Rundefeated

The Day I Became a Runner, I Also Became an Amateur Air Quality Inspector

When I first started running, my only concerns were simple: don’t die, don’t trip, and if possible, look moderately athletic while doing it. Air quality? Couldn’t have cared less. As long as my playlist was banging and my shoes didn’t give me blisters, the atmosphere could’ve been made of barbecue smoke and expired Axe body spray for all I noticed.

But somewhere around my third pair of running shoes, I realized I was spending a suspicious amount of time checking the sky. Not for rain, not for ominous flocks of crows, but for clarity. That sweet, elusive shade of blue you only notice once you start moving through cities on your own two feet.

I blame Kyoto for this awakening. One morning run through its ancient streets and along the Kamo River, and my lungs felt like they’d been upgraded to premium. The air was crisp, the sky was a flawless Pantone-approved blue, and even the occasional temple bell in the distance seemed to ring in honor of the atmosphere’s purity. I finished that run thinking, “Wow, air can actually taste like… nothing?” Because that’s the thing — after I became a runner, it felt like I could taste the air. And in Kyoto, it was like sipping cool, invisible mineral water through my nostrils.

Then came Seoul. I’d heard stories about Korea’s air pollution, but I must’ve visited on one of those rare days when the sky turns the exact shade of a freshly laundered bedsheet. Running along the Han River, I caught myself doing something I’d never done before: actively breathing deeply just because I could. No hints of exhaust, no chemical tang, just clean, optimistic air that made me believe I might actually finish a 10K without wheezing. My lungs practically sent me thank-you notes afterward.

Sydney was next, and honestly, Australia felt like it was showing off. The air down there smells like a eucalyptus-scented spa treatment. I half expected a kangaroo to hop by offering me a herbal tea mid-run. Even in the middle of the city, the skies were so clear I could probably see my hopes and dreams floating above me. I took a deep breath, tasted clean air, and thought, “Man, is this what running’s supposed to feel like? No wonder Australians are so chipper.”

Then came Germany. If efficiency had a scent, it would be the air in Berlin. Everything smelled organized. No, I don’t know how that works either. The sidewalks were clean, the parks were greener than a health food ad, and the air was so clean it felt like my lungs were getting a factory reset. I didn’t even mind getting overtaken by a 60-year-old man in a retro tracksuit — I was too busy inhaling pristine European oxygen, tasting the crispness like a freshly opened bottle of sparkling water.

New York surprised me. I was expecting taxi fumes and hot dog stand smoke, but Central Park at sunrise was a revelation. The sky blushed pink and blue as I jogged alongside ambitious Labrador owners and freelance yoga instructors. Sure, one or two random sewer steam vents puffed up like a B-movie special effect, but otherwise, it was a breath of fresh air. Literally. For the first time in my life, I tasted optimism on a city run.

And then — Nairobi. I’ll never forget Nairobi. The sky there was so aggressively blue, it made Sydney look like it wasn’t even trying. The air had this dry, golden quality, like nature’s own Instagram filter. I ran past locals effortlessly gliding by at paces that made my GPS watch question its life choices, but I didn’t care. I was high on pure, unfiltered oxygen and mild altitude-induced euphoria. Every breath tasted like bottled freedom.

Which brings me to Jakarta. Ah, Jakarta. The city I love, the city where my running shoes have logged more kilometers than my car — and where the sky always looks like it’s been dipped in diluted cement. It’s a color I can only describe as urban beige. Even on a “clear” day, the sun appears to rise reluctantly, peeking out like someone trying to sneak into a party they weren’t invited to.

Running in Jakarta turned me from a casual sky-gazer into a full-blown AQI app addict. I now check the air quality index before every run like I’m about to bet my life savings on a horse race. Green day? Miracle. Yellow? Proceed with caution. Anything above 150 and you’ll find me power-walking laps around the nearest air-conditioned mall.

And here’s the thing: after becoming a runner, I discovered I could actually taste the air. Not in a romantic, poetry-worthy way. No — in Jakarta, it tastes like anxiety, mixed with hints of burnt clutch and motorcycle exhaust. It got so bad I ended up buying an Under Armour sports mask just to survive a 10K in my own hometown. Picture this: me, decked out like a post-apocalyptic athlete, dodging motorbikes and potholes while trying to clock sub-6-minute kilometers, feeling like a futuristic ninja on the run from smog.

I started noticing things too. Like how after a 5K in Jakarta, my post-run cough sounded like a two-pack-a-day smoker. Or how my sweat felt weirdly sticky, as if the air itself was clinging to me in protest. And those rare days when the rain clears the smog and you get a glimpse of a blue sky? I treat those like public holidays, complete with celebratory coffee runs and obnoxious Instagram stories captioned “#blessed.”

It’s reached a point where I’ve become that guy at gatherings. The one who, upon spotting a patch of unpolluted sky, grabs people by the shoulder and says, “Look at that. Look. That’s what air is supposed to look like.” My friends think it’s charming. Or they’re too polite to say otherwise.

I even started packing running gear specifically for destinations I knew had good air. Forget tourist attractions — my travel plans now revolve around oxygen quality. I’ve had people ask me how the Eiffel Tower was and I’d answer, “Couldn’t tell you, but Parc des Buttes-Chaumont? Air like silk.”

And let’s be honest — this air obsession is weird. I know it. No one warns you about this side effect of running. Sure, they’ll tell you about sore knees, blisters, and occasional existential crises at the 17th kilometer. But no one mentions that one day you’ll wake up early, look out your window, and your mood for the day will hinge entirely on the clarity of the sky.

I even started having intense debates with friends over which cities have the best air. “Sydney’s great,” one will say, “but have you tried Cape Town?” “Bro, Seoul on a clear day,” I’ll counter, eyes narrowing. Conversations that once revolved around football scores and coffee shops now include casual AQI comparisons.

The irony is, I never used to care about air at all. Pre-running me would happily chow down on street food beside a roaring diesel truck without a second thought. Now, I cross the street to avoid cigarette smoke and side-eye anyone revving a motorbike near my favorite running path like they just insulted my mother.

So yeah — running changed me. It made me fitter, sure. It gave me a hobby, a community, and legs that occasionally resemble those of a competent athlete. But more than that, it turned me into a sky-sniffing, AQI-checking, atmospheric snob.

And honestly? I kind of love it.