I want to live fully in the moment. I want to hear the sound of my steps, feel the burn in my calves, and notice how the wind brushes past my skin. I want to feel the pain. Not because I enjoy it, but because it reminds me that I exist. That I’m here, breathing, moving, alive. In a world that’s constantly rushing or buzzing with noise, that stripped-back simplicity feels like a quiet rebellion.

Running becomes less about distance and more about presence. It’s the one time I can really meet myself, unfiltered. Just me and the road.

It’s not about chasing personal bests or impressing anyone. I run because it grounds me. Because it teaches patience. Because it’s honest. On the road, you can’t pretend. You are who you are, every step laid bare.

Running doesn’t care who you used to be. It doesn’t ask about your childhood or your past failures. It only asks, “Are you moving forward?”

And that’s the heart of it. That’s why I run. Not because I’m fast. But because I’m still going.