A Long Distance Relationship

Zoë Rom

February 14th, 2025

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6 min read

Running has been my longest, most committed relationship. It has outlasted flings, fizzled situationships, and on-again-off-again disasters. It even predates my current partner—who, necessarily, is also a runner.

What started as a casual high school fling, an innocent crush, has spiraled into a full-blown, borderline-deranged obsession. Think Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction, but instead of boiling a bunny, I’m waking up at 4:30 a.m. to run hill repeats in a snowstorm.

I don’t know how to love running casually. I don’t know how to do it halfway. Even when I’m injured and painfully aware that I should probably diversify my identity. Even when training setbacks whisper that maybe I should seek fulfillment elsewhere. Even when a race goes so sideways that I want to hurl my trail shoes into the nearest canyon and take up something sensible—like birdwatching or competitive Scrabble.

And yet, nothing else has ever lit me up quite like running absurdly far up an unreasonably steep mountain.

To be fair, I have a few other things going for me. A job I love (which, naturally, is about running). Amazing friends (most of whom, unsurprisingly, are runners). A vibrant social life (which, if we’re being honest, revolves mostly around post-run burritos).

I know it’s probably not the healthiest relationship. I’m usually a bit sore, a  bit tired, and three toenails short of a full ten. But I’m not sure I believe in any other way of being. 

I could find another hobby—something that doesn’t leave me with screaming quads by Sunday night, something that doesn’t require a full-scale logistical operation just to make sure I don’t run out of snacks mid-effort. But the thought of spending my weekends playing Settlers of Catan just doesn’t light me up the way a threshold workout does. I’ve tried watercolors, but no matter how many tutorials I watch, I can’t seem to make them hold my attention the way a meticulously planned route on CalTopo does.

I recently took up knitting, thinking maybe, just maybe, I could channel my obsessive tendencies into something softer, more meditative. So far, I’ve completed exactly one-third of a wool bag—an unfinished project that, fittingly, I plan to use for carrying my trail shoes.

The truth is, my love for running far outruns its usefulness. The distance I cover in a week isn’t about normal fitness. It isn’t even about performance anymore. It’s somewhere in the territory of “Should we stage an intervention?” But for all its impracticality, running is still the thing that makes the world feel big and full of possibility. It grafts a comforting ontology onto my life, even with all of running’s setbacks and heartbreak. While knitting probably won’t ever break my heart, it’s unlikely to be the reason I cry happy tears (or purchase $75 worth of glorified fruit snacks). 

There are definite perks to this love. I’ll never have to meet running parents, explain my life choices over a strained Thanksgiving dinner, endure an awkward breakup conversation where I get told, “It’s not you, it’s me,” or ghost me after a second date. The trails don’t leave passive-aggressive texts on read, and my favorite mountain loop will never start dating my coworker.

Still, every love story has an ending, and I suppose this one will, too. Will it be a slow fade, my tempo runs slipping into leisurely strolls? A dramatic breakup, complete with a sobbing vow to never do this again—only to be spotted signing up for another 100-miler two weeks later? Or will I finally succumb to the ultimate rebound relationship – gravel biking? Unlikely.

But no matter what happens, at least we’ll always have Paris. Or, more accurately, the dirt ribbons of the San Juans, the switchbacks of Chamonix, the ridiculous 4:30 a.m. alarms before big adventures. Because, unlike most relationships, this one leaves behind no bitter endings—only well-worn trails and the miles we shared.

Over time, I’ve loosened my grip—somewhat. Shoutout to the coaches who have reined me in, given me purpose, and gently suggested that maybe, just maybe, I don’t need to treat every easy run like an audition for the Olympic Trials. There are too many trails to run, too many races to race, too many stupidly ambitious adventures to have. I’ll diversify when I’m dead—or when my ankles finally wave the white flag.

At the end of the day, running isn’t just something I do—it’s the reason I do most things. It’s the throughline. The north star. The thing that keeps me coming back, even when it chews me up, spits me out, and leaves me swearing I’ll never sign up for another race again (only to have me Googling ultras two hours later). Maybe that’s just love. The devotion, the heartbreak, the inevitable return.

Is it my truest love? Well, shoutout to my actual partner, who tolerates my pre-dawn alarms, endless shoe pile, and the fact that I sometimes smell like an aid station. For our second date, we ran up Hope Pass because in my book, it’s never too soon to test someone’s commitment level and VO2 max. Six years later, I proposed while pacing him at Leadville 100, somewhere around mile 98—because nothing says forever like a grindy uphill finish and the distinct possibility of vomiting. I’m told this still legally counts as consent.

Obsession isn’t the right word. Running is less of a driving force than a guiding light—a buoy when I’m unmoored, a lighthouse when I’m lost, an absurd but animating force. It’s been with me through everything, steady as ever. And for that, I’ll always come back.

Zoë Rom