For the past 10 months, I’ve been part of David and Megan Roche’s SWAP team—a group made up of big names in endurance running and people like me, who are much slower but just as passionate about adventure on two feet. In the small world of international trail running, David and Megan are known as much for their humor, their sense of community, their enthusiasm, and their infectious optimism as they are for their athletic prowess and coaching skills. I can’t put a number on what I’ve learned these past few months, but I’d like to share a few reflections here on this rich and profound journey. Being coached by Megan goes far beyond a simple training plan or athletic advice. My athletic practice is now woven into my life, and in that sense, it’s not much different from my spiritual practice. It involves the same questions, the same adjustments, and the same qualities that are fostered and cultivated. There are no spectacular revelations in this process, but rather deeper insights and confirmed intuitions. Here are a few of them:
Loving Solitude
I’ve learned to love running alone. *The Solitude of the Long-Distance Runner*, by Allan Sollitoe, is a book I read long before I became interested in endurance sports. That title captures much of what makes running so appealing to me today. I train alone and cherish that solitude.
I’m learning to be a little more and a little better with myself. I’m coming to terms with the discomfort of exertion, the games my mind plays, and above all, the space around me. I sometimes run for several hours, and like the book’s hero, I traverse multiple physical and mental spaces.
In this landscape, I discover uncharted territories. Fluidity coexists with pain, sadness with appreciation, and confidence with doubt. I’m exploring my unexpected ability to navigate all these states of mind without getting too stuck in them or letting them define me.
Feeling supported, unconditionally
I’ve learned the importance of community, even a virtual one. Because connection is also at the heart of this solitary practice. First with Megan, who guides me every day—and, above all, listens to me. She immediately encouraged me to write my “life notes” in my training journal, along with my reflections on my daily session. I realized that I can’t separate my training from my current concerns. My state of mind that day undeniably affects my run; it’s my whole being that runs with me. And that’s not a problem—I’m learning to run when I’m sad, happy, and often anxious. Running means being fully present with my experience in the moment, just as it is—very imperfect and far from ideal, but true.
There’s the team, too. A network of incredibly rich relationships where we can say or admit anything, and an endless source of inspiration. We talk about our doubts, our fears the day before a race, our frustrations, our small victories, and the joys of our daily lives. Of course, we talk about running, adventures, and lots of nature, but also about births, injuries, work, books, psychology, itchy bras, beer, and burgers. We share our favorite playlists and podcasts, and when I run, I’m never really alone. I know that somewhere on this planet, a Swaper is running too—maybe struggling to catch their breath or feeling like they’re flying along the trails.
There’s an unspoken bond between all of us—a passion for running and nature—and we don’t need to explain or justify ourselves. For me, this is very precious because I live in an environment where people often ask me, “But why do you run?” as if it were a disease or a whim; they warn me about the health risks, or they urge me to exercise moderation—something I’ve always found boring.
Turning Races into a Celebration
I’ve learned to view competition differently. I very rarely feel like I’m training for a specific race. I run first and foremost because I love being in nature, and because running long distances is a little adventure every time. When a race does come along, it’s not the ultimate goal, but a sort of celebration of all the other moments spent on the trails. Of course, my workouts are structured, and my overall training volume is tailored to upcoming goals, but it’s really the process that matters and inspires me.
I loved Megan’s suggestion when I couldn’t find an official race that matched my preferences and schedule. “Create your own race,” she told me. And that’s exactly what I did. I came up with a sort of “anti-race”—no bib, no aid stations, no spectators, and no medal at the finish. I chose to run around Sainte Victoire, the local mountain I love so much and that I explore almost every day.
It was wonderful to set out alone at daybreak in such spectacular surroundings. It was also very hard to push through the difficult moments that inevitably arise when your body aches. All in all, it was exhilarating—a journey through the twists and turns of my own mind: watching doubts arise, feeling them confirmed by physical pain, and finding the courage not to believe them, returning to that sense of possibility that’s always there somewhere. And there was no one to guide me through it. Overcoming doubts in this way gives you incredible confidence. A distillation of life in a single morning.
Explore!
I’ve relearned how to explore. These past few months, I’ve rediscovered my childhood desire to go explore the countryside—something I used to do day after day in my native southwest. I love maps and spend hours planning outings to places I don’t know or know only a little about.
When I go for a run, I rarely tell myself, “Come on, I have to go,” but rather, “Great, what will I discover today?” I want to go further now; I’m itching to go fastpacking in the Alps and elsewhere. Just me and my tent, through the peaks and valleys. Planning all of this is just as much fun as the adventure itself—the routes, the stage lengths, and all the gear, with a preference for keeping things as simple and lightweight as possible.
Running is always a bit of an adventure. Conditions are rarely ideal—too hot, too cold, too windy, too rainy, and even too much snow this winter. The timing is rarely right—too tired, too much work, too many worries, too much of this and that.
But when you love running, the moment to run always comes. It finds its way into the day—sometimes it’s pleasant, sometimes not at all—but it’s always there: that time spent with yourself, that time spent both within your body and in the world. I’ve learned to expose myself to all the elements and to appreciate them. I love running in the rain, in the cold, or in the wind. I have a harder time getting used to the heat, but it scares me less now.
Nofucksgiving
I’ve also—and above all—learned not to take any of this (or myself) too seriously. Running is a huge part of my life, but above all, it’s a game. Kids know this so well. It’s incredibly fun to jump from rock to rock in the mountains, race down the slopes making airplane noises, pee behind the bushes, and roll around in the grass at the end of a run. At almost 48, I come home just like I did when I was 5—covered in scrapes and mud, with dirt in my shoes, absolutely starving, and completely immersed in the adventures of the day.
