I started with a five-kilometer loop around Tokyo’s Imperial Palace. Cherry blossoms, golden ginkgo, and new neighborhoods turned training into a way to discover the city—and planted the first seeds of running for the view.

My first half marathon was Singapore’s Sundown: tropical heat, city lights, and the excitement of running after dark. Back then, the medals and milestones were a big part of the draw.

A month before my first marathon, I went to Nikko for a training loop around a lake. It was my first trail run, entirely off-road. The scenery stayed with me long after the training was done.

My first marathon began in rain, then opened onto Mount Fuji and the lake. It was a gift to myself for turning thirty. Exhausted in the final kilometer, I thought: “Check the box. I don’t have to do this again.”

Then came injuries and a break from marathons. Finding my way back would mean finding a different reason to run.

After returning from Japan to the US during the pandemic, I began practicing swimming. My first triathlon on Hawaii’s Big Island brought a new challenge: open water in the ocean, followed by cycling and running. Putting three sports together gave me a new sense of what was possible.

Around my Stanford graduation, a friend invited me to the San Francisco Marathon. I hadn’t trained specifically for it, but said yes. Inspired by The Game Changers, I had also just begun a vegetarian experiment.

Afterward I felt unexpectedly light, as though I could keep running. The next morning, my legs weren’t sore. That surprising personal experience planted a seed for my vegetarian running journey.

After Stanford, my new home near Alpine put Windy Hill on my doorstep. I climbed for Pacific sunsets, clouds rolling over the ridge, and encounters with deer, turtles, and other wildlife. These runs inspired my WeChat publication, 《风之丘语》.

Here I stopped setting a distance or running for a race. Some days I reached the summit; other days a project idea sent me straight home. The same hill, a different run—and a lighter way of moving.

In December 2023, I set out on my first attempt at 100 kilometers. I had signed up for El Cruce that year, but visa issues kept me from going. Around the same time, I learned of the deaths of Dr. Henry Kissinger and Charlie Munger. I decided to mark their passing with a long run.

I had a distance in mind, but no fixed route. In a part of the Bay Area I thought I knew, I gave myself permission to explore. Whenever a place or a street corner caught my attention, I turned in to see what was there.

I wandered through the neighborhoods around Coit Tower and explored the Maritime Museum. There I encountered the story of Kenichi Horie: in 1962, at just 23, he sailed alone and non-stop from Japan to San Francisco aboard the little Mermaid. More than sixty years later, a run through my own city brought me to his crossing of an ocean.

From the early hours of the morning until late at night, I kept exploring. The run ended at 88 kilometers. I never reached 100, but what the day meant to me went far beyond the distance.

I rediscovered a city, and discovered how much more interesting the world was than I had imagined. That day made me certain: I want to keep running as a way of exploring.

About Kenichi Horie · National Park Service

With running companions or exploring deeper into the forest, I feel completely at home in Cangshan. Streams, waterfalls, roots, and changing weather make every day different.

These trails are also my preparation for El Cruce: Dali sits around 2,000 m, the Jade Belt Path around 2,600 m, and the high peaks around 4,000 m. The steep climbs and descents through wild forest are part of the joy.