As I continue to plan my next races — mapping out calendars, checking qualifying times, and thinking about logistics — I find myself doing what runners often do: looking ahead.

But lately, it has become harder to separate those plans from what is happening around the world.

I recently came across a post from an Iranian runner describing how difficult it has become to train. He wrote about missing the days when he could run freely — without having to think about safety, instability, or the unpredictability of conflict. It was a simple reflection, but it hit hard.

It made me pause and consider something we rarely think about: what does running look like in places where daily life itself is uncertain?

Take Iran. It is a country rich in history, home to multiple UNESCO World Heritage sites, from Persepolis to Isfahan. For many runners, it would be a dream to explore such landscapes on foot.

In recent years, Iran has hosted events such as the Kish Island Marathon, staged on the southern island of Kish in the Persian Gulf. The race is run along flat coastal roads with sea views. It has drawn both local runners and a limited number of international participants, offering a rare glimpse of organized endurance sport in a country not commonly associated with global racing circuits.

Then there is the Gaza Strip. One wonders how a Marilyn is organized in an apartheid environment, yet for several years it hosted the Gaza Marathon, organized by humanitarian groups. The event included a full marathon, half marathon, and shorter races, with hundreds of participants, including youth runners.

But unlike most races, the course was shaped by restriction. Because movement in and out of Gaza is tightly controlled, runners often covered repeated loops within a confined route. International participation was limited by travel constraints, and in later years the event faced cancellations due to both security concerns and administrative restrictions.

Still, for those who ran it, the marathon represented something beyond sport: the assertion of movement in a place where movement is not guaranteed.

In Lebanon, particularly in Beirut, running has long been part of urban life. The Beirut Marathon, launched in 2003, grew into one of the Middle East’s most prominent races. It regularly attracted thousands of participants from across the region and beyond, with routes that passed through central Beirut and along the Mediterranean coastline.

The marathon became a symbol of resilience and unity, particularly in the aftermath of conflict, bringing together runners of different backgrounds under a single event. In recent years, however, economic challenges and instability have affected the consistency of large-scale races.

All of this underscores a simple contrast.

For many of us, running is a matter of scheduling. We choose races, adjust training blocks and decide when and where to run. The challenges we talk about are familiar — heat, fatigue, pacing, recovery.

In other parts of the world, the variables are different.

Routes may change overnight. Events may be cancelled indefinitely. Training is not just about endurance, but about navigating uncertainty.

And yet, as shown by that Iranian influencer I follow, the instinct to run remains. That, perhaps, is the most striking common ground. Whether in stable cities or conflict-affected areas, running persists — not as an escape, but as a form of continuity. A way of holding on to routine when routine itself is fragile.

I still find myself planning future races. That is part of who we are as runners — we look forward. But I also find myself thinking about places like Iran, Gaza and Lebanon — not just as headlines, but as roads that once held races, communities that once gathered at start lines, and runners who, like all of us, simply wanted to move.

I hope that one day, planning a run in these places will be as straightforward as choosing a date and booking flights.

Until then, the distance between us is not measured in kilometers — but in circumstance.