I want to say, ‘like a child,’ and let that be the end of it. Think of how a child runs, and think of why. The how is free, fluidly, spontaneously. The why is because, for a child, life is still alive, and what is alive demands to be expressed. A child runs because it is impossible not to run. Or, if not impossible, then not worth the cost of self-suppression. A child runs for fun, for the sheer joy of existence, for the sake of running itself.

What more is there to say?

Shunryū Suzuki got it when he called Zen mind, “Beginner’s mind.” Dylan got it when he said, “I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now.” He got it again when he said, “May you stay forever young.”

But look out. Here come the adults into the conversation, the self-appointed “real runners,” assuring us that running is serious business, hard work, suffering. Anyone who says it’s fun or anything like fun isn’t really running. Maybe they’re doing something else—jogging?—but they’re not running.

Funny how insistent these “real runners” are, isn’t it? Funny how important it is for them to disassociate themselves from the rest of us, the casual, the recreational, the happy.

What about discipline, they say, and self-improvement? What about demanding excellence and putting in the necessary effort to achieve it? What about the value of hard work?

​It sounds so impressive, so noble. But the child knows the difference between hard work and discipline. The child knows that hard work itself is a form of play, the form of concentration and application; whereas discipline, if it means doing something you don’t want to do, is the expression of a twisted mind. Even waking up at 4 a.m. for a training run can be fun if approached with the right mindset, and, if so, approached entirely incidental to discipline. A child lacks discipline? Good for the child.

​I can be more concrete. How to run? Put on your shoes (or don’t). Go outside (not inside). Commence play.

​Maybe it doesn’t seem like that could be it, but it just about is. Your body knows what to do if you let it. Even if it’s been a while, your body remembers. Start slowly, take breaks when you need to, go fast when it feels right, and otherwise, follow the path of joy. Don’t think about arrival. There is nowhere to arrive. And arrival is not the point. The point is to proceed; the point is the process, the point is this way of being in the world.

​To be a runner is to be someone who runs. Full stop.

​But maybe you’re not content to be a runner. Maybe you want to be a good runner or a successful runner. Maybe you want to run faster, to win. Say this is what you want, so you adopt a training schedule, buy fancy new shews, hire a coach. Say it goes well. You improve your personal best in the 5K. Better still, you win a 5K. You train even harder. Soon, it is undeniable—you have accomplished things; you are known for your accomplishments; you are accomplished; prizes are yours, awards, honors; somewhere, some aspiring runner is looking up to you, following your career, studying your results, judging their successes relative to yours, as are you in comparing yourself to those runners who are faster still. You won the race, but you didn’t set the course record. You got a cash prize, but the sum was small. You made it to the trials but not onto the team. There’s always someone better. You’ll never be as good as you might have been, never be as good as you could be. You are, in other words, doomed to feeling like a failure. Sorry.

Or don’t run. Who cares? No one cares. No one besides you. Your spouse doesn’t even care. Be a good spouse, a good parent, a good friend. People care about that. No one cares if you run. Unless. Unless they can see that running is good for you. They care about you and your doing things that are good for you. If running is good for you, then run, they will say. If running brings you rewards you can’t get elsewhere, run. If it brings you joy, or meaning, or peace, do it. If it helps you to feel like yourself, just do it. Don’t do it because you’re good at it. Do it because you love it.

Did you ever stop a running child to ask them why they were running? No, you did not. We tend to be silenced in the face of true beauty, and everyone sees that a running child is a moving beauty. Don’t you know this? Haven’t you always? Isn’t there still a child inside you.? Isn’t that child right now telling you in no uncertain terms: let’s go.

The author is pictured above.