When you run, you’re alone, even if you’re with others. It’s not a team sport because in the end—of the workout or the race—it’s up to you and you alone to get there, by your own strength. But running isn’t just about the miles you log or the times you beat. It’s not just a strictly personal affair, an intimate dialogue between you and the pavement. Because, if you really think about it, there’s something more, something that goes beyond the simple athletic gesture.
There’s something profoundly political about running. But not “political” in the sense of a barroom debate or a shouting match on a talk show, where everything is opinion, slogans, controversy, and attacks. It’s political in the sense of the polis—of the relationship between you and the city. Between you and your body. Between you and your time. Running is an act of self-determination through the use of your time and the places where you run. Running changes the relationship you have with your city. And that, today, is a radical act.
The City Is a Field of Forces
Every city is made of designed spaces and imposed spaces, of flows and obstacles, of areas that invite you to live in them and others that push you away. Places that are familiar and welcoming, and others that seem hostile. When you run, you’re in an incredibly realistic 3D video game—or rather, a hyper-realistic one. By running, you reclaim a sidewalk that’s become a parking lot. A park that has been abandoned. A stretch of riverbank that no one travels along anymore. You transform them from marginal places or spaces with other functions into surfaces for play and enjoyment, into spaces that can belong to everyone. By running, you give the city a new meaning. You become a moving point that stitches it back together with the simplest, most primitive gesture that exists: moving.
And in doing so, you also escape the passive role that is so often forced upon you. You are not just a spectator of the traffic, the noise, the advertisements, the priorities of others. You become the priority. You set the rhythm. This movement is your right of citizenship.
Time: The Commodity That Can’t Be Bought
We live in an era where space and time have become precious commodities, almost luxury goods. Modern life pushes us to be always connected, always productive, always reachable. We are no longer their masters, because we no longer own our time or how we manage it. Our schedules are filled by commitments we often haven’t chosen or by people who compress, use, and manage our time. This life absorbs us, squeezes us, asks us to run (metaphorically) ever faster, but on paths chosen by others.
When you decide to go for a run, you are, in fact, reclaiming a portion of this time. You’re saying, “This time is mine. This space is mine.” It’s an act of self-determination, almost a small personal manifesto. You are taking back minutes and meters that would otherwise be swallowed up by the daily frenzy, by notifications, by deadlines. We call it “the little daily vacation” or our offline time, our airplane mode, or whatever you want to call it.
You know that feeling of heading out at dawn, while the city is still asleep? That moment when time seems suspended, and you are alone with the sound of your breath and your footsteps? That’s when something happens, like a kind of small, silent rebellion. You’re saying: this time is mine. And if you can say it there, maybe you can say it elsewhere. Maybe you can start to negotiate your time differently, in a more authentic, more human way.
It’s like choosing to turn down the world’s volume to listen only to the rhythm of your steps, your breath, your heartbeat. And in an age where we are subjected to a constant bombardment of external stimuli, choosing to silence them is an act of courage. In these moments, you choose the scene, the sounds, and the tempo of your life.
The Body as a Territory to Rediscover
Finally, running is a political act because it brings you back to your body. And the body is the first territory to be liberated and conquered. From expectations, from judgments, from frustrations. Every run is a way to acknowledge it, to inhabit it, to thank it. It doesn’t matter if you’re fast, if you’re graceful, if you make it to the end. Running is a way of telling yourself that you exist. And not as an idealized projection on social media, but as a living, sweating, imperfect presence.
Taking care of yourself, of your body and your mind, is often considered a luxury, or worse, sometimes it even generates feelings of guilt. “I don’t have time for myself,” “I have to think of others first.” But running flips this perspective. It forces you to focus on yourself, on your physical and mental health. It pushes you to eat better, to sleep more, to manage stress.
In a system that often wants you tired, fragile, and therefore dependent, taking care of your health, of your well-being, is an act of resistance. It’s a way of saying, “I am worthy. My well-being is important.” It’s a form of silent, but incredibly powerful, care. It’s not selfishness; it’s awareness.
The Mental Space You Carve Out
And we’re not just talking about time and body care. There’s also mental space. During a run, that part of you that is usually busy solving problems, planning, worrying, can finally lighten its load. We call it “meditation in motion,” but for others, it’s simply a moment to organize their thoughts, or even to not think at all.
It’s a free space, a safe place where you can simply be you, without roles, without masks. In a world where spaces for authenticity are increasingly rare, running offers you a small refuge.
Political, but Without Banners
Running is political, yes. But without the need for banners, slogans, or protests. It’s political because it’s personal. Because every choice you make about how you live, how you inhabit your body, how you move through your neighborhood, is already a stance. And in this choice to run—even for just half an hour a week, even just around your block—there is a seed of freedom that can grow: silent, stubborn, contagious.
You can’t choose well, live well, or dream well, if you haven’t run well. Or at least, if you haven’t run. With everything that means.
So the next time you lace up your shoes, maybe you’ll think about how you’re not just going for a little jog. You’re carrying out a small, but significant, political act. You’re reclaiming your space, your time, your self-care. You are affirming your self-determination. And when you think about it, that’s a message worth carrying, mile after mile, to anyone willing to listen to your silent heartbeat.