Hello friends! I hope you had a great week!
Last weekend, I ran my first marathon.
It was the Milan Marathon, and I crossed the finish line in 3 hours and 40 minutes. Not fast enough to win anything, and surely a bit slower than I hoped (I feel this is always true for any runner) but the fact that I closed it is already something I am proud of.
The moment I stopped my watch at the finish line, I felt two things at once: sharp, physical pain—my legs had stopped cooperating around kilometer 37—and a surprising emotional high. Not the kind of happiness that makes you jump around, but a calm, satisfied kind that sticks with you.
And so allow me, like any runner you’ve met (or anyone who does crossfit and shares her routine on Instagram :P ) to talk a bit about running and how I have come to love something I, like most people, used to hate.
A year ago I read Haruki Murakami’s What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. His mix of discipline, endurance, and inner dialogue resonated a lot. Thanks to this book I started thinking of running not just as a hobby or a form of exercise, but as a sort of quiet operating system that now runs in the background of my life.
This post is not about sports performance (because I have zero to teach there). It’s an ode to running—its clarity, its usefulness, its metaphors. And why I’ve come to rely on it. And I think most of my reflections apply to other things (e.g. meditation, walking, playing an instrument, etc) so hopefully everyone can relate, also non runners.
My personal running journey
I wasn’t into running at all until about eight years ago. I didn’t hate it, but I never got to it regularly. I would run every once in a while, but never made it a habit. I played football, tennis, some padel, tried squash… I was (and still am) pretty bad at many sports!
Running always felt like something you did as punishment during training, not the main thing.
Then Sara, a colleague at work, casually asked if I wanted to join her for a short run during our lunch break. We have a park nearby, and our office has showers, which made it logistically easy. At first, I joined out of curiosity. It felt efficient—burn some calories, clear the mind, get back to work. But it grew on me quickly. Those 40–50 minutes became a pocket of clarity in otherwise full days. It was time with no meetings, no phones, no to-do lists. Just rhythm, breath, and a bit of sweat.
That small routine stuck. I kept running. Not with any goal, just as something that made my days better. Then a few months ago, another colleague—Aristotele—convinced me to run a marathon. I tried to resist for long time, and did a few half marathons, but eventually he convinced me to get serious about it and he introduced me to a coach, and things changed again.
With the coach, I learned to slow down. Literally. I was used to going out and pushing myself every time. She taught me the value of running easy. Of showing up, often, without trying to break records. That shift allowed me to train for four straight months without injuries. For the first time, running wasn’t just something I did. It became something I planned for. Something I committed to. And something that, to be honest, at times I also hated (especially the weeks before the marathon where I had to wake up at 6 to run 3 hours of long slow runs!!!).
It started as a casual habit. Then it quietly became a pillar around which I planned my weeks.
The Straightforward Nature of Running
One of the things I appreciate most about running is how linear it is. It’s refreshingly simple: you run more, you get better. Not immediately, not dramatically, but consistently.
That’s not the case with most aspects of my life. At work, outcomes are rarely proportional to effort. Projects can be delayed by unforeseen variables, and success often hinges on factors beyond one’s control. Family life is even more nuanced—emotions, timing, and countless intangibles play significant roles. In contrast, running offers a clear input-output relationship. You can’t fake a 10K; either you’ve put in the work or you haven’t.
I find comfort in this directness. In a world filled with complexities and ambiguities, running provides a rare sense of predictability. It’s a discipline where effort correlates directly with improvement, offering a tangible sense of progress that’s often elusive elsewhere.
This clarity isn’t just appealing to me. Many executives are drawn to endurance sports like Ironman races for similar reasons. As highlighted in an article I read a while ago, these events offer a structured challenge where success is directly tied to preparation and effort. The discipline required in training translates into valuable leadership skills, such as resilience and strategic planning .
Murakami encapsulates this sentiment: “The only opponent you have to beat is yourself, the way you used to be.” I’m not aiming to outpace others; I’m striving to improve upon my previous self. This personal competition, grounded in measurable progress, is both motivating and rewarding.
There’s no magic in running, no shortcuts. But there’s also no confusion. You do the work, and the results follow—slowly, but reliably. That reliability has become something I deeply value.
And you only compete with yourself.
Therapy and Mental Clarity
One of the most underrated benefits of running is what it does to your mind. I’m not talking about the kind of gentle mindfulness you might get from a walk. I mean the total mental wipeout you experience during a long run when your heart rate is pushing 160 BPM or more. In those moments, you’re not thinking about your inbox. You’re not worried about that work document or what time your family commitments are on Sunday. Your brain is doing one thing only: keeping you alive.
There’s something primal about it. When you’re deep into a hard run, your body forces all systems to focus on survival—oxygen, stride, breath, sweat. Everything else shuts off. It’s not a conscious choice to disconnect. It’s a biological response. And that’s what makes it so powerful. In a way, it’s the cleanest form of meditation I’ve found. Not because I’m zoning out in a peaceful state, but because I literally don’t have the energy to think about anything else.
This is why I now crave those runs. Not every day, not every session—but the ones where you hit that edge. They help clear out accumulated noise. I start a run with stress, open tabs in my mind, unfinished thoughts. I finish with nothing. Just tired legs and a strange kind of peace.
Murakami writes, “Exerting yourself to the fullest within your individual limits: that’s the essence of running.” I think he’s right. Pushing your body to its edge simplifies everything. It burns through clutter in a way no app, technique, or productivity hack ever has.
It’s therapy by exhaustion. And it works (at least for me).
Running as a Source of Inspiration
Not all runs are hard. In fact, most of them aren’t. And those easy runs—when my heart rate is low and the pace is conversational—have become a surprisingly rich space for ideas.
I usually listen to podcasts or audiobooks while running. It started as a way to make the time go faster. Now it’s one of the most productive things I do. Something about the movement, the fresh air, and the absence of screens creates this ideal environment for thinking. I don’t take notes, but I sometimes dictate voice memo (panting in the background) to my phone. Most of the ideas for my newsletter posts started on a run.
Murakami talks about this too. He draws a direct line between running and writing, describing both as solitary acts that require stamina, repetition, and a tolerance for boredom.
There’s a quote from his book I keep going back to: “I stop every day right at the point where I feel I can write more. Do that, and the next day’s work goes smoothly.” That discipline, that rhythm—it’s the same logic in running. You show up. You pace yourself. You build over time.
Running helps me think not because I’m trying to, but because I’m not trying at all. When I’m not consciously problem-solving, that’s often when the best solutions appear. Something I heard in a podcast will suddenly click with something I read earlier in the week. An open question in my head suddenly feels clearer. And by the time I’m back home and showered, I already know what I’ll write about later that day.
Reflections on the Marathon
Marathon day was unlike anything I had experienced before. The first half was smooth—I felt good, controlled, optimistic. Around kilometer 25, I started to feel it in my legs. By 30, it was no longer about pacing. It was about keeping it together. And the last 10 kilometers… those were pure grit. I only kept running because I told myself “if I have to walk to the finish line it’s going to take forever”.
Everyone talks about the wall. It’s real. Not because something dramatic happens all at once, but because everything becomes hard, all at once. Your legs tighten, your posture collapses, your brain tries to negotiate shortcuts. It becomes a test of will, not fitness. What surprised me most was how emotional it got. You’d think the last stretch would be about suffering. It is. But it’s also strangely moving. You’re hurting, but also proud. You know you’ll make it, and that certainty carries you.
Leading up to the race, I told myself—and anyone who asked—that this was a one-time thing. “I’m only doing it once,” I kept repeating. “It’s not really my thing.” Classic first-timer talk. And yet, a few hours after finishing, in pure clichè I was already thinking about what it would take to run the next one. About how to finally break the 3:30h line I had quietly set for myself at the beginning of training.
Crossing the finish line wasn’t a climax. It was a quiet release. Relief. Gratitude. A mix of being done and realizing what I had actually done. It wasn’t just the 42 kilometers—it was the four months of showing up, adjusting my schedule, planning meals, skipping drinks, and sleeping more. The race was just the visible part.
That’s what makes the marathon different. It’s not the run—it’s everything that had to happen to make it possible. And when you’re done, you carry that with you.
And finally, I often think about the “when is the last time you did something for the first time?” As adult you tend to become routinary and I always try to push myself to step outside of the comfort zone and learn new things. It’s scary and, by design, uncomfortable, but also fulfilling as only new things can be!
Runners are weird
I used to think runners were a bit strange. The idea of waking up early to jog for an hour, or spending a Sunday morning doing intervals, sounded like a chore. Now it’s something I rely on. Not because I’m chasing a podium or a six-pack. But because it helps me function better—in work, in life, in my head.
Running started as a simple break in the middle of the day. A practical habit. It slowly turned into a framework: a way to measure progress, reset perspective, and make space for thinking. It taught me that consistency beats intensity. That the best ideas often come when you’re not trying to force them. And that pain, handled well, can actually bring clarity.
I ran a marathon. I said I’d only do one. Now I’m already thinking about the next.
If you run, I’d love to hear what it brings to your life. And if you don’t, what’s your go-to activity to relax and unwind?
Have a fantastic weekend,
Giovanni
Book in a tweet
I actually wrote the whole post on this book, so no need for a tweet. He says in a very good way the things I tried to express above. It’s a good read, at least for runners!
Ciao Gio,
That totally resonates with me. In my case, it's not running but HIIT training that I do every morning. I start at 5:30 AM, since the rest of the day is packed with other activities.
Do I enjoy it? Not really. People who hear about it often think I’m crazy. But there’s something about this routine that builds both mental and physical strength—and I feel it adds real value to everything else I do throughout the day.
Mentally, it gives me self-awareness, a sense of consistency, discipline, and the willingness to do what’s necessary. Physically, I’m fitter now in my forties than I’ve ever been. I’ve also realized I’m at an age where my body won’t naturally get stronger with time, so I’d better take good care of it.
For me, part of the trigger for this behavior came from reading some of David Goggins’ books. He’s definitely extreme, but I found much of what he says to be genuinely inspiring. You probably know him—if not, give his books a read and let me know what you think!
Ale
Giovanni, thank you for sharing your story. We often see the finish photos, but not a story of why and what it took to get there.
I swim, and swimming brings clarity and creativity. I often get out of the pool and write down 2-3 ideas or actions. Curiously, I often start swimming with one problem, and then my subconscious pivots to something else, which turn out to be more important. I like these moments of intuition. In my everyday life there is never enough time to sit quietly for 20 minutes and listen to myself - swimming gives me that.
Now I am tempted to get into the long-distance swim competitions :) thanks for the inspiration!