A Work In Motion
This is a piece I’ve rewritten three times now.
Once after a year on the trail, full of fresh discoveries and a beginner’s naiveity. It was an article filled with technical advice on tying laces and pacing, but limited insight. I had some ideas for links to products I could include.
I revisited the article several months later, as I approached the two-year mark. Things felt a bit more seasoned, but I realized still unsettled.
And now, finally, after three years, I think I’ll go ahead and post it.
No version felt complete. I always felt like I had more to learn, and didn’t want to offer advice or philosophy when I wasn’t even sure what I thought about it all myself.
Was trail running about my form and technique? Was it about mental fortitude? Was it about the emotional or mental struggles along the way? Was it about the good and the bad?
Simply, yes.
But here’s the thing: I don’t expect that feeling to ever go away. That’s life. The learning won’t stop, on the trail or off. My perspective on what trail running means, or why it’s important to me, will always evolve and is deeply personal.
Could I wait another year and write this with deeper insights? Probably. But I didn’t want to keep waiting. Maybe I’ll do a “four-year” post too. Who knows.
The truth is, I don’t even know the exact moment this all started. I don’t know when I saw improvement. I don’t remember the specific weeks or months that were difficult. I just know I’ve been at it for a while and have some thoughts on it.
I’ve always kind of been a runner, but I didn’t start taking it seriously until sometime around the summer of 2022 when I started training for a 50K. And here we are, summer 2025. So, the timeline feels right enough.
Just send it.
I don’t know.✨ We go off vibes here.✨
The Trail’s Indifference, and Why it Matters
The trail doesn’t care if you’re tired. It doesn’t care how much sleep you got, what your goals are, or how impressive your PR looks on Strava. It doesn’t care how work was, or as I came to find out in 2024, if you even have a job.
It won’t offer applause when you conquer a climb or sympathy when your legs give out, and that’s exactly why it gives so much.
Over the past three years, I’ve clocked nearly 3,000 miles on the trail. Some weeks I ran more, many weeks less. Some months were dominated by fatigue or injury; others felt like a dream. But the one constant?
I’ve never regretted showing up.
This essay, or blog, or whatever it ends up being by the time you see it, is a meditation on what trail running has taught me about ego, humility, the power of terrain and weather, and the rare stillness of mind that only nature offered me when I needed it most. It’s about my transformation as a runner, but more presently as a human. It’s free form, likely to evolve, and more about my emotional connection to the sport and the personal growth I attribute to it.
It’s sentimental, and for my friends who already endure my endless run recaps, just one more excuse for me to wax poetic about how cool I think I am for literally just running.
One Ego Please, I’ll Take it To Go
When I first took to the trails, ego came along for the ride. It wanted to go faster, farther, and harder. Every run needed to be measured, compared, and analyzed. Every run needed to be accompanied by an image to post, and needed someone to know. It’s ego, and we’ve spent a few years working to kill it.
I remember an “easy run” that turned into a surprise 10K PR. My ego fed on that for weeks. But the truth is, trail running doesn’t care how fast you go.
That high faded and I started to wonder, how fast can I actually go, how fast do I want to go? I mean, humans can only run so fast, and I’m not training to break any world records. How often will I beat my PRs actually, and how much do I really care?
It’s cliche, but this thought process got me thinking so much more about the journey versus the destination with these types of things. And that slowed down state? It’s reflected elsewhere in my life, it seeped into long road trips, boring days at home, or waiting in checkout lines on busy days.
Ego may get you started, but it’s not sustainable. The terrain will humble you, and the realization of the fading high will humble you. The climbs will test your pride.
And the weather? It laughs at your pacing strategy.
Over time, I began competing less with imagined rivals and more with myself. Just the version of me from last week, last month, or last year. I scaled out my view and felt less rushed. I began to look at my growth over months instead of days and eventually over years instead of those months.
It was liberating.
Terrain, Weather, and the Landscape of Humility
The trail is not a treadmill. There are no climate-controlled settings. No two runs feel the same, even on the same path.
I ran the same route a few times a week for about a year straight; it was a 4.5-mile, roughly 800-foot climb that was my “test” run. I loved comparing previous efforts to present ones on this course.
Calling back to the ego, I constantly tried to see if I could do it faster. The weeks or months would go by with little improvement, because I’d be comparing my cool, dry, summer morning runs that my schedule allowed to my pouring rain, slippery runs later in the year. I was fighting myself to go faster but it didn’t work.
Maybe that was ego, or maybe it was the weather. The result was the same.
I stopped running that course for a while, and when I revisited it months later, I shed literal MINUTES off my time. I gained perspective right then and there.
I remember telling my friend Andrew about that run, excitedly trying to remember what my last PR was, but knowing that I killed it by minutes, struggling to find an exact reason why. Maybe it was the timing, the rest, those extra days in the gym doing leg days? Maybe it was the fact that I ran during a cool morning with dialed-in nutrition? I didn’t know.
I’ve run well-rested, nourished, and hydrated. I’ve also run exhausted, hungry, and wondering if that nagging ache was the start of an injury that would put me off the trail for weeks.
I’ve run into blinding sunlight and against pounding rain. I’ve fallen and finished the run. I’ve fallen and said fuck this and walked back to my truck. I’ve altered course to find the nearest outhouse, and I’ve altered course because I couldn’t make it to the nearest outhouse. I’ve started 10-mile routes that turned into casual strolls, and I’ve had short recovery runs that grew into 2,000-foot elevation half-marathons.
Maybe I’m just undisciplined, or like I said, maybe I’m just going off the vibes.
The trail has many weathered faces, and none of them care how you’re feeling that day.
I’ve run in the rain, and I love it. The world shrank. Rain created this “fog of war,” where you can’t quite see the next turn, even on trails you’ve memorized. It adds mystery, mood, and meditation to the effort. The smell of wet becomes an old friend. Water is abundant and drinkable (if filtered). Each step becomes intentional. It’s like entering a private world that only exists in the downpour.
The rain forces you to watch your steps and slow down.
And then there’s the heat. I’ve run in blistering summer sun, trying every sunblock, sun hoodie, and hat combo known to mankind. Shirtless, sunburned, or swaddled, every variation taught a lesson. The sun demands preparation. It forces you to get up early, plan hydration, and pace yourself. You know it’s a real workout when sweat drips from your elbow and taps your ankle. It’s brutal and honest.
The heat creates a haze that dulls your awareness, forcing you to slow down.
The trail doesn’t reward rushing, or maybe I just don’t enjoy it it. I don’t know how large the circle at the intersection of this Venn diagram is. It asks for awareness, adaptation. I’m learning that everything – fatigue, terrain, and weather is quietly conspiring to make me pay attention.
The terrain and the weather that shrouds it remind you that you’re not in control. That humility is not just useful, it’s necessary. This is where nature teaches you. Nature gives you nothing for free.
That clarity is only earned with time on feet.
Minding My Full Mind and Finding Mindfulness
Some of my most memorable runs haven’t been about scenery or stats; instead, they’ve been about mental quiet and the places I visit in my head. I’ve had 2-hour stretches where I don’t remember thinking anything. I simply arrive back at my truck, covered in sweat and dirt, wondering where I’ve been.
Other days my mind uses the trail like a therapist’s couch, processing problems, untangling worries, finding clarity (It’s not a replacement, you should go to therapy if you need it, not kill your body on a trail and call it self-improvement). But even in those moments, the trail keeps me tethered to now.
I always remember a moment from when I was maybe 9 years old. We were hopping from rock to rock in a creek at a friend’s birthday party. Jumping to a rock, never finding our balance before leaping to the next. His grandfather was watching us and said, “What you’re doing is Zen.” He explained: Zen is just being in the moment.
No past. No future. Just total awareness of your body and mind in motion. It didn’t make sense then.
That stuck with me for some reason, and that conversation floats to the top of my mind often while I run.
Step after step after step after step
Each one demanding attention,
Presence, intention.
That’s where you find Now.
Not in a temple, not on a retreat. But right there, under your feet.
Science calls it soft fascination, a kind of relaxed alertness that nature activates. But I think about that old man’s words more. I don’t remember his name, or even what he looked like. But for some reason, I remember the birthday party being Star Wars themed, and that hopping from rock to rock was a zen thing to do.
The trail doesn’t just teach you to move through the world. It teaches you to be in it. That sense of presence doesn’t stay on the trail. Over time, it’s followed me.
I find myself noticing tension in my shoulders during stressful workdays and adjusting my posture instead of pushing through. I take deeper breaths when I feel overwhelmed. I catch myself in moments of reaction and pause.
I’m more patient now, or at least more accepting of discomfort. More attuned to life’s pace that I can’t control.
It’s hard to explain exactly when this shift started, but I know it came from the trails. From the repeated practice of paying attention, not to thoughts or goals, but to this moment, this breath, this step.
And for that, I’m grateful.
Of Repetition, Grace, and the Ghosts I Follow
Trail running became my rhythm. Not a hobby, close to but not an obsession, it was and remains an anchor for me. It lifts me when I’m down and keeps me up when I’m there. It’s not just a habit, it’s a framework, a constant that I can rely on. A way of showing up for myself, even when everything else feels uncertain, and for those that know, uncertainty was certain, and the running was a constant for me recently.
Some weeks meant four long days on the trail. Others, it was two short jogs and a Sunday hike. Some weeks it was a marathon on Saturday and slow runs during the week. Some weeks it was slow going, but steady while other weeks were fast and chaotic. I don’t know, we go off vibes here.
But the numbers? It was just noise. I don’t remember the miles, I just remember that I kept showing up. What matters is the ritual. The continuity. The space it created for me. The way it’s taught me to do something purely for myself, without expectation or fanfare.
What I’ve learned is this: it’s okay to rest. It’s okay to fall short of your goal. It’s ok to start without a goal. It’s ok to find a goal along the way. It’s ok to change your goal. To walk instead of run. To stop mid-climb, lean on a rock, and just breathe.
The deeper lesson trail running has given me is grace. Grace for the body when it’s tired. Grace for the mind when it’s cluttered. Grace for the process when I don’t see immediate progress. That grace has allowed me to stay consistent, not because I’m perfect, but because I’ve learned how to be kind to myself.
Competing with yourself is a different kind of drive. It doesn’t scream at you, it rests in the background and simply hums.
It’s quiet and at times calculating. You compare one week to the next, one average to the last. You get lost in the numbers, pace, heart rate, elevation gain, and distance. You remember the time you ran a personal best but felt miserable doing it. Then think about the run you took slowly that somehow felt effortless. You wonder where your peak is. If you’ve already hit it. If you’re just now brushing up against it. It’s nebulous and omnipresent.
This kind of self-competition has no spectators and no podiums. It’s personal.
You’re running against ghosts.
You’re racing a memory of how you thought you were. A ghost of how you think you felt. You’re letting your past self catch up, or fall back. You’re questioning and pushing, adjusting and learning. And through it all, you realize that the finish line is always moving. The point wasn’t ever to reach it. The point was to keep going. It’s a carrot on a string, but over time, you realize you don’t like carrots, or something like that.
What the Body Remembers
On a real note.
A big push for me to start running was health. Not the kind you count in pounds, though I was about 50 pounds over what the charts say is healthy. It wasn’t about weight; it was about the vibes.
And man, my vibes were fucking off.
I was winded on backpacking trips. Stopped fitting into the clothes I liked. I’d always run now and then, but the inconsistency was catching up. My occasional weekend run was starting to feel harder. Slower. Heavier. I didn’t like how I looked, sure, but more than that I hated how I felt. Low energy, low confidence. It was spiraling.
So I started small. A treadmill in the garage. I didn’t want to be seen out on the road, squeezed into gear that didn’t fit right and moving slowly.
I ran every day. Just one mile.
Then two.
Eventually four.
My pace was barely faster than a walk but I kept showing up. And something happened. I started feeling better.
No visible change, not at first. But inside, it was there. Every week, I’d take a mental inventory: less winded, more grounded, more confident, happier.
And with that came the momentum, the desire to branch out. That fear of being seen? Still there.
But then I found a local trail network, close to home, empty enough to let me exist without the feeling of being on display when I felt at my worst.
The trails gave me solitude and self-improvement in equal parts. Hikes uphill still counted. The jog back down felt like flying. I’d pass maybe two people, max and that tradeoff was everything for me. It became mine. My place. My practice. My third space. I was hooked.
Eventually, the fear of the road faded. I ran a few loops on pavement, realized I was faster, more fluid. I still run both now. But I’ll always call myself a trail runner first.
Before I ever saw a difference, I felt one. And that’s the moment I realized: this body is just a vessel, not an ornament or a measurement, but a means of carrying me toward the life I want to live.
When I run, I’m not trying to look a certain way or hit a pace. I’m chasing the trail that lets me feel most like myself.
When to Burn and When to Breathe
Some of the most important decisions happen mid-run.
I’ve started with ambitious plans, hoping to conquer a big loop or to rack up mileage and elevation, and halfway through, I’ve felt something shift. Fatigue creeps in deeper than expected. A dull ache in the knee makes itself known, or I just really needed to take a shit. Things happen.
The sun gets hotter, the water runs low, the raindrops get wetter, or the wind kicks up harder than forecasted. And in those moments, I’ve made choices. Sometimes I cut it short. Sometimes I add distance just to see where a trail disappears into the trees.
I’ve walked back when I needed to. I’ve pushed through and paid the price.
Trail running doesn’t just train your body. I think at a certain point the physical returns are diminishing, and it’s 90% a mental game. It teaches you to listen to yourself.
To check in often. To assess, not guess. Because the trail doesn’t have sympathy. If you ignore that quiet voice telling you to slow down, you might find yourself limping back or not finishing at all.
You can’t fake your way through a trail run. There’s no hiding behind autopilot. Every step is information about where you are physically, mentally, and emotionally. Some days you’re strong and want to keep going. Others, you’re just surviving.
I’ve run on days where I’ve been low. Like I needed to cry on the trail. Sometimes that slowed me down and other times it fueled me through.
It’s all good.
Pushing when it’s right teaches you resilience. But pausing when you need to? That teaches you wisdom. Just ask Andrew. And in a culture that glorifies going harder, faster, and longer, there’s something satisfyingly defiant about knowing when to stop.
Listening to your body isn’t a weakness. Neither is modifying your goal mid-run. It’s an act of care. It’s self-trust. It’s grace, again.
This isn’t about shrinking from the challenge, because you start to realize the challenge isn’t the run, it’s showing up. It’s about sustaining your practice. Protecting your longevity. Knowing that one run doesn’t define you, but the way you treat yourself across hundreds does.
And that awareness? That ability to pivot with intention instead of defeat? To hold your head high as you walk back to the trailhead covered in mud? That’s one of the most valuable things trail running has ever taught me.
No Praise No Pity
They say you find what you need when you aren’t looking. I think that’s true. But sometimes, you don’t know what you need until you’re already in the middle of it.
The trail isn’t a coach. It’s not there to push you harder. It’s not a cheerleader. There are no crowds, no claps, no Strava kudos that improve your health or pay your rent.
It won’t ask you how you’re feeling, and it doesn’t care if you’re thriving or falling apart.
And that’s literally the point.
The trail doesn’t cater to my moods. It never adjusted to my expectations. It doesn’t bend for my best days or back off when I’m dragging. It simply is. Relentless, beautiful, rugged, and real.
Its indifference becomes the canvas. I brought everything else.
The self-doubt.
The determination.
The overthinking.
The hopes.
The grief.
The pressure.
The joy.
The curiosity.
The rolled-up toilet paper and trowel.
All of it spills out on the trail. There’s no scoreboard. No validation. No feedback loop. So everything becomes personal, and the progress becomes internal. Growth becomes self-guided. And that I think, is where the magic happens.
Trail running becomes less about fitness and more about practice. Less about distance and more about presence. Less about PRs and more about awareness. Less about technique on the trail and more about mindset in the moments leading up. Less about the day and more about the week.
It teaches mindfulness without needing to call it that. It teaches resilience, not with a loud voice but with consistent friction.
It teaches presence through roots underfoot, shifting red earth, the rhythm of one foot and then the next.
The trail doesn’t know who you are, but it can help you find out. It doesn’t ask anything of you, but shows you where your ceiling is.
And maybe that’s the gift I didn’t expect to find when I started running, to be given a space where nothing is expected of me, and yet somehow, everything is demanded.
Not by the trail. But by the part of me that shows up to meet it.
The Space Between Strides
Trail running hasn’t changed how I move through the world, but I think it’s changed how I exist in it.
It’s shifted the way I respond to stress, to discomfort, to challenge. I listen better now. To my body, to others, to the pauses between things. I slow down more, not because I’ve lost drive, but because I’ve gained awareness.
I’ve learned that discomfort doesn’t always mean danger. Sometimes it’s just a signal. An invitation to get curious, not reactive.
Trail running has taught me that progress rarely follows a straight line. You won’t always go faster. You don’t always feel stronger. Some weeks it feels like you’ve taken ten steps back. Then you look up and realize you’re still moving forward.
You’re still out there.
I’ve learned that grace, not grit, is what keeps you coming back. Grit will get you through the big climbs. But grace is what brings you to the trail in the first place, and what calls you back when you’ve been away.
And most importantly, I’ve learned the trail doesn’t care.
And in that indifference, I’ve found something that feels a lot like freedom.
Three years in and I’m still learning. Still falling. Still growing. Still showing up, week after week, not because I have to but because I get to.
The vibes? They were once off.
But now? They’re pretty good.
– Ben
