On the run with Seoul’s fittest tour group

A Korea JoongAng Daily sports reporter goes on a run in the city at night and gets a view of Seoul after the day shift clocks out.

Runners make their way through a neighborhood in central Seoul on a weeknight in June. [HAN STRIDE]

The internet has agreed that everyone in their 20s is either getting engaged or training to run a half marathon. I’ve been in the second group since the beginning of mine — and it seems the two camps are mutually exclusive.

My fate was predetermined as soon as I became a former high school track and field athlete. Most of us have trained for at least one 13.1 miler since we stopped scheduling our lives around an eight-lane 400-meter loop.

The collective descent into marathons makes sense. Having a training schedule (when I’ve stuck to one) helps return some routine to the early-career chaos of big moves and life changes. Gone are the times when my days more or less matched my friends’.

Runners keep a steady pace on a slight incline. [HAN STRIDE]

Seoul is a good running city. Great, even. Pedestrian and bike paths stretch the length of the Han on both sides of the water, and I’ve yet to find a stream that can’t be strolled along. Every city should make it possible (and surprisingly pleasant) to run where there are highways — on paved routes underneath them.

Honestly I regret not taking better advantage of the infrastructure, the brutal cold and then the yellow dust and now the rain and humidity all easy explanations for why my Strava’s gone dormant.

We’re a couple weeks out from hitting monsoon season when I begin noticing Instagram posts by a page called Han Stride, run by two brothers and a friend, who are soft launching a “running tour” through the month of June.

I’m immediately intrigued and click follow. I’ve always enjoyed the idea of running clubs and have dabbled in the scenes in a few cities, but the roughly three-week threshold for Doing Things after moving to Seoul applied to finding a runners’ group, too. My search for a troupe waned, as did my stamina for visiting places recommended by the internet.

I delay my sign-up for several days before deciding over a weekend to full send. (Saturdays are for the bold, as the saying goes.) I pick an 8-kilometer weeknight run through central Seoul, choosing a Tuesday at random, and I forget about it until receiving a confirmation email while back in the office on Monday.

Out on the town

Tuesday evening arrives, and it’s time to head out. I throw on a cap and hop on a bus that’ll get me close enough to the start — the northernmost end of Gwanghwamun Square in central Seoul, a crosswalk away from the eponymous entrance to Gyeongbok Palace.

Runners make their way toward Gwanghwamun, illuminated by yellow light, to start their 8-kilometer run. [HAN STRIDE]

The Han Stride guys text me these instructions a few hours before the 9:30 p.m. start and send a screenshot with the exact meeting point circled in red. I’ve been on a Survivor-esque reality show kick, and I can confirm a treasure map indeed gets one in the zone.

The bus is far emptier than the one I took to work in the morning, and also the one I took home after work in the late afternoon. There’s zero traffic on the road — it’s too late to be in a rush.

A half hour later, I tap out of the numbered green bus and start making my way to the plaza. I pass by a sparse parade of young people in button-downs looking down at their phones and fellow runners in shorts, tees and wireless earpods (though it’s possible I spot more with the old-school wired kind), with the illuminated gate on the other side of the road.

I walk up to the plaza opposite Gwanghwamun and check my watch. It’s nearly half-past nine, but people abound — couples, loners, friend groups, families.

The street lamps cast a dim yellow light over the bustle, and it quickly dawns on me that finding unfamiliar faces in a sea of them may prove a difficult task. A few scans later, I spot a group of four sitting on a gray stone bench and decide to try my luck. It’s them. (I’m relieved to evade what could have been a painstakingly public game of “Are You My Mother?”)

There are five of us now. Two of the guys are brothers and co-founders of Han Stride. One is taller and has a shaved head and the other wears his hair in a ponytail. Both rock tattoos.

Warmups in the plaza. [HAN STRIDE]

Besides me, there’s one other woman, and when it’s her turn to say hello, the man next to her is quick to jump in with “My wife!”

We’re chatting for a couple minutes before one last guy comes jogging up to our cluster. They all seem to be friends, and I begin to feel like I’ve crashed a party. But everyone’s chill and all’s well. I later learn that there were supposed to be three other newcomers, all women and from the same company, but something (allegedly) came up at work.

Dong-ho, the taller brother, will lead today’s run while Eun-ho, ponytail, takes camera duty.

I have a horrendous track record with race photos, and that’s not an exaggeration. If anyone was wondering, FinisherPix has an incredibly clear shot of what I look like mid-puke.

But I don’t have anything to worry about, Eun-ho assures me. Because it’s dark outside, he says. So I shan’t be burdened by what was.

We shift toward the center of the concrete for warmups and arm-circle to the beat of a guy on a bench shouting at his phone.

Everyone looks athletic. Across the six of us, I count six Apple Watches, at least four sneaker brands, three running belts, one cap, one sweatband and two pairs of amber-tinted glasses.

Runners set their workouts before heading out on the town. [HAN STRIDE]

Eun-ho tells me to stash my half-full plastic water bottle in his backpack. I tell him it’s fine, I’ll just leave it, it’ll slosh around and be too loud — but he insists. He’s carrying extra water for everyone, anyway, he says, gesturing to the two bottles sticking out from the front straps of his utility backpack.

We shuffle over to the Gwanghwamun side of the crosswalk, sync up our watches and — go.

Chicken shop gait

We take off in a slightly offbeat trot, zipping between scattered groups of gate-goers before our six pairs of shoes settle into a steady rhythm. I’m a bit too fast out of the gate, and Dong-ho tells me to slow down. We keep to an easy 12-minute mile pace, our footsteps against the ground a metronome.

We turn at the first left to stay against the side of the stone wall that wraps around Gyeongbok Palace. We’ve peeled away from other people, but the occasional car crescendos past, driving toward the main road. There is also the roar of motorbikes that zoom by from both directions, in and out of the residential area we’re headed toward.

Soon, we hit our first incline in a section of the wall that climbs slightly uphill.

“So, we’re gonna use more cadence —” Dong-ho says, with a bit of an upward inflection.

The group, including me, has been pretty chatty up until this point. (A good sign we were in that target heart rate zone.) But we fall into an almost meditative silence as we shorten our strides and turn our focus to the tempo.

The group sets out along the stone wall surrounding Gyeongbuk Palace in central Seoul. [HAN STRIDE]

We pause for half a second to let a bus go by (robbed of a proper rest as its wheels screech to a stop to let off a passenger) before making a right at Cheong Wa Dae, the old Blue House. It takes some people a few beats to remember that the president moved back in 2022.

We fall into a staggered single file line as we hit the next street, an elevated sidewalk with a railing, in Samcheong-dong. (Except for Eun-ho, who sloshes past with his camera. He runs ahead of us, and then next to us, and then plays catch up as chasing down the angles.)

I ask Dong-ho how they mapped this run, and he says it wasn’t too difficult after “a couple fails.” They’ve been living in Seoul for many years, so it took just a bit of editing to get the route right.

We’ve hit our next uphill and turn a rounded corner with a brightly lit chicken shop. Outside it is a patch of red tables and plastic stools, filled with groups young and old. It’s the only place with its lights on for the whole block. The buzz shows no sign of winding down.

late night patrons fill the tables outside a chicken shop in a residential area of central Seoul. [HAN STRIDE]

The chatter grows louder as we get closer to the chicken.

“Fighting!” someone shouts at our group, mid-smoke break.

Street lights, people

We zip past the next landmark, Changgyeong Palace. This one isn’t nearly as crowded as the first one — the only other person around is a guy on a bicycle, who shoots us a few glances as he winds his way through.

Our silhouettes fall against one section of the wall with yellow stage lighting. Eun-ho rushes down the steps before to get the shot.

“You’re good! Very stable,” the man with the wife says, slightly breathless. (Stability in all its forms has never been my forte [see all previous editions of this column], but I’m glad my running can pass.) Compliments to the Livingston High School coaching staff.

We’re past the palace grounds and heading back to a stone wall along Seosunla Street, a road of vibey cafes and wine bars.

The group runs down the street separating a stretch of trendy restaurants and the stone wall bordering Jongmyo Shrine in central Seoul. [HAN STRIDE]

“Hot place in Seoul for MZ,” Dong-ho tells me. (MZ, the phrase that lumps together millennials and Gen Z, that I’ve only heard used in Korea.) “If you have a chance to dating someone, you can bring them here,” he suggests.

Immediately it becomes apparent that it is indeed couples central, as people begin trickling by two-by-two, hand-in-hand. Voices fill the air above the outdoor seating. Conversations flow, as do drinks.

The atmosphere changes ever so slightly as we pass by each vibey establishment. Jazz music gets louder and then quiets down. We accidentally disrupt an impromptu photoshoot — “Sorry, sorry!” — a girl stands against the stone wall as her friend, holding an armful of shopping bags, snaps photos.

Photobomb. [HAN STRIDE]

We make it to the next track on the street’s playlist, a blend between lo-fi and pop coming from some open-window bar. Different laughs mix with the clinking of ceramic plates being cleared away for the next party.

The view from above

The volume peters out as we make it to the end of the alley and arrive at the entrance to Jongmyo shrine. Our shoes hit gravel, and we crunch across the sandy plaza in a diagonal line, loudly scraping by. (Who knew a run through the center of the city could be all-terrain?)

Running through every kind of terrain. [HAN STRIDE]

We finally make it to another crosswalk, where we stop to catch our breath. Across from us is Makercity Sewoon, a large industrial building that looks like it was once some sort of manufacturing plant.

It used to be an old market where people bought and sold electronic devices, Dong-ho had informed me earlier. But it’s also another hot spot for MZs, says the friend who was the last to arrive. Apparently it makes a cameo in a bunch of dramas. There is a small smattering of people, sitting in trios and pairs, on the wide steps to the side looking out at the lighted entrance to the closed shrine.

I’m expecting to run up to the foot of the building and then back down for one last makeshift hill burn, but Dong-ho keeps going — up a set of winding stairs. This place isn’t closed? I want to ask. But there is no time for questions before I start clomping up the metal, the rest of the group not far behind.

We’re on a sort of balcony, with a stretch of darkened stores on our right and a view of the city on our left. It’s serene and it’s subtle but stunning.

The group runs on the upper level of mostly-closed Makercity Sewoon in central Seoul. [HAN STRIDE]

There are one or two shops that still have their lights on, but mostly everyone seems to have gone home — or elsewhere.

Our footsteps are briefly interrupted by the loud clanking of a gate from an owner closing up his stall. American pop music bumps from a place with pizza and craft beer.

We’ve reached the end of the boardwalk (I make a mental note to come back) and we tromp back down to the ground.

Nightcap

A few strides later, we finally make it to Cheonggyecheon — the stream that wades through downtown Seoul — where another set of stairs carries us beneath street level.

Everyone’s made it here, it seems. People sit with their friends on concrete steps and the occasional bench, some with snacks or takeout. Voices echo off tunnel walls at every underpass.

We shimmy by people out for a stroll, the path just wide enough for two. Three, if you really get close.

We make it all the way to the fountain plaza, where children (and some adults) are splashing around in shallow water, and the wall at the end is lit up by a rainbow.

Crossing the stream. [HAN STRIDE]

Back up on the street at the crosswalk, I down the rest of my plastic bottle, relieving Eun-ho of some water weight.

We pass by a waffle shop, apologizing our way through the line, which Eun-ho says is famous because “it’s delicious.” We also run into a guy lugging a guitar — who was busking on the brothers’ last run.

The final stretch takes us along the wall of Deoksugung where we run into a few police officers. They exchange a few words with Eun-ho, who is racing ahead with his camera, but we’re allowed to go on.

Flashing billboards and the bleats of horns from three lanes of taxis welcome us back to the main Gwanghwamun road. A bronze Yi Sun-sin stares us down as we embark on our final hundred meters. We wave to King Sejong and cross the finish line.

Runners check their watches as they close in on the finish line at Gwanghwamun Square in central Seoul. [HAN STRIDE]

A brim of sweat has formed along the outer edge of my cap. My heart is pounding, but it slows as Dong-ho leads us through a cooldown. I needed these endorphins.

Seoul is loud. And electric. It's alright. And I'll be too.

Eun-ho hands me two energy gels. Love a nightcap.

The Korea JoongAng Daily's Mary Yang is on a mission to try her hand at any and every sport that will let her in the door. She can't promise skill or finesse, but she'll give it a good go.

BY MARY YANG [mary.yang@joongang.co.kr]