Running makes a person moral, argues Sabrina Little in her new book The Examined Run. The idea that athletics can shape a person’s character is not a new one. Around 375 BCE, Plato wrote of gymnastics as preparation for education. But with only 15% of the US population running, is there a danger that this moral person is on decline? Sabrina argues that this may be the case, running can diffuse into moral action outside of the trainers.

In early October 2016, I broke the navicular bone in my foot three weeks out from the Trail World Championships. I broke it through a combination of an imbalance, which had developed in my stride, and by running too many miles on hard surfaces. Having had little experience with broken bones, I did not detect a growing pain that should have been a cause for alarm, so I caught the injury after it was too late to recuperate with a few days of rest. The body is resilient if given the space to recover. I did not give it the space.

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This was a pitiable occurrence, so close to the Trail World Championships, and I was embarrassed to report my withdrawal from the team. I buried my sorrows in physical therapy appointments, where I went through the arduous process of rebuilding my body back to strength. It was a frustrating season of life.

If you have ever been to a physical therapist, you know what I mean by arduous. The difficulty is not in daring deeds or impressive feats of strength. It is in subjecting oneself to seemingly trivial movements and trusting that they matter. At physical therapy appointments, I was assigned a series of tiny exercises—frustratingly tiny—to perform over a long period of time. I performed ankle rotations and single-leg work. I corrected my stride asymmetry with hamstring curls and clam shells using large rubber bands, and I repeatedly launched off the ground in a simulated running movement, with the physical therapist pulling me backwards using a sling contraption he held onto for resistance. I did these movements repeatedly for weeks on end, restarting upon finishing, and I confess that I had a hard time imagining Sisyphus happy.

By December, I was running again. By February, I had won another national title. It was ugly, but I did it. For the rest of the year, I continued racing a lot—and poorly. Close to a decade of consistent training ended abruptly with my broken foot. Speed came back quickly, but my strength did not because strength is earned over multiple seasons. I needed to put in the time and to recover patiently. And, while I did not always see progress from week to week, I trusted that the investments I made were not in vain, and that I would be strong again. This was true. It took about a year, but I eventually returned to full form.

In my year of return from injury, I learned a lot about resilience—the virtue of recovery. I learned that small exercises make a big difference, and that bouncing back is a considered choice. I learned that recovery, like all forms of training, is a hopeful act. This is unsurprising, since philosopher Nancy Snow writes about resilience’s intimate connection to hope. Substantial hopes provide us with mental resolve, help us not to lose heart, and enable us to “maintain effective agency in the face of fluctuations in evidence.” Maintaining agency is important. It means we continue to choose and to act in light of the possibility of renewal, even if we lack visible evidence of progress.

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The idea that athletics can shape a person’s character is not a new one. Around 375 BCE, Plato wrote of gymnastics as preparation for education. Alongside poetry, athletics helps form a person to love the right things, and to be disciplined and well-ordered.

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In my injury recovery, I also learned that patience wears sneakers, not slippers. If I could just stay patient—actively patient, the kind of patience that would diligently perform the exercises I was prescribed by my doctor—I might become the athlete I was before the injury. I might become an even better athlete. The resilience I gained in my process of renewal would make me a stronger, more adaptable athlete, and this would pay off—both in the process of training and within competitions. It would pay off outside of sport, too.

Being diligent through difficulty is something I learned in running, which has shaped how I deal with setbacks in the rest of my life, as a professor, wife, and mother. I know that small, consistent steps forward can take me somewhere good, even when the finish line is far off.

Sports and Character

The idea that athletics can shape a person’s character is not a new one. Around 375 BCE, Plato wrote of gymnastics as preparation for education. Alongside poetry, athletics helps form a person to love the right things, and to be disciplined and well-ordered. Likewise, Aristotle described athletics’ value in early education—to form good habits while learners are young and teachable.

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They regarded staying in place during manual labor—neither idling nor “acting as busybodies”—as a treatment for vice. Physical actions were used as a means of interior transformation.

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Following the ancients, a similar idea was found in the monasticism of the Desert Tradition, between the third and fifth centuries. Monks such as Evagrius of Pontus and John Cassian emphasized internal transformation through perseverance. They regarded staying in place during manual labor—neither idling nor “acting as busybodies”—as a treatment for vice. Physical actions were used as a means of interior transformation.

This is not just an ancient idea either. While we read much less Plato these days, we still often speak about athletics as the ancients did. We register our children for sports teams so they can grow in discipline. We run and bike for the sake of their transformative nature—intending to change physically and emotionally through participation. We expect to grow in strength and speed, but also in resilience, patience, and courage.

How might these changes occur? In sports, are we always changed for good?

Growing in Virtue

When I coached a high school track and field team, I often ran alongside athletes in practice. If I noticed they were struggling, I would say something along the lines of “Perseverance means to remain under a burden. I am not asking you to do anything different from what you are already doing. I am just asking you to stay.”

Perseverance is a virtue that is conceptually simple. All you have to do is stay in place, or keep doing what you are already doing, in working toward some good end. But “conceptually simple” is not the same thing as “easy.” It does not feel good to persevere in many cases. We feel it in our lungs and in our legs, and we can be tempted to quit—or to do anything else other than to stay.

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Aristotle writes, “Men become builders by building and lyreplayers by playing the lyre; so too we become just by doing just acts, temperate by doing temperate acts, brave by doing brave acts.” If we want to become virtuous, we have to practice the virtues.

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 This is the value of athletics for character development. In sports, we experience the difficulty of virtue; we learn that excellence is hard, not easy. And we are afforded daily practice in becoming excellent in a given respect. We can practice courage on hill repeats, taking suitable fear in risk, and patience in our racing—waiting well and not making moves prematurely. We can practice resilience through setbacks and humility in our striving, rightly recognizing our physical abilities. Practice is important because of how virtues are acquired—by doing.

Aristotle writes, “Men become builders by building and lyreplayers by playing the lyre; so too we become just by doing just acts, temperate by doing temperate acts, brave by doing brave acts.” If we want to become virtuous, we have to practice the virtues. Structurally, then, participating in a sport is helpful for character formation because it is a domain in which we apply the logic of ‘practice.’ We wake up every day and repeatedly do the same things, with the set intention of improving.

As runners, many of the traits that support performance are virtues. Perseverance, resilience, and patience make us faster and more capable of enduring long miles. We practice them in training and improve as a result. But they also help us to live flourishing lives outside of sport; they are good traits to have as humans—as neighbors, partners and friends. The fact that running offers daily practice in these virtues is a great opportunity to improve our character.

Of course, it is not always that easy. There is also evidence of vices, like envy, intransigence, and pride in the sport, too. Just because we run does not mean we are practicing good habits of thinking, feeling, and acting. We may be practicing bad ones. 

Aristotle writes, “Again, it is from the same causes and by the same means that every virtue is both produced and destroyed, and similarly every art; for it is from playing the lyre that both good and bad lyre-players are produced. And the corresponding statement is true of builders and of all the rest; men will be good or bad builders as a result of building well or badly.” That is, it may be the case that every day, a runner wakes up and covers miles, but if her pacing is imprudent, her desires intemperate, her inclinations uncourageous, or her motivations awry, she is practicing bad qualities that may carry into the rest of her life.

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Darkness and Light

Earlier, I mentioned the track team I coached throughout graduate school. This was in central Texas—a challenging place to be a runner. The humidity is heavy, and there is an oppressive heat that starts in April and does not generally abate until November.

To avoid the afternoon sun, we often practiced before school. There was a local track where we met twice weekly before sunrise. Certain sections of the track were lit by nearby streetlamps, while others were covered in darkness. It was so dark that we could not see our hands or one another, but we ran shoulder to shoulder like a phalanx, passing between blackness and light. We developed a confidence forged in darkness, in the invisible hours of morning.

Running involves a lot of passing in and out of darkness. Racing is visible. People gather to watch and cheer, albeit not in the droves they come to watch football. But much of the sport is hidden from view. Runners run in the early mornings when people are sleeping, and many of their miles are solitary. They stretch and lift weights on their own initiative, and if they surge during a run, rather than ease off the gas, they are the only ones who will ever know that. Running is difficult, and runners encounter that difficulty daily and bodily. It is how runners manage themselves through that difficulty that determines the sort of character they develop over time.

Why does this matter? Because what we do in the darkness—repeatedly and with intention in our athletic practice—has tremendous formative value. We are shaped in sports, both for good and for ill. This formation matters for athletes and fans, but even those indifferent to sports are impacted by those around them who participate. So, perhaps we should investigate, with greater seriousness, the ways our characters are shaped by sports.

Can running make you a more moral person? Not always, but it certainly can