I remember several runs in stunning places: on islands with picturesque, white, and pristine town centers, along roads lined with banana and palm trees, under the red glow of the setting sun. Curiously, but not really, they are among the worst runs I can recall.
Those streets were too narrow for pedestrians and cars, or too congested to avoid inhaling a lungful of exhaust fumes. I finished them feeling grateful for the scenery, but much less so for the environment.
Let’s be clear, it wasn’t their fault; that was their layout and the traffic they had to bear. The fact is, not all cities are made for running. Some cities welcome you, and others push you away. Not in a harsh way, mind you, but with a subtle, constant, and almost imperceptible friction. Then there are cities where, as soon as you hit the street for a run, you feel welcome. And others where, on the contrary, the very first step is a stumble. A sidewalk that’s too narrow, a crosswalk that lasts for the length of a single breath, a series of architectural barriers that seem placed there just to remind you that no, maybe you shouldn’t be there. Or at least, not like that. Not running.
The almost invisible friction of urban space
It’s not just about the quality of the asphalt or the presence of a decent sidewalk, but about a feeling that is both more subtle and more tangible: the sense of being an expected body or a foreign one. Of being welcomed or rejected.
Because talking about “runner-friendly” cities isn’t just about bike lanes and crosswalks. The English term sounds like a seal of approval, one of those certifications you see on tourist brochures next to “city of art” or “shopping capital.” Yet, beneath this label lies a much deeper question: it means asking, “Who can move here?” Who finds space, who has to make do, who feels watched or even pushed away?
The body as the measure of the city
When you run, your body becomes a kind of sensor. You immediately notice how narrow the sidewalks are, how many times you have to swerve between light poles and parked scooters, how the stares from drivers make you feel like an intruder. You notice how religiously crosswalks are respected—or how many people consider them just a suggestion. The city, for better or worse, you feel it on your skin.
And that’s not all, because the perception of the city also varies with age. A city can be wonderful for a thirty-year-old runner in perfect shape who goes out at six in the morning, but it can turn into an obstacle course for a woman who wants to run at night, for a person with a motor disability, for a parent pushing a stroller, or simply for anyone with a body that doesn’t conform to the performance standards our society imposes.
Yet not all bodies perceive it in the same way. There are those who run fast and light, managing to find space almost anywhere, and those who move more slowly, perhaps with an uncertain stride or with an aid, and find themselves immediately excluded.
Who is the city really designed for?
A city that welcomes only certain bodies and rejects others is an incomplete city, one that gives up part of its own humanity.
The point isn’t about having a perfectly polished bike path or a park with a fitness trail. Those are great things, but they are the surface. The real heart of the matter lies in the invisible infrastructure—the one made of perceived safety, real accessibility, and a design that doesn’t assume all users are the same, agile, and quick.
Think about it for a moment. How many times have you had to step off the sidewalk because it was blocked by a light pole planted in the middle? How many times have you had to take an absurd detour because a flight of stairs blocked your way? Or how many times have you felt uneasy in a poorly lit underpass, picking up the pace not to improve your time, but out of sheer anxiety?
Runner-friendly or just runner-selective?
Many cities like to call themselves athletic. They put up signs, organize marathons, and build fitness trails in parks. But a closer look reveals that most of the time, the focus is on a specific body type: young, agile, high-performing.
What about the others? Those who run slowly, who walk, who need to stop often, who don’t fit the athletic mold? These people are rarely considered in the urban design. The crosswalks remain too short, the paths too fragmented, the parks poorly lit. It’s as if the invitation to run is only for a select few, leaving out anyone who doesn’t fit the norm.
When the space tells you you’re not welcome
These are not minor details. They are the language the city uses to speak to us. And sometimes, that language excludes you. It tells you, not so subtly, that this space wasn’t designed for you, for your body, for your needs. It’s a bit like walking into a clothing store and finding they only carry extra-small sizes. Technically, the door is open to everyone, but in reality, the invitation is extended only to a narrow circle of people.
A matter of urban justice
Thinking about inclusive cities for movement isn’t a sports fad: it’s a political issue, but in the best sense of the word—one of public and widespread well-being. If running is one of the simplest ways to take care of yourself, then the ability to run—or at least to move safely—should be guaranteed to everyone.
Designing a truly inclusive city means thinking about a plurality of bodies and movements. This means designing wide, continuous sidewalks, reducing architectural barriers, and ensuring lighting in passageways. It means thinking about routes that are accessible not only to fast runners but also to those who walk, use a wheelchair, or push a stroller.
It means broadening the very idea of “sport” and the “athletic body.” It means considering movement—whether walking, running, cycling, or moving with an aid—a fundamental right of citizenship.
Small examples, big differences
Anyone who has run in different cities knows this: you feel the difference immediately. In Amsterdam, for example, the conflict is with bicycles, but the cycling infrastructure is so robust that you can still find your space. In Berlin, the parks seem designed to be run through. In Rome or Naples, on the other hand, a single pothole can often turn a run into an acrobatic feat.
It’s not just a matter of aesthetics or tourism: the city tells you, with its structure, whether your body is welcome or not.
Running is also a political act
To run in a city not made to welcome you is to assert your right to be there, to occupy space with your stride, to reclaim the idea of a more equitable city.
So, the question “Is your city runner-friendly?” isn’t just for those who love to lace up their running shoes at dawn. It’s for anyone who wants to move freely without feeling like an obstacle or an intruder.
Perhaps we should start thinking of cities as places for the inclusion of bodies as well. I’m not talking about an ideal city for an ideal body, but a possible city for different bodies: fast or slow, young or old, agile or frail.
Perhaps the truly runner-friendly city isn’t the one with the most marathons on its calendar, but the one where no one feels out of place from the very first step. The one that doesn’t force you to wonder with every meter if you’ll make it, if it’s safe, if you’re in the way. A city that, instead of judging your performance, empowers you to move to the best of your ability, whatever that may be.
Because the truth is, running belongs to anyone who wants to try, at their own pace. And a city that embraces this principle isn’t just “runner-friendly”: it’s simply more just, more alive, more human. A city that welcomes you—and not only if you’re fast, agile, and compliant enough to keep up with it.