Have you ever felt guilty about going for a run? Have you ever experienced that strange sensation as you laced up your shoes and closed the door behind you, as if you were stealing time from something more important? If so, welcome to the club. You’re part of a silent majority that has grasped an uncomfortable truth: today, running isn’t just a hobby. It’s an act of civil resistance.
There was a time when luxury was tangible. A watch with a perfect mechanism, a car that turned heads, a handbag with a waiting list longer than for a liver transplant. But then, almost without us noticing, luxury changed form. It dematerialized, became volatile, precious precisely because it was intangible.
Today, true privilege isn’t something you strap to your wrist or park in the garage. It’s an hour of time, just for you. And if you run, you know exactly what I’m talking about.
After all, we’re talking about something that is scarce by nature: time cannot be created from nothing, and its quantity cannot be endlessly increased. Once it’s gone, it’s lost. The only freedom we have is to give it value. So, how do you decide to give value to your time?
“Lucky you, you have time”
have you ever heard this? You’ve probably been on the receiving end of that phrase at least once: “Lucky you, you have time to run.” It sounds like a compliment, but it conceals a colossal pitfall and a not-so-subtle criticism: if you run, it’s because you have time, and the person saying it doesn’t, or thinks they don’t. As if we runners have discovered a secret dimension of time, a magical twenty-fifth hour that gives us space for our miles. The truth is quite different. Those who run don’t have more time than others. They simply learned to create it where it didn’t exist. Our calendar is a frenzied game of Tetris, an expert-level match where the pieces fall incredibly fast and there’s never space for everything. Work, family, deadlines, the boiler to fix, groceries to buy, that series you “absolutely have to watch.” And in the midst of this chaos, we try to fit in an hour of running. We never find it. We create it. We conquer it. Sometimes, we steal it.
The art of daily robbery
Running in an always-connected world is like committing a daily robbery of your own appointment book. It’s the alarm clock that rings when it’s still dark outside and the world is divided into two categories: those who are blissfully asleep, and those, like you, trying to slip on a pair of socks without waking up the house. It’s the sacrificed lunch break, eaten standing in front of the computer to earn those 45–60 precious minutes. It’s the “no, thanks” said to that happy hour because you know otherwise you’d miss your workout and be unbearable tomorrow. It’s getting out of bed when your mind says “five more minutes” but your body already knows that if you don’t go now, you won’t go at all. Every run is a small declaration of independence. From what? From others’ expectations, from imposed schedules, from the idea that we are only valuable for what we produce in an hour.
You can’t buy time
But you can do what you want with it. Sort of. In a world where every minute is measured, timed, and optimized for productivity, carving out an hour to run becomes an almost subversive act. You’re not running away from responsibilities. You’re reclaiming the right to exist even when you’re not useful to anyone. Haruki Murakami, who knows a thing or two about running and time, explained it better than anyone else. It’s not about waiting for inspiration or the right moment. It’s about building a routine so solid that it becomes a part of you, a non-negotiable habit like breathing or stopping to eat. Preferably while seated. His day is punctuated by writing and running. Not because he has more time than others, but because he defined his priorities with ruthless and beautiful clarity.
Running is a political act
Running, viewed from this perspective, stops being just a sport and becomes something deeper. It’s the moment you unplug from notifications, from urgent emails that are never really urgent, from requests that can wait another hour. For those 45–60 minutes, your only boss is the rhythm of your breath. Your only goal is the next streetlamp, the next hill, the mile that’s about to click on the GPS. You are unreachable. And in a hyper-connected world, unreachability is the purest form of freedom. If you think about it, measuring time with clocks has transformed us into beings who are timed rather than free. And yet, in this cage that we’ve built with our own hands, we can still find gaps, and running is one of them.
The paradox of time that expands
There’s something magical about the fact that running is the activity most measured by time (every runner knows that every second gained is a victory), but it’s also the one that, when you practice it with a free spirit, makes you completely forget the clock. It’s as if time is suspended, or it expands. Thoughts become clearer, worries are put into perspective, the best ideas take shape. That’s what happens when you stop running against time and start running in time, with time, for time.
Maintenance of the soul
Don’t get me wrong: there’s nothing heroic in all this. It’s pure and simple maintenance. Like taking your car to the mechanic or getting the boiler inspected. Except here, you’re doing maintenance on your soul. It’s the way we’ve found to clear the brain’s cache, to process the thoughts that pile up during the day like cars on a highway during rush hour.
It’s a space of silence and effort where everything can finally settle, where you can return to being yourself without filters and without expectations.
The privilege of stopping to start again
And if you have time to run, then yes: you are privileged. But not in the way everyone thinks. Not because you have fewer commitments or more money. But because you’ve understood that your well-being deserves a space. And every time you defend it from everything else, you are doing something revolutionary.
Of course, sometimes you don’t succeed. Other times you have to fight tooth and nail to carve out that handful of minutes, maybe at dawn, maybe late in the evening when everyone else is having dinner. But when it happens, when you manage to conquer that time, it’s a form of happiness. Not explosive, not Instagrammable. But real, deep, lasting.
The most important lesson
Running teaches you a fundamental lesson: time isn’t found, it’s created. It isn’t inherited, it’s conquered. It doesn’t arrive on its own; it must be sought, protected, and defended from the countless distractions that try to take it away every day.
Every time you go out for a run, you’re telling the world: “For this hour, I won’t answer. I’m not here for anyone.” It’s your daily vacation hour. But it’s precisely in that moment that you are more present for yourself than ever. It’s an act of self-love that reflects on everything else. Because when you return home, after that hour stolen from the daily chaos, you are a better person. More present, more available, more centered.
The Declaration of Independence
Every run is a signature on a personal declaration of independence. From expectations, from others’ agendas, from the performance anxiety that accompanies us even in moments that should be our own. It’s the simplest and most effective way to say: “I exist even when I’m not producing anything.” And this, today, is a revolution. Silent, personal, but tremendously powerful.
One step at a time toward freedom
There are no magic formulas. Everyone has to find their own way to reclaim time. Running is just one of the possible ways, but it’s one of the ones that works best. Because it’s physical, visceral, embodied. It reminds you that you are here, that you are breathing, that your body needs space as much as your mind does. And perhaps, more than anything, it reminds you that time cannot be bought. It isn’t found by chance. It’s conquered. One step after another, one breath after another, one run after another.
The next time someone tells you “lucky you, you have time to run,” you can smile. Because it’s not luck, it’s not chance, it’s not privilege in the traditional sense of the word. It’s a choice. A choice that sometimes costs effort, sleep, and some sacrifice. But the reward is priceless.
It’s an hour where you’re not a professional, a parent, a partner, or a child. You are just a body in motion, a mind that frees itself, a spirit that reconnects with itself.
And this, today, is the greatest luxury that exists.