Rundefeated

There’s something about running near a river that makes me feel like I’m in a cinematic montage — wind in my hair, earbuds blasting my favorite power song, and a faint illusion that I’m gliding instead of gasping for air. Maybe it’s the gentle flow of the water reminding me to keep going, or maybe it’s because I subconsciously believe that if I collapse, at least the view will be nice. Whatever the reason, rivers have become my unofficial running buddies across the globe.

Let’s start with the Kamogawa River in Kyoto — a place so picturesque it looks like a watercolor painting brought to life. The river itself is more of a graceful stream, bordered by willow trees and scattered with herons who act like they own the place. On my first run there, I witnessed a stoic elderly man casually jogging past me while reading a paperback novel. I, meanwhile, was wheezing like a Victorian orphan with asthma. If that doesn’t humble you, nothing will. But as the sunlight spilled onto the gently rippling water, I couldn’t stay embarrassed for long. It felt like the whole city had agreed to be quiet and beautiful for my benefit.

Then there’s the Danube River in Budapest, which manages to be both regal and wild at the same time. Its riverbanks feature perfectly placed benches where elderly Hungarians feed pigeons with the intensity of a world championship sport. I did a sunrise run there once, the sky blooming soft pink and orange as if someone had dimmed the city’s mood lighting. A group of rowers skimmed silently through the misty water while the Parliament building stood tall, bathed in morning light like a proud elder. Caught up in the beauty, I tried to take a photo mid-stride, tripped on a cobblestone, and executed a stumble so dramatic it probably startled a duck. A nearby street musician tuning his violin looked up, shrugged, and kept playing.

Boulder, Colorado, gifted me the Boulder Creek Trail — a riverside route so charming it feels like the setting for an indie rom-com where someone meets their soulmate at a farmer’s market. The creek itself gurgles like it’s sharing a private joke with you. Once, while jogging, I encountered a bearded man meditating in the middle of the trail, a literal squirrel sitting calmly on his shoulder. I blinked twice, unsure whether it was the altitude messing with me, but no — it was a real squirrel guru situation. I gave them both a nod and continued on, feeling like I had just witnessed a minor miracle.

Closer to home, the Progo River in Magelang, Indonesia, is raw, earthy, and wonderfully unpredictable. The running track is more of a dirt path, weaving between banana trees, rice paddies, and the occasional goat with major side-eye energy. One morning, as mist clung to the fields, I found myself unexpectedly racing a group of barefoot schoolkids on their way to class. They laughed the whole way, effortlessly outpacing me before veering off toward a warung for snacks. I finished the run feeling thoroughly shown up — but also weirdly uplifted by the impromptu race.

Cheonggyecheon Stream in Seoul is less a river and more a runway for Seoul’s fashionably dressed power-walkers and couples posing for K-drama-worthy selfies. The stream meanders through downtown like a secret escape hatch from the chaos above. During one evening jog, a young couple asked me (mid-sweat, mid-breathlessness) to take their photo. I obliged, even managing a decent shot despite my fogged-up glasses and trembling hands. I later realized I had unintentionally photobombed half of Seoul’s Instagram feeds that evening, grinning like a drenched tourist in the background.

Then there’s the East River at Astoria Park in New York — a place that’s about as gritty, lively, and oddly romantic as you’d expect from the Big Apple. The running track hugs the river under the RFK and Hell Gate Bridges, where the sounds of seagulls, tugboat horns, and occasional New York sass blend into a weirdly energizing symphony. I once found myself caught in the middle of a spontaneous sunrise proposal there — the guy dropped to one knee right on the running path in front of me. I tried to swerve politely but still ended up applauding like an overenthusiastic cousin at a wedding. The East River sparkled behind them, pretending to be clean for the occasion.

There’s a strange magic in riverside running, as if the presence of water rewires your running mindset. Somehow, it tricks your brain into thinking you’re chasing something — peace, clarity, or maybe just a cold iced coffee at the finish line. The sound of flowing water becomes a steady rhythm, the scenery a moving meditation, and the occasional breeze off the river an invisible high-five.

The best part? You rarely feel boxed in. No honking cars, no confusing intersections, just a path that seems to say, “Keep going — there’s probably a duck ahead.” I’ve never once finished a riverside run in a bad mood. Tired? Yes. Questioning my life choices? Often. But bad? Never.

I’ve tried tracks in stadiums, parks, even those awful hotel treadmills facing a beige wall, but none of them hit the same as an actual riverside run. It’s as if the universe decided that running next to water would automatically subtract 10% from your suffering. Or maybe we’re all just biologically wired to jog better when we can imagine ourselves as heroic adventurers chasing down a distant waterfall.

Every time I travel, my instincts go full bloodhound for the nearest river. I could be jet-lagged, starving, and wearing the wrong socks, but if there’s a waterway nearby, I’ll find it. It’s a compulsion now — one I’m entirely okay with.

Of course, every river has its quirks. In Budapest, I once misread a bike lane for a jogging path and nearly caused a polite pile-up of Lycra-clad cyclists. In Boulder, a golden retriever decided mid-run that I was its new owner and accompanied me for half a mile before being retrieved by an apologetic hiker. In Magelang, I discovered mid-run that a funeral procession would be crossing the path, leading to one of the most awkward “Do I stop? Do I jog past respectfully?” moments of my life.

But that’s the charm. Riverside running isn’t just about burning calories — it’s about collecting stories. A flock of pigeons suddenly taking off in unison. The scent of grilled corn wafting over a bridge. A sudden splash from a fish that scares you so badly you briefly achieve a personal sprint record.

In every city, the river feels like an old friend you haven’t met yet. It doesn’t care how fast you run, or what you’re wearing, or how sweaty you get. It just keeps flowing beside you, like an introverted running buddy who doesn’t talk but still makes you feel better.

So here’s to the rivers — the Kamogawas, Danubes, Boulders, Progos, Cheonggyecheons, and East Rivers of the world. You’ve witnessed my finest miles and my worst wheezes, my euphoric sprints and my snack-seeking cooldown walks. Thank you for the shade, the scenery, and the occasional selfie backdrop.

And if I ever run past you again, feel free to wave. I’ll be the one grinning like a fool, convinced I’ve just cracked the secret of the universe… only to forget it as soon as I smell grilled street food on the way home.