I Didn’t Fall Out of Love with Running. I Fell Out of the Version of Running I’d Built Around Myself.
For years, I was an ultrarunner.
Not just someone who ran a bit – I seemed to be always running. Not just someone who entered the odd race. I was the person who thought nothing of 30 miles, 40 miles, 50 miles, or even 100. Long days on tired legs. Headtorch miles. Food that made no sense outside the context of an aid station. The strange little rituals. The planning. The maps. The training blocks. The inevitable moment in every ultra where you wonder why on earth you do this, followed by the equally inevitable moment where you remember. The weird trippy shit when your body and mind are pretty pickled – not so much!
For a long time, I loved running… And then, last year, toward the end of it, I didn’t.
That’s the bit I’ve struggled to explain. There was a bit of mental fallout and fatigue after the SIRONA DNF. The foot injury didn’t help much so I did more cycling to compensate. However, I didn’t throw my shoes in the bin. I didn’t wake up one morning and decide I was done. It was more like the colour slowly draining out of something. The runs were still there. The trails were still there. The person who used to want them, though, seemed harder and harder to find.
This year, I’m ticking over. Smaller distances. Parkrun. A bit of routine. A bit of movement. Enough to keep the legs turning, but not enough to pretend I’m still chasing the same things.
And part of me has wondered whether I should feel guilty about that.
Because when you’ve been an ultrarunner, stepping back can feel oddly loaded. People know you as that person. You know yourself as that person. You’re the one who does the big stuff. The long stuff. The daft stuff. The stuff other people call impossible while you’re standing there thinking, “Actually, it’s mostly just eating, walking, and refusing to sit down for too long.” I was OK at it. Why would I stop doing something that I was good at?
But identity is a funny thing. At some point, “I run ultras” can quietly become “I am an ultrarunner.” And when the love fades, it doesn’t just feel like you’ve lost interest in a sport. It can feel like you’ve misplaced a piece of yourself.
I think that’s one reason it’s hard to talk about. We’re used to stories about falling in love with running. We’re used to comeback stories, transformation stories, finish-line stories, “running saved me” stories. And those stories are true for lots of people. They’ve been true for me at times.
But there’s another story too.
Sometimes running gives you exactly what you need for a season of your life, and then your needs change.
Maybe the thing that once felt freeing starts to feel like pressure. Maybe the distance that once made you feel capable starts to feel like admin. Maybe you get tired of proving something, even if you’re not sure who you were proving it to. Maybe the sacrifices stop feeling noble and start feeling unnecessary. Maybe your body is fine, but your mind quietly says, “Can we do something else for a bit?”
That doesn’t mean the love was fake. It means it was alive. And living things change.
Looking back, I can see how ultras gave me so much. They gave me confidence. Community. Adventure. A reason to get outside when it would have been easier not to. They taught me that discomfort is often temporary, that sweet treats can fix almost anything, and that you can feel completely broken at mile 80 and somehow still be moving at mile 90.
But they also took up space.
Not in a bad way, necessarily. Big goals require big space. Training for ultras shapes your weekends, your energy, your conversations, your sense of what counts as “enough.” After a while, I think I forgot that running was allowed to be small. It didn’t always have to be epic. It didn’t always have to build towards something. It didn’t always have to end with a medal, a buckle, a Strava essay, or a nap that accidentally becomes a full spiritual experience.
That’s where parkrun has been quietly lovely.
It’s simple. Turn up. Run, jog, walk, volunteer and go home – on a bike. No hour plus long car journeys. No grand narrative required. No one cares whether you’re training for 100 miles or just trying to make it round without regretting breakfast. It has reminded me that running can be ordinary and still worthwhile.
Maybe that’s what I need right now: not the grand adventure, but the gentle habit.
There’s a strange humility in going from ultras to 5Ks. Not because one is better than the other, but because it challenges the ego a bit. It asks: can you still value the run when it doesn’t impress anyone? Can you still show up when there’s no huge goal attached? Can you let yourself be a runner without needing to be the most extreme version of one?
I don’t know whether the ultra running love will come back.
I’m not really missing it. I’m not getting FOMO. Maybe one day I’ll get the itch again. Maybe I’ll see a race route and feel that old flicker. Maybe I’ll find myself packing snacks into tiny bags at midnight and wondering how I ended up here again. Or maybe I won’t. Maybe that chapter has done what it came to do.
I’m trying to be OK with both possibilities.
Because stepping back from something you loved doesn’t erase what it meant. The miles still happened. The finish lines still count. The friendships, views, blisters, meltdowns, laughs and ridiculous mid-race bargains with yourself are still part of the story.
But they don’t have to be the whole story.
For now, I’m letting running be smaller. I’m letting it be less impressive. I’m going slower. Less far. I’m letting it fit into my life rather than asking my life to fit around it.
And maybe that isn’t losing the love.
Maybe it’s learning to love running without needing it to prove who I am. Maybe it’s a sign to go back to trig bagging – it’s what this website is supposed to be about anyway!
