I write this while listening to the theme music of The Last of the Mohicans. For me, it has become inseparably linked to running through a motivational speech I found on YouTube, which I listen to almost every time before a race. The quietly swelling music gives the speech a rising intensity, punctuated by the rhythmic shouts of “I am a champion!” The coach rallies his team for a championship battle, reminding them that even when their legs fail, their mind and heart will carry them forward. Alongside their teammates, they have shared sacrifices, shed blood and sweat. They will never leave each other behind.
The speech borrows its vocabulary and rhythm from the creed of the U.S. Army Rangers, filled with the language of war and battle. It ends with a reminder that history need not be kind when you define yourself—no one else can do that for you.
Before sitting down to write, I watched scenes from The Last of the Mohicans, The Lord of the Rings (the Ride of the Rohirrim), and The Last Samurai, all set to epic film scores. The scenes from The Last Samurai especially reminded me of my younger years practicing traditional Japanese jujutsu and swordsmanship.
I haven’t trained in jujutsu for years, and I’m not sure I want to again. I’ve grown weary of the world’s narcissistic old men who send others to kill or harm because they themselves never learned how to live. I no longer want to practice killing anyone with a sword—even though the chance of ever needing to do so is nonexistent.
What I long for—what I wish for my fifteen-year-old son and all the men (and women) in the world—is the chance to practice living. To love. To give their best to those close to them and to their communities, and to trust that they, too, will receive in return. To build a future where every person can truly thrive, where their human needs are met. I can’t stop wondering why masculinity has once again become a threat to all of this.
Yet I can’t help but be moved by the spirit of sacrifice, camaraderie, unwavering resolve, and calm that these warrior cultures depict. Yes, the flip side is often a familiarity with violence, an inability to see peaceful solutions, and a narrative logic where the hero never gets to live quietly with the one they love. All the ugliness of a culture built on power and force is there. But something deeply human also shines through—something so vital that it compels me to sit up in the middle of the night and write.
I don’t follow races closely, but yesterday I was moved by the news of Anna Troup, the 56-year-old winner of the women’s category in the Montane Winter Spine Race—a 431-kilometer ultramarathon from England to the Scottish border. What an achievement! At the same time, my heart ached for Johanna Antila, the Finnish runner who had to drop out just tens of kilometers from the finish after running most of the race alongside Anna. Imagine running for days, only to stop when the finish line is almost in sight.
For most trail runners or ultrarunners, races of hundreds of miles in winter mountains are a distant dream (or nightmare). But anyone who has given their all in their first marathon or ultramarathon—or even had to drop out after a long effort—has pushed themselves to the limit. We live in a society where instant gratification is the norm, where we’re sold the idea that buying things brings us value. We forget that everything truly meaningful, beautiful, and great comes from within.
Sometimes, during the toughest parts of a run, I listen to that motivational speech. Tears rarely stay away at that moment. Luckily, they’re hard to distinguish from sweat. And though the speech comes from team sports, where strength is drawn from comrades, I’ve never felt alone in a race. Those of us on the starting line are literally on the same line, bound by an invisible but powerful bond for that day.
We are united by the belief that through our efforts, we can change the future and reshape the arc of our lives. We are united by faith in human potential. Race day is a day when we all come together to do extraordinary things. The prolonged strain strips emotions raw and unfiltered. We push ourselves to the edge—and sometimes beyond.
When we cross the finish line, we have battled ourselves, our blisters, our pain, our fatigue, our doubts, and the elements. But no one has been harmed. We leave (hopefully) happier, ready to build a better running future for ourselves and a more beautiful future for all of humanity. That is the beauty of running. That is the beauty of life itself.
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