Running in Korea

A river flows through mountains in Korea's rural area. Courtesy of David Tizzard

I’m not quite sure why I started running. There must have been a day when I decided I was going to start doing it. Probably around "Covid time," as people used it as an excuse to get out the house. Social media was filled with people doing 5k runs. There’s also the possibility of a midlife crisis having something to do with it. A lot of people my age seem to take it up as a way of clinging to their youth and staving off the paunch as long as possible.

Whatever the reason, I now run regularly. I try to put in a 10k run 2 or 3 times a week as well as few 5ks as well. I don’t really go all in for the athletic clothing and sunglasses, but I have a decent pair of shoes and some headphones. That seems to be enough.

What I love about running here is that there’s so much to see. A hidden Korea. Of course there’s a parallel universe when instead of being down by the river, I sit on my computer and get drawn into social media, commenting on every headline, getting wound up by every scandal. But when you are running, for an hour or so, there’s no screen, no algorithm, and no dopamine spikes and crashes created by filters and feeds. Just Korea. It won’t be the last time I say this, but the Korea that’s found online is very different from the one experienced outside.

Runners who run

Korea is famous for its hikers who dress as though they’re about to tackle Everest when in fact they’re just strolling up a hill. And it’s low-key true at times. Some Koreans love getting dressed up like that. For the cycling as well. Running feels a bit different, however. I see so many people down by the river; old, young, thin, fat, fast, slow, and everything in between. Of course they are Korean so they run in black most of the time.

As I pass them, I normally smile and raise my fist. “Fighting,” I shout at them over the noise of our respective airpods. The vast majority love it. They smile, raise their own fist in return, and grin at me. It’s the kind of connection that doesn’t happen in a subway or a suburban shop. It’s not just mutual acknowledgement, it’s support for someone else you don’t know. Politics, music, age. Nothing matters. We’re both runners. (Or at least we’re trying to be). Some people of course see me and just decide to keep their heads down, pretending I’m not there. And I get it. When you’re out there busting your ass, the last thing you want is some sweaty foreigner shouting at you.

But I love the different demographics of people who run. The young couple with their leggings keeping up a real good pace. The grandfather who is not getting further than a kilometer but still sweating like a trooper. The chubby university lad who has decided he needs to shift some weight if he’s gonna get a date soon. The young women in ROK Army tops running in pairs. I see them in the morning before my lectures. On weekend afternoons. And in the late evening autumn breeze. It’s actually quite amazing how much of an ecosystem there is by the river.

What you see by the river

As well as the runners, there are of course lots and lots of dogs being walked. For the middle-aged and elderly, a dog becomes something akin to a second child. A way to keep a family together or perhaps repair one that has fallen apart. None of the dogs you see seem to be bounding along chasing sticks like in an American drama. Instead they toddle obediently behind their owners. Some get carried. In the real extreme cases you see their little white heads poking out the top of a stroller, being pushed along like some kind of Queen of Sheeba in a royal chariot.

The dogs are not alone, however. There’s always a tall, white bird standing perfectly still in the river, as if it has paused to consider the universe It could be a Great Egret, or maybe a Grey Heron, but in the early morning light, that hardly matters. To me it looks like a character straight out of “Kung Fu Panda." Silent. Motionless. Containing none of the urgency that plagues humans. Occasionally, it will shift a foot or tilt its head, but mostly it remains perfectly indifferent to the feet pounding past.

The old boys sit around at regular intervals playing board games. I see both baduk (go) and janggi. Two play, the rest stand around smoking cigarettes, commenting on the moves. I’ve thought about joining them some days, but I fear my smoking days are behind me and I’ll get hustled out of my milk money.

There’s an old lady who sits under the bridge playing her accordion. It sounds awful, a combination of the poorly recorded trot backing track coming out of a cheap speaker running out of batteries and arthritic fingers struggling to keep up with the brain. But she’s playing. And for the few seconds as I pass her, the doppler effect of her creation gives me a little extra push when I’m tired.

There’s a barefoot walking path, complete with showers for rinsing your feet, and racks to keep your shoes safe. It’s all the rage these days in Korea. The practice, other than just walking on dirt, is connected to a concept called grounding (whatever that means) and making sure your feet are somehow reconnecting with the earth. What’s remarkable is not just the novelty, but the thoughtfulness: the feet showers are spotless, the path is meticulously maintained, and there is zero worry that someone might walk off with your shoes. This level of trust feels almost utopian.

Just beside it sits a miniature golf course. It’s not a standard pitch-and-putt; the holes only stretch 50 to 70 yards. The grandads and grandmas wander from hole to hole, smacking plastic balls across the grass. Quiet conversations filled with the occasional chuckle and the satisfying click of a ball. And it’s free. Free!

So are the public exercise machines placed at regular intervals. They have no graffiti, and I often see repair men there, oiling the gears and doing all sorts of other things. Old ladies swing their legs as if skiing. Some hang upside down on them. I’m not sure what that actually does, but they seem to like it.

There’s a couple of badminton nets where people play. A space where the elderly congregate and sing songs. This brings hundreds of people on the weekends. It’s almost like a nightclub for the silver-haired. They also do aerobics in the morning as a younger woman stands on a stage, orchestrating a group of 30-odd ajjuma through a routine of claps, twists, and lunges.

Why it matters

I’ve realized that running in Korea isn’t really about running at all. It’s about noticing the small, extraordinary details of everyday life that don’t appear online. Obviously you get a great sense of the seasons changing. But you can also appreciate the sense of community, trust that no one will steal your shoes, use the free exercise machines and golf courses, and observe the way people share space and energy without expectation. For a foreigner like me, it’s actually quite humbling. And it reminds me that you don’t have to be good at running. You don’t have to be pretty. Rich. Or important. You just have to show up. To put one foot in front of the other.

And when you do, you see a side of Korea that doesn’t appear in any K-pop video or Netflix drama. It’s absurd. Alive. And full of smiles, life, and laughter.