You Still Have To Run

I just got new running shoes.

Now, I have a brother and a sister-in-law who are marathoners, so I hesitate to label myself a runner, but I take enough steps in a week that my four-year-old New Balances were no longer cutting it. Thanks to the generosity of family and friends—and with all due respect to Shohei Ohtani—I traded my soles’ allegiance to Hoka.

Like most things in this choice-ridden world, picking a running shoe was overwhelming. By my count, there are over sixty million style and color combinations on Hoka’s home page alone. But after several tense afternoons of scouring my options and landing on a cool pair of Clifton 10s, I was ready to hit the road.

I once heard that upgrading running shoes almost feels like cheating. Today’s shoes are engineered to provide a revitalized underfoot experience, ultralight cushioning, and a breathable jacquard upper with double-lace lock to mitigate tongue migration, which are real words from Hoka’s website. They’re designed to maximize both form and function, both comfort and efficiency. Some are even built with a significant heel-to-toe drop which is basically constructed to catapult you forward with each step.

Needless to say, when I slipped on my new Hokas for the first time, I felt like I could run forever. I walked out the front door and to the top of my street. It was a crisp 68 degrees. A gentle breeze rustled the blooming trees. It smelled like potential. I clicked my watch to start my workout and sprung down the pavement with an enthusiasm unknown to mankind.

That’s when it happened. Less than one minute into my run, having just acquired the most technologically advanced pair of running shoes I’ve ever owned, I realized something that my fully developed prefrontal cortex should’ve seen coming a mile away: I still had to run.

I turned the corner into the wind, which suddenly felt more hostile than gentle. My heart pounded. My breathing labored. I turned another corner, somehow still into the wind. My pace lagged. My legs tired.

Reality had set in. The shoes were fantastic. But I still had to run.

Sometimes we reach for people, apps, or tech that we hope will eliminate our need to “run.” We think that finding the perfect solution will cancel the discomfort of friction. We get discouraged when running is still hard, even after finding what we think are the right resources. What we don’t often consider is that the runner himself is the only one with the power to move forward.

Growth is meant to be supported, but it was never meant to be replaced.

In the classroom, you’re supported by teachers who go above and beyond, unlimited online resources, and yes, artificial feedback—but it’s you who has to produce the project.

On the field, you’re supported by personal trainers, cutting-edge technology, and the newest gear—but it’s you who has to play the game.

In your relationships, you’re supported by advice from friends, support from family, and wisdom from good counsel—but it’s you who has to have that conversation.

In your faith journey, you’re supported by Sunday morning services, Wednesday night youth groups, and prayers from your parents before dinner—but it’s you who has to talk to God.

And on the road, you’re supported by a revitalized underfoot experience, ultralight cushioning, and a breathable jacquard upper with double-lace lock to mitigate tongue migration—but it’s you who has to run.

I loped my way back to the top of my street, feeling about the same as I did at the end of most runs (which is to say, terrible). The Hokas were light, and the Hokas were fast. They gave me an avenue through which I could perform my very best.

But I still had to run.