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In his new book, “The Running Ground: A Father, a Son, and the Simplest of Sports” (to be published Oct. 28 by Random House), tech journalist and CEO of The Atlantic Nicholas Thompson explores his passion for running, the simplicity of the sport, and how it has changed his sense of self.
Read an excerpt below, and don’t miss Tony Dokoupil’s interview with Nicholas Thompson on “CBS Sunday Morning” October 26!
“The Running Ground” by Nicholas Thompson
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Running is the simplest of sports: right foot, left foot, right foot. There’s no ball to focus on, no mat to land on, no one charging toward you with their shoulder down. But the simplicity opens up complexity. As you run, your attention shifts inward. You’re just you — right foot, left foot, and whatever goes on in your mind.
Running strips you down. The less clothing you wear, the faster you go. The lighter your shoes, the faster you go. As you go faster, your head empties too. At a certain point, all you can register is the sensation of each foot striking the pavement. Mind and matter briefly become one.
You may have to worry about wind and rain and heat, but you rarely have to worry about anyone else. You do it by yourself, which gives you control. You don’t need to travel to a gym or a field; you just need to open your front door. The sport’s simplicity means your successes are your own, and also that there’s no one else to blame when you fail. And no sport shows the relentless decline of the aging body more clearly than running. If you can’t do what you did a year or a month ago, the evidence is right there on your watch.
Sometimes, I use running as a form of meditation. I put on my shoes and go out. I connect my watch to satellites and then try to disconnect my mind from the swirl inside. Eventually, I’m alone in my head. Sometimes, I’ll focus on a musical mantra: “one-two-three, one-two-three,” tracking my steps and making sure I keep my left and right feet alternating symmetrically on the downbeat. Other times, I focus on my breath or on the sounds and motion around me, whether the blue jays in the Catskills or the trucks rumbling by on Broadway. Sometimes, as with all meditation, my attention wanders, like a stream flowing haphazardly through my mind, collecting sticks and carrying them until they wash to the side.
When I run a workout, though, everything changes. I’m not trying to open my mind; I’m trying to close it. I shut out the blue jays and the trucks. I have to focus. If I’m with a training partner, I lock my attention on their shoulder if I’m behind or on their breath if I’m ahead. Usually, though, I’m on my own. I look for runners up the road and set imaginary races against them: Can I catch the lady in the purple sweatshirt before the second oak tree? Can I stay an even twenty meters behind the cyclist playing John Coltrane on a boom box? I check my watch and try not to let my pace deviate from the goal. I try to identify the parts of my body that hurt and then I push the pain away from them. I remind myself that I have run this fast before. Self-doubt is a smoldering fire. In a workout, the embers often flash. I don’t want to give them any air. Every action we take helps to build our habits. Quit once and it’ll be easier to quit the second time too.
I don’t listen to music while I run. Every workout is a physical challenge — I’m trying to strengthen the muscles in my legs and my heart — but it’s also a mental challenge. I’m trying to teach my body how to move quickly and with good coordination through space. Running is a process of learning about your body and developing habits deep inside it. Music can confuse the signals. I want to deepen my understanding of the relationship between my stride, my pace, my breath. I don’t want a bassline, or the adrenaline that can flow with it, to get in the way.
When I race in a marathon, my goal early on is to spend as little energy as possible thinking about anything extraneous. I think about posture and form and balance. I try not to think about the people cheering. I try not to think about past failures or successes. I try to glance as infrequently as possible at my watch. It takes energy, after all, to turn your head, and it takes energy to think. When people in my pack ask questions, or offer commentary, I respond in grunts. On easy runs with friends in the park, I’m a chatterbox. When I race, I’m a vault.
Over the years, the sport has shifted my imagination and my sense of self. When I travel by train, I find myself looking out the window and noting spots to run by the creeks and forests nearby. When I arrive in a new city, I like to circle it with a run. I’ve seen more of the world while running than I have while walking. I have recurring dreams of mountains I’ve run up. But I spend much of the day at a desk, mind-wired to my to-do list. Running is my one connection to nature and to a younger, adventurous self who only and always wanted to be outside.
Excerpted from “The Running Ground” by Nicholas Thompson. Copyright © 2025 by Nicholas Thompson. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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“The Running Ground” by Nicholas Thompson
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