Running used to be an escape. Now, it feels like a reminder of how little space we actually have to move freely.
It’s 4 am in Manila. I lace up my shoes, tuck my phone into my belt bag, and step outside. I pause—what route should I take today? All I wanted was to run, but even that simple choice came with too many obstacles—dark streets, stray dogs, unsafe roads, and the hassle of finding a place that actually felt safe enough to move.
My running journey started last year with Almost Speedy, a run club started by a group of friends from DLSU. The run went swiftly, looping around the Philippine International Convention Center, switching back and forth from the uneven asphalt and the narrow sidewalk, and this five-kilometer run was the deciding moment that made me lace up every week. Since then, I’ve joined races that stand for a cause—climate justice, animal welfare, and mental health. Running stopped being about time and became about purpose.
When gyms closed during the pandemic, people turned to running—free, outdoors, and safely distanced—sparking the comeback of the sport. Races now sell out fast, clubs are everywhere, and gear shops are booming. Runrio President Rio de la Cruz mentioned that social media caused a spike in the sport, and in 2023, Strava recorded running as its “Most Uploaded Sport,” with Gen Z leading the pack.
But as more runners hit the road, cracks begin to show.
Over time, the sport became about showing off—people chase exclusive items, state-of-the-art gear, and complete medal trilogies. Sometimes, it feels impulsive: paying to run a route you could do for free, just for the loot or the flex. Space also became scarce. Fewer venues meant shorter, looped routes and capped participation. Limited runners mean higher per-head costs. Suddenly, a “fun” run carries a not-so-fun price tag.
Running may be more visible now, but it is not necessarily more accessible, especially for those who can’t afford to keep up. And when the focus shifts from the act to what comes with it, you have to wonder—who gets to run freely anymore?
While running the same route on your own time and gear may save you the race fee, it could cost you your safety.
On the other hand, organized runs offer the privilege of safety and assurance. Without them, you’re back to squeezing onto narrow sidewalks, dodging potholes, electric posts, and crowds. You also end up running before dawn or late at night just to avoid traffic and the unbearable heat, only to find yourself watching your back more than your pace.
Even walking is not safe from these risks. The Chinito Walkers, a group of fellow Lasallians who promote walking as a viable commute, inadvertently reveal just how unwalkable cities are. And if you somehow manage to run safely, there’s still one more thing to outrun: the pressure to pick up the pace.
Avid runners eventually fixate on their personal bests, medals, and weekly mileage. Strava, social media, and even run clubs create a quiet pressure to “perform.” “Nahihiya akong tumakbo kasama niyo—baka maiwan n’yo lang ako,” is what some of my friends often say when I invite them to join. And even gentle encouragement, “Kaya mo pa yan,” can land like a challenge before their feet have learned their personal tempo.
(I’m shy to run with you—you might just leave me behind. You can still do it.)
In that quiet pressure to perform, running loses its meaning when it becomes a race against others instead of a rhythm with yourself.
This destructive mindset discourages beginners or slower runners. It hides the real reason many people run—for clarity, healing, joy. But when running starts to feel like an obligation, rest becomes a burden, and a slower pace starts to feel like a failure.
It’s always been simple—one foot in front of the other. But in today’s landscape, it shows who can afford wellness, our tattered streets, and those left behind. Each run is more than an exercise—it’s a reflection of what we have to endure just to move freely in this country. From unsafe streets to expensive races, we run against systems that treat movement as a privilege.
So while medals and milestones can measure progress, they can’t define freedom. Because no matter how far or fast we run, it won’t mean much if there’s no space for everyone to move freely.
This article was published in The LaSallian‘s October 2025 issue. To read more, visit bit.ly/TLSOct2025.
