August

Travel

Running has shown me an extraordinary variety of places. A few stand out: Lhasa, at 3,650 meters - that was hard work; Paris, beside that tower; Morocco's Atlantic coast and the old streets of Marrakesh; mountains above a seaside resort; Zanzibar's Stone Town; Bukhara and Astana; and the slopes of Kilimanjaro.

Wherever I go, I try to log a new route in Nike Run Club.

Since I like mornings, I get up early and go exploring. By breakfast, I've already seen something.

Travel was one of the reasons I started running, and it still gets me out the door. Walt Whitman opens "Song of the Open Road" with "Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road." He had the right idea. I just added a GPS watch.

I admit it: I love to travel. When I'm choosing a hotel in a new city, I check which sights I can run to. That's part of planning the trip. Even when someone else picks the hotel, I look for interesting places within running distance.

When you're sightseeing on foot, there's only so much ground you can cover. Walking is slow, there's usually too much stuff to carry, and only so many sights fit into a day. Sometimes the walk between sights drags on so long that I'm bored before I get there.

For an overnight trip, perhaps the essentials are running shoes, ID, and money. Everything else can be bought on arrival.

The endurance of our ancestors

Here's an encouraging thought: humans have remarkable potential for endurance. We can't match a cheetah's sprint, but over long distances our species has some extraordinary advantages. Our bodies can do more than we tend to give them credit for.

One hunting strategy available to our ancestors was persistence: follow prey for a long time, especially after wounding it, until it could no longer keep going. Patience and endurance could be as useful as immediate speed.

Our upright gait and our ability to shed heat through sweat are part of that story. We're not merely poor versions of four-legged sprinters. The human body has its own way of covering ground. We're built for this.

Potential isn't the same as fitness, though. A modern person still has to train. Leave the ability unused and it fades; work at it and much can be recovered.

I was particularly struck by the part of Yuval Noah Harari's Sapiens that describes life before agriculture, when people hunted and gathered rather than produced food. His fascination with that world was infectious.

In Harari's account, prehistoric humans were, in some ways, more capable and more intelligent than we are. They carried detailed mental maps of huge hunting grounds, knew countless plants and fungi and how to use them, understood animal behavior, and could improvise. They distinguished sounds and smells we'd miss. Harari links those demands to larger brains and stronger powers of abstract thought. They were deeply at home in their landscape, through every season. Archaeological finds suggest a varied diet drawn from many plants and animals. How many edible plants could you find in a forest after school biology? Not many. They could. Their knowledge had to work.

People who survived childhood and avoided fatal accidents could live a long time. I pictured bodies that could do it all: fast, flexible, agile, strong, with endurance to spare. A whole society of capable minds and bodies, shaped by natural selection. We still carry some of that inheritance.

Human beings lived that way for a very long time. Farming, domestication, industry, and modern urban life arrived much later. Along the way, some once-essential skills became less important. Smell, for instance, plays a smaller role in my daily survival. How and why all this happened is another large discussion. Read Harari. Back to running.

I love that picture of our ancestors: quick, flexible, strong, and able to keep going. I want some of that. When I run, practice yoga, or lift weights, I like to think I'm getting a little closer to the varied physical lives they led. They moved, got tired, and worked up an appetite. That sounds like a life worth borrowing from.

Regular running also expands the territory I know around my home. I discover paths, shortcuts, and slopes I never noticed. I learn where a road quietly climbs, where puddles collect, where shrubs smell sweet, and where apples ripen. A more detailed map forms in my head. Running makes me feel more fully at home in the world around me.

Training for the terrain

The easiest routes are flat, with few turns or gentle curves, no climbs, and no descents. I can hold a steady pace and focus on how I feel. A running track provides that pleasantly artificial simplicity.

A big road race often has more interesting terrain, and plenty of surprises.

Running uphill is hard. Your heart works much harder and your legs tire fast. Without specific training, you slow down and feel a little wave of panic.

A friend liked training beside the river in Riverside Park, where the slopes were few and gentle. His mileage looked good, but he was unprepared for the hills in a city marathon and was bitterly disappointed with his time. The course climbed and dipped enough to accumulate hundreds of meters of ascent. Trail runners may laugh, but for someone accustomed to the flat, it was a test. Other city races can have plenty of climbing too.

I learned not to limit myself to one or two nearly flat routes. I began watching elevation gain and choosing different terrain more often. Training ought to develop more than one skill.

On a climb, I shorten my steps and try to turn my legs over faster. The hill is there for everyone, which is comforting. It may even be a chance to pass runners who haven't practiced it.

Downhill, I love the feeling of acceleration, though staying upright comes first. My steps seem enormous by my standards. Gravity is finally working for me, almost like a cheat code: each stride carries me farther. Time to let the road help.

Shoes

Shoes deserve a book of their own. Sneakers have a whole culture around them: the search for comfort, the endless designs, the chance to show a little of who you are.

Only some of those shoes are made for running, and running has its own fashions. Engineers, designers, and movement specialists keep experimenting with materials and construction, chasing the perfect shoe. The flagship models change every year. Somewhere among all those choices, there may be a pair that suits my feet and the way I run.

Runners can turn shoe selection into a full-blown obsession. I understand it. Comfort, injury concerns, and performance all feel bound up in that choice.

At major championships and the Olympics, there's an unofficial second competition: which shoes win the most medals? The established brands have their favorites, and the newcomers want a piece of the action. It's fascinating to see what a favorite athlete or team wears. An entire world of shoes.

Brand loyalty is personal. For practical purposes, my basic lineup came down to these categories.

Everyday trainers: the workhorses, used for most sessions and worn out fastest. Fairly simple, dependable shoes that feel stable on pavement, gravel, and ordinary mixed surfaces.

Compact shoes for the gym and travel. They're light and easy to pack. They squeeze into a suitcase or bag and are ready when I need them. My requirements are modest: convenient to carry, comfortable enough to use. Of course the everyday pair can go on a treadmill too, but I like having a smaller travel option.

Warm winter shoes. In freezing weather, some extra insulation is welcome. These are unlikely to be my lightest or fastest pair. I want a reliable outsole and as much grip as conditions allow. They keep me running, even if they slow me down.

Water-resistant shoes for rain and trails. A protective upper and substantial tread help on woodland paths and difficult ground.

My best racing shoes, saved for competitions and important tests. More expensive, perhaps, but light and efficient.

This is where the carbon-plated shoes come in, with their springy construction. They don't stay at their best forever, so I don't treat them as everyday workhorses. I save them for the fast days.

When I bought my first carbon pair, the salesperson warned me to think in terms of a 200 km performance life. I tried them on a 10K test run, then reserved them for the most important races. So far, every outing in them has brought a personal best.

That makes roughly five pairs in my idea of a well-prepared runner's closet. Beyond that, preference and self-expression take over.

Fit matters more than any category. I don't want a shoe squeezing my foot. I often choose about half a size more room than in everyday footwear. Get the fit wrong and my toenails pay for it, along with the rest of my feet.

The gear, part one

Strictly speaking, running takes very little: ordinary shoes, an ordinary shirt, ordinary shorts or pants. That's the minimum. What about the maximum? I suspect there's no such thing. Someone will always invent another useful-looking accessory.

We have covered shoes, but even shoes have accessories. I tried soft heel inserts placed under the insoles for extra cushioning. Inside my everyday React-foam shoes, they felt so comfortable that I forgot about them. After washing the shoes, I forgot to put them back. The next run felt considerably less pleasant. It's easy to get used to comfort. There are also little toe spacers and protectors to reduce rubbing.

Ordinary socks work, but running socks offer an astonishing range of refinements. Compression, padding over the top of the foot, moisture-wicking fibers, designs that help prevent blisters, even membranes intended to let moisture out while keeping water from entering. Some emphasize the Achilles area, ankle, heel, or toes. There are tiny summer socks, knee-high compression socks, and thick winter ones. A surprisingly rich subject.

Next up: compression calf sleeves. A wonderful invention, working on much the same principle as a supportive bandage. They fit tightly around your lower legs and support the muscles. The benefits include better circulation and faster lactate clearance: less fatigue, quicker recovery, less swelling, a lower risk of varicose veins, and fewer spasms and cramps. A small running miracle. Just get the size right. And here's a wrinkle: buy them when you first take up running and they may soon feel tight. Your calf muscles are growing! You can wear them under pants or with shorts.

Once, with a minor injury in my left leg, compression sleeves were the only thing that let me keep running. So I started wearing just the left one. Specialists told me not to do that: the compression should be the same on both legs, or I could end up with another injury. I didn't test the theory. Now I wear the pair.

At first I was embarrassed by running tights. Surely I'd look ridiculous. Then I got used to them, and now they're my favorite running clothes. Very close-fitting pants, sometimes compressive, that stretch beautifully and work as well for stretching as for running. They're usually my base layer, sometimes the only layer. Full-length tights suit spring and fall. Three-quarter ones leave the lower legs free for summer or the gym.

The snug fit around my thighs makes me more aware of how my legs are moving. Small zippered pockets hold keys, a card, or other odds and ends. Often the pocket sits at the center of the lower back. An odd location in ordinary clothes, but excellent on a run: unobtrusive and unlikely to rub.

Ankle zippers let in air or close neatly over longer socks. Fleece-lined tights are useful when the weather turns cold.

A running belt is wonderful for a phone, keys, and gels. Smaller is better: bulky bags interfere with movement. Holding a phone is tempting because music controls, statistics, and the pause button are right there. But it changes the way my arm moves. I prefer to put the phone away and let both arms work naturally.

Running shorts differ from swim trunks or boxing shorts mostly in the details, especially seams that don't chafe. I like two-layer designs with a built-in inner liner. Check the seams in your underwear too, particularly over long distances.

One small habit: I always put a business card in a pocket or running belt. I don't normally carry identification on a run, but if I got sick or had an accident, I'd want someone to know who I was and who to call. We runners can look remarkably alike.

The gear, part two

Sports shops sell tubular neck gaiters in endless varieties, with Buff perhaps the best-known name. Warm, light, microfiber, cooling, patterned, plain, decorated with cities or mountains. I'd love to walk the Camino de Santiago, so I bought a couple printed with the route to Santiago de Compostela. A gaiter can protect my neck, soften cold air, or cover my head against rain or sun. I end up wearing them away from running too.

There are running sunglasses and visors, nearly weightless breathable rain jackets that pack well for travel, and specialized tops, hoodies, and sweatshirts.

I'll come back to race shirts. Long-sleeved tops deserve a mention here. Some have compression panels, but their main job is to manage warmth and sweat. I never found a running-specific long-sleeved top I truly loved. Close-fitting martial-arts tops suit me better: comfortable, little rubbing, and useful in spring and fall.

People who are used to hard winters stay warm because they dress for the cold, not because they're immune to it. On days when going out for a run seems absurd, insulated vests and jackets make it seem possible again. Some look so good that I want to go out just to wear them.

I'm also comfortable in a light sports cap that covers my ears. It helps me manage warmth, keeps my earbuds in place, and removes hair from the list of things to think about. I've become so used to it that I wear one all year, even in hot weather.

My fingers get cold early. In cold conditions, the body prioritizes keeping its core warm, and my fingers and toes feel it first. Gloves help. In spring and fall I sometimes use fingerless ones, including a pair intended for gym training. In winter, every finger needs covering.

I combine these pieces in layers. Tights and a close-fitting top next to the skin; shorts and a shirt over those; then perhaps a hoodie or insulated vest. My usual aim is to feel slightly cool when I step outside.

Once I warm up, that feels comfortable. Too much insulation leaves me sweating heavily and liable to get chilled when I slow down.

For running clothes I favor colors so bright they're almost offensive. This is less about style than visibility. In darkness, whether on city streets or country roads, I want drivers and cyclists to see me. Electric orange, pink, and acid green have a practical purpose.

That's hardly the end of the clothing list, but it's already plenty. I gave the collection its own shelf: shirts, tights, socks, and all the rest. That shelf supplies more laundry than any other part of my wardrobe.

Unfamiliar routes close to home

The same route every day can become dull. A track is comfortable: a predictable surface, no hills, and an easy exit whenever I want to go home. But a curious person eventually wants more.

A small detour turns into a longer run. Before long, I've built a whole network of routes around home. I duck into courtyards, cross bridges, and find little gardens and passageways I never knew were there. Running changes the city I thought I knew.

Eventually I had a set of routes whose distance and duration I could judge pretty well. And I found so much along them: hidden pigeon lofts, a tiny converted-warehouse neighborhood, tucked-away workshops, extraordinary façades. We go through these places every day and somehow never really see them.

Living near a park doesn't mean knowing it. Most people know the comfortable, busy main paths. Run through a large park often enough and you find unexpected trails, new entrances and exits, unfamiliar views, and birds or animals you had previously missed.

Even familiar buildings and landscapes look different from a new angle.

Running changes the scenery more quickly than walking. More trees, houses, pigeons, squirrels, flowerbeds, and paths go by. There's always something else to notice.

The more I run, the more I notice.

A park through the seasons

For a while I lived beside a park, and that was where my first runs happened. My route began with a long, gentle descent of about a kilometer, passed the bandstand along the edge of a slope, made a broad loop over a stream, and followed a dirt path through trees and playgrounds. Branching paths eventually joined a wide paved walkway full of strollers and led to the far gate. There I turned back, followed part of the same path, then took a narrow lakeside trail that climbed and dropped sharply over a dozen little hills. Across the stream feeding the lake, through a flat dog-walking area and a birch grove, and I was back at the start. About 6 km. So most of my early runs were roughly 6 km, just that one lap.

I could watch the park change through the year from my apartment windows. But being out in it was something else. Running got me there much more often. I came to know it differently.

I started in summer, when the park was lively, shady, and dry. The leaves slowly yellowed as my distances grew. I had more time to notice nature's unhurried changes. Falling leaves, squirrels, ducks: I was getting sentimental about the place. With each run I could see a little farther through the thinning trees. Then one day I could barely begin. My gentle descent was covered with a perfectly smooth film of ice. After sliding twenty or thirty meters, I decided not to tempt fate and went shopping for winter shoes. That's how I acquired my first waterproof Nike Lunarglide Flash pair. At the time, their grip felt almost as secure on ice as on pavement. The next day I gleefully passed cautious, sliding pedestrians.

Snow covered the park, frost arrived, and my choice of paths narrowed. I couldn't always complete the old loop. But the winter woods were astonishingly clean and beautiful: bright shoes on fresh snow, branches bending overhead. I got my runs in knowing that without running I'd have missed much of this.

Then spring: weaving around puddles, spotting the first flowers, leaves, bumblebee, or butterfly. I'd get home and tell the children what I'd seen. I was their advance scout for spring.

We say we want to be closer to nature, then drive too fast to notice the seasons or walk only as far as the nearest stop. Running through parks, along rivers, and through neighborhoods farther from home gives me a wider, more intimate view of the world.

Run every day and each day leaves a trace, in memory and in the training log.

The sights

The more I run, the more I see. One of running's great pleasures is coming upon a famous landmark from an unexpected direction.

City-marathon organizers often design courses to show off their city. Twenty-one or forty-two kilometers can take in a remarkable amount of architecture and scenery. London, Berlin, Barcelona: a whole sequence of landmarks in a single day. Now that is a sightseeing tour.

Outside races, I can invent a private tour and collect experiences you won't find in a guidebook. Some are so cinematic that I feel I have wandered into a film, surrounded by impossibly convincing scenery.

A few years earlier, I had traveled to Tibet to walk the kora around Mount Kailash. Our small group flew through Guangzhou to Lhasa, then planned to continue north by bus. Lhasa itself was a place I had long dreamed of seeing. I had read about the ancient city and especially the Potala Palace, the Dalai Lama's historic residence, whose image I associated with Seven Years in Tibet and Brad Pitt.

Lhasa sits roughly 3,650 meters above sea level. Coming from lower ground, I was short of breath almost as soon as I got off the plane. My head buzzed. A few steps wore me out. I wanted to stop and catch my breath. At first I moved slowly, as if I were wading through water. I felt almost drunk.

Fortunately, the body can adapt to its surroundings. At first the thin air puts a strain on your blood and circulation, leaving you weak. Gradually, your blood chemistry changes and you get used to the new conditions. Besides, Lhasa is full of children, older people, and shopkeepers going about ordinary life. Clearly, living here is possible. Give it a little time and things will get easier.

That first night, my head hurt. Sleep was uneasy, street sounds seemed strange, and anxious dreams interrupted my breathing. Yet being in such a mysterious place was thrilling.

At about six the next morning, I put on my running shoes, checked the map, and set off for the Potala Palace. The city was still sleepy, with little traffic. Running along an old street, I imagined yak caravans passing the same way. Up there the colors seemed more intense. Yellow was yellower than at sea level. Blue was unbelievably blue.

I had to stop and walk repeatedly. The breathlessness was severe. I passed a bored police officer and the first workers hurrying about their business. I noticed people listening to music through large speakers, gathering around them or sitting beside them on benches. Everyone seemed to be recording voice messages on a phone.

I didn't have to negotiate a maze of alleys. The main avenue brought me to the palace in the rising sun. It was extraordinary. How had anyone built something so magnificent, so high up, in that stark landscape? Amid a stream of people going about their morning, I stood before the entrance, simply happy to be there. I was standing inside a movie.

On the way back, small figures in matching school uniforms gathered outside a school. Parents kissed them goodbye and handed over their breakfasts. A lovely, ordinary scene.

Five or six kilometers, and I was back before breakfast. I had already seen the Potala in unusual light, the morning routines, the police officers and shopkeepers, while the rest of the group was still at the hotel brushing their teeth. I felt like the group's scout. Just a run? Yes. Also a taste of life I wouldn't have had without running.

Later that day we toured the palace, went inside, and climbed onto its walls. Wonderful. But without the sunrise encounter, something would have been missing. That part of the experience was mine alone.