On slowing down
Spending a considerable part of life convinced that running was one of the most boring and unsatisfying activities imaginable. At best, it existed as a supporting act to something more serious. A forgotten football career, or the vague idea of staying healthy.
Then, as the stereotype goes, the mid thirties arrive with the force of a tsunami. Kids to raise, rent to pay, a job to excel at, and the sudden, uncomfortable realization that time is finite. Somewhere in that reality check, running hits.
The first five kilometers after more than a decade of health ineptitude taste like questioned life choices and sputum. But the endorphins, and the reliable ability to be pleasantly wasted by bedtime, fire a vicious loop. Before it becomes obvious, ten kilometers are run regularly. A watch appears, tracking far more than ever asked for. Heart rate variability, VO₂ max, and Strava kudos slowly enter everyday vocabulary.
It could stop there, it could stay a hobby. Something relaxed and relaxing, done when time allows, focused on benefit rather than outcome.
Yet the moment progress and recognition appear, amplified by an algorithm that thrives on comparison, slowness starts to feel like failure. Average becomes an insult.
“More”, “faster”, “longer” become the only acceptable adjectives for this new “healthy lifestyle hobby”, which quietly derails into another attempt to prove something to someone that, in hindsight, cannot be named or described. Proof of being in the Nth percentile. Proof of not being average.
The first marathon signup follows naturally. Target time. First attempt. Success. A post on Instagram. Genuine admiration, even from real friends.
And yet, as soon as the endorphins drop, the first thought surfaces: let’s do this again. Soon. Faster.
Months pass. For some inexplicable reason (scientific term: luck), serious injuries are avoided, despite ignoring every sensible warning that chasing pace at all costs eventually demands payment. Still, week in, week out. Sun, rain, snow. Miles accumulate.
By the third marathon in a row, each with a personal best, a question starts to surface. Quiet at first. Almost irritating. What for? What exactly lives beyond the next barrier? The next time. The next distance. Is there a point where this stabilizes into meaning, or is the meaning simply admiration? An acceptable moment to flex, knowing that most people around will admire the effort without ever wanting to replicate it.
The question begins to appear during recovery runs. Not during races. Not at finish lines. In the slow, unremarkable miles meant to heal rather than prove.
The pattern feels familiar. It shows up elsewhere too. In work that gradually turns into performance. In goals that keep moving just far enough to remain out of reach. In the reflex to always aim higher, faster, louder, because standing still feels indistinguishable from falling behind. Sprinting rewarded. Recovery ignored. Steady effort undervalued because it does not look impressive in isolation.
The realization does not arrive dramatically. There is no decision, no announcement.
The schedule starts to slip.
The plan gets ignored.
No target pace. No splits.
Just shoes on, and a slow drift through the woods.
Running slower feels wrong at first. Unproductive. Almost irresponsible. There is no story to tell afterward. No screenshot worth sharing. And yet, something unexpected happens. Consistency returns without force. Curiosity replaces urgency. The body adapts quietly. The mind follows.
Progress continues, stripped of spectacle. What once looked like lowering ambition starts to resemble reclaiming it. The bar stays high. The pace changes.
Running does not disappear. Marathons do not disappear. They simply stop being a referendum on worth.
Slowness becomes tolerable. Average loses its sting. Resistance builds.
And for the first time, running stops feeling like another job. Just one that happens to involve better shoes.
November 5, 2025