When you stop thinking about running and just run: what happens when we get out of our own way
The mind quiets on the trail.
Not right away. But eventually.
First, there’s the noise. The mental chatter. The to-do lists. The strategic planning. The worry about that one thing.
Then there’s the body noise. The breath catching. The legs warming. The feet landing and adjusting with each step.
And finally, the transition point. The moment when you stop thinking about running and just run.
This is the inner game of trail running. Over thousands of miles of alpine single track and forest trails, I’ve found it to be one of the purest teachers of presence and flow.
The Two Selves
When I first read Timothy Gallwey’s work years ago, something clicked. His concept of Self 1 and Self 2 wasn’t just tennis philosophy. It was life philosophy.
Self 1: The thinker, the critic, the one who tries to control.
Self 2: The doer, the experiencer, the one who already knows.
On the trail, Self 1 is loud at first. It’s telling you to watch that root, to pace yourself, to wonder if you brought enough water, to worry about the steepness ahead.
Self 1 thinks it’s helping. And sometimes it is. But mostly, it’s in the way.
Self 2 is the runner who doesn’t need to think about running. It’s the body wisdom that runs deeper than our thinking minds. It knows how to adjust foot placement on uneven terrain without conscious thought. It knows how to regulate breath. It knows how to move.
The inner game is learning to quiet Self 1 and trust Self 2.
I see this same dynamic in the founders I coach. In meetings, their Self 1 is constantly analyzing, judging, planning their next response. When they learn to quiet that voice and trust their deeper leadership instincts, everything changes. Decisions become clearer. Team dynamics improve. The path forward reveals itself.
A CEO client once told me, “I realized I was thinking myself out of knowing what to do.” Exactly. The trail had taught me this lesson years before.
Effort Without Trying
Courtney Dauwalter, arguably one of the greatest ultrarunners alive, once described her approach to crushing 200+ mile races: “I try to stay out of my own way.”
This isn’t passive. It’s what Gallwey would call “effort without trying” — the paradoxical state where you’re fully engaged yet not forcing.
I’ve seen this same quality in the best CEOs I work with. They’re not micromanaging every detail. They’re setting clear direction, then getting out of their own way. They’re present without being controlling.
Parents discover this too. The moment you stop trying to force your child to sleep and instead create the conditions for rest, everything shifts. The struggle dissolves.
What felt impossible becomes natural.
On the trail, it looks like this:
You’re moving up a technical switchback. Your conscious mind wants to calculate each step. But when you let go and trust your body’s intelligence, you flow. You’re making hundreds of micro-adjustments without thinking about them.
That’s effort without trying. That’s flow.
Non-Judgmental Awareness
“This sucks. I’m so slow today. That person just passed me. My form is terrible.”
Self 1 loves to judge.
“I’m just noticing my breath is shallow. I’m feeling tightness in my right calf. The trail is getting steeper here.”
That’s non-judgmental awareness. Just noticing what is.
Kílian Jornet, possibly the greatest mountain runner ever, talks about simply observing his body’s signals. Not as problems to fix. Just as information.
This is the same awareness I teach founders to bring to their businesses. Not “our marketing is terrible” but “our conversion rate on this channel is 1.2%.” Not “I’m a bad leader” but “I notice I’m interrupting in meetings.”
Recording artists I work with apply this to creative blocks. Instead of “I’m stuck” or “this song is garbage,” they practice noticing: “I notice I skip over the bridge” or “I notice I rush through the hook.” The judgment creates tension. The awareness creates space for solutions.
On the trail, practice replacing judgment with curiosity. Don’t beat yourself up for getting tired. Just notice: “Ah, fatigue is happening.”
The Focus Loop
What we focus on expands. This isn’t just some law of attraction thing. It’s neurology.
Scott Jurek, who once held the Appalachian Trail speed record, talks about using mantras and specific focus points during his hardest moments.
Similarly, Charlie Engle, who ran across the Sahara Desert, describes using deliberate focus to get through the darkest miles.
Try this focus loop on your next trail run:
- Feel your feet connecting with the earth
- Notice your breath without changing it
- Take in the environment with soft eyes
- Repeat
This focus loop does two things: it occupies Self 1 with specific tasks, and it anchors you in the present moment.
I’ve seen recording artists use similar techniques to break through creative blocks in the studio. CEOs use them before big presentations. The inner game crosses domains.
A parent going through a challenging phase with their teenager shared how they adapted this focus loop during difficult conversations: feel their feet on the ground, notice their breath, take in their child with soft eyes. It created just enough space to respond rather than react.
Learning Without Criticism
Gallwey writes about learning tennis without self-criticism. This approach works just as well for trail running.
Self 1 wants to beat you up after mistakes. “You idiot, you tripped again.” Or “Why can’t you keep a consistent pace?”
But beat-downs don’t improve performance. They create tension. And tension interferes with performance.
Instead, try this: when you make a mistake on the trail, get curious about it. “Interesting. I tripped there. What did I notice? What was I doing with my attention?”
No judgment. Just learning.
Tez Steinberg, who rowed solo across the Pacific Ocean, once told me how he used this approach during his journey. When things went wrong — and they often did — he’d get curious rather than critical. This kept him solving problems rather than spiraling.
I’ve watched startup founders apply this same principle when their products fail to gain traction. Instead of “we’re doomed” or “I made a terrible decision,” they practice curiosity: “What are users actually doing? What patterns do we notice in the data?” This learning-focused approach keeps them nimble and resilient.
The Quiet Behind the Noise
Allyson Felix, the most decorated American track athlete in Olympic history, talks about finding a deeper purpose beyond winning.
This touches on what might be the most important aspect of the inner game: the quiet behind the noise.
Beyond Self 1 and Self 2, beyond effort and flow, there’s something else. A deeper stillness where running becomes a kind of moving meditation.
It’s the state where miles pass and you suddenly realize you haven’t been thinking about anything. You’ve just been… there.
CEOs call this state their “genius zone.” Artists call it “the muse.” Whatever you call it, it’s when your best work happens. It’s when insights emerge. It’s when you solve problems you couldn’t solve by direct effort.
A filmmaker I work with describes finding this state during the editing process. Hours disappear. What emerges often surprises him. “It’s better than what I would have created if I was trying,” he says.
Parents glimpse it in those rare, perfect moments of connection with their children. Time slows. Nothing needs fixing or managing. You’re simply present, together.
On the trail, this state often arrives after you’ve settled into your rhythm, after Self 1 has exhausted itself with worry and criticism, when you’re simply moving through the landscape, part of it rather than separate from it.
The Integration
The inner game isn’t about eliminating Self 1. We need our thinking mind. We need planning and analysis and reflection.
The inner game is about integration. About each part of you playing its proper role.
The same integration helps founders lead more effectively, helps creatives produce more meaningful work, helps parents navigate the complexity of raising humans.
Here’s the beauty of trail running as a practice field for the inner game: the trail doesn’t care about your ego. It doesn’t respond to your resume or your bank account or your social status. It simply presents itself, moment by moment, step by step.
And in that simplicity lies the opportunity to know yourself better. To integrate your thinking self and your doing self. To find the quiet behind the noise.
So next time you hit the trail, remember: you’re not just running. You’re playing the inner game.
And in that game, the real victory isn’t reaching the summit or the finish line.
It’s learning to be fully present for each step along the way.
