"I don't run to add days to my life, I run to add life to my days."
~Ronald Rook
I recently shared a post on Facebook about heading out to run early in the morning—in the cold, dark, and against 26 MPH winds. A friend commented, “And yet, you run,” and asked what keeps me motivated to do it. The truth is, I am motivated to run. I run three mornings a week, almost without fail. I wake up before 5 AM to put in my miles before diving into my daily routine: feeding animals, feeding people, and getting to work. But my motivation for running is different from what many might expect. It’s not about chasing personal records, shedding pounds, or even the promise of toned legs. (Though, I’ll admit, I’ve got some pretty toned legs.)
My motivation is rooted in something deeper—something more external, but also more enduring.
Growing up, I wasn't a runner. Sure, like most kids, I ran for fun—chasing friends, racing for no reason other than to feel the wind in my face. But I was bookish, more interested in the adventures I found in the pages of books than those on a sports field. I'd happily go to the park to watch my brother or sister play in a soccer game, but I'd actually just read one of my many books.
In my teens and twenties, I even joked that the only reason anyone would ever see me running was if something big and scary were chasing me, like a zombie horde.
That changed in a way I never anticipated.
When I was around eight or nine, my father suffered a minor heart attack. After that, his physical activity declined sharply. While my older siblings had experienced all the roughhousing and physical play that kids treasure with their dads, I missed out on that part of him. I remember feeling the absence of those playful moments—the wrestling, the games of tag, the spontaneous laughter that comes from shared, physical fun.
Years later, when my wife and I found out we were expecting our first child, I became deeply reflective. I thought about my father’s health, the limitations it had placed on our interactions, and the loss I felt. I wanted something different for my child. I wanted to be active, present, and healthy—not just to be around longer but to engage longer.
That’s when I started running.
I didn't lace up my shoes to impress anyone or to hit a certain weight goal. I started running because I wanted to give my child (now children) something precious: an active, energetic parent who could run, play, and be fully there. I wanted to ensure that the memories my child had of me would be filled with moments where we could be in motion together, not just as an observer on the sidelines.
This external motivation—to be an active father—has been far more powerful than anything internal could ever be. It’s not about what I look like in the mirror; it’s about what I can give to the people I love. When the alarm goes off before dawn, and it’s cold and dark outside, it’s not willpower or vanity that pulls me out of bed—it’s the knowledge that I’m investing in something bigger than myself.
Yes, I enjoy running. I find it meditative and prayerful. I enjoy the physical challenge of moving from point A to point B with nothing but my own strength. I’ve run in some incredible places—on two continents, along both U.S. coasts, through the driest deserts and the wettest forests, in snow, rain, wind, and sun. I’ve discovered that I’m good at it. I’m fast. I have solid endurance. And unlike most sports, running appeals to my sense of individuality. While I’ve never been drawn to team sports, the solo nature of running fits me perfectly.
Because running, for me, isn’t just exercise. It’s a promise I’ve made to my family and myself—a promise to be here, to be present, and to be ready for the adventures that come, even if it means braving the cold, the dark, and the wind.
This is why I run. Not for the miles, not for the medals, but for love—and I wouldn’t trade that for anything.
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