Running didn’t start as a hobby. It started as survival, then became culture, and eventually turned into something personal — something that shapes us as much as we shape it. This three‑part series looks at where running comes from, how it evolved, and why it still matters today. It’s part history, part reflection, and part love letter to the places that make us who we are.
I don’t think I understood how much a place could change a person until I found Maine. Or maybe Maine found me — hard to say. What I can say is that this state has a way of getting under your skin in the best possible way. It inspires me, resets me, and hands me the kind of peace I didn’t even know I was missing.
Coming from the industrious part of Belgium — where “nature” usually means a park bench and maybe a duck if it’s having a good day — landing in the Belgrade Lakes Region was… a shock. A beautiful one. The real‑life inspiration for On Golden Pond (by Ernest Thompson, for the trivia lovers), and the first place where my nervous system unclenched and said, “Oh. So this is what breathing feels like.”
My husband’s grandfather used to say people slept so well at the family’s lakeside camp because of “the Ozone,” which still makes me laugh — but honestly, after that first deep breath here, I kind of get what he meant. There’s something about Maine air that feels like it’s been filtered through 14,000 acres of pine needles and a spiritual reset button.
And apparently I’m not the only one who reacts this way. Every European friend or family member who visits us here has the same two reactions, delivered with the same wide‑eyed disbelief I had in the early 2000s: “OMG, all the trees.” “OMG, it’s so quiet.” Yes. Exactly. Welcome to Maine. Please enjoy your complimentary silence, oxygen, and mild existential clarity.
But the longer I lived and ran here, the more the land nudged me toward curiosity — not just about the scenery, but about the people who moved through this place long before any of us were comparing GPS watches. The Wabanaki people lived, traveled, hunted, and adapted on this land for thousands of years. They’re called the People of the Dawnland because Maine is the first place in the country to see the sunrise. Once you’ve watched a Maine sunrise over the trees, you get it. There’s something about the light here that feels like a beginning. It’s humbling to think about. I’m out here training for a half marathon, trying to remember which direction I came from (Belgian instincts are not optimized for dense forests), and meanwhile generations of people were navigating these same ridges, lakes, and forests with a relationship to the land far deeper than anything I can claim. But running has a way of making you pay attention — to the ground under your feet, to the history you’re moving through, to the stories that came before yours. And Maine has shaped some incredible running stories of its own. Take Joan Benoit Samuelson — Olympic gold medalist, founder of the Beach to Beacon 10K, and living proof that Maine produces runners who don’t need fanfare. Just a pair of shoes, a stubborn streak, and maybe a nor’easter or two to toughen them up. I’m running Beach to Beacon for the second time this year, and every time I’m on that course — which is run on Wabanaki ancestral land — I feel like I’m stepping into a much longer story than my own. What I love is how both of them — in totally different ways — reflect what this place does to people. Maine toughens you, but it also softens you. It humbles you, but it also lifts you. It gives you quiet, but it also gives you a kind of wildness. And somewhere in that mix, runners like Joan and Gary emerge, shaped by the same land that’s been shaping people for thousands of years. And that’s what this final chapter is really about. Running started as instinct. Then it became culture. And now — for me, and maybe for you — it’s something personal. Something shaped by the places we call home. For me, that place is Maine. Thanks for running through this three‑part journey with me — from our earliest human instincts, to the rise of running culture, to the places that shape our miles today. If these chapters reminded you of your own running story — or the landscape that holds it — then this series did what I hoped it would. Wherever your feet take you next, may it feel a little more connected, a little more grounded, and a little more yours.
And then there’s Gary Allen, who feels like the unofficial mascot of Maine grit. The man once ran from Maine to Washington, D.C. for charity. He founded the Millinocket Marathon — a race that gives everything back to the town. He’s the kind of runner who wakes up, looks at a map, and thinks, “Yeah, I could probably run that.” If Maine grit had a personality, it might look suspiciously like Gary.
For you, it might be somewhere else entirely.
But wherever you run, I hope you find that thread — the one that ties movement to meaning, and keeps you moving forward… even if, like me, you occasionally get lost in the woods but somehow thrive anyway.