Why I Run the Coast
Words & Photography: Amanda Ramplin
There is a particular hour on the coast, before the car parks fill and before the first dog walker appears, when the track belongs to no one. That is the hour I run for, and this is why.
The coast is at its most honest before dawn.
The air is cool and carries the smell of salt and wet earth. Waves roll steadily against the rocks below, their rhythm unchanged by the demands of the day ahead. As I move along the track, the sky begins its slow transformation from deep navy to soft orange, and the first light spills across the ocean. For a little while, it feels as though the world is waking up alongside me.
Those mornings are what draw me back, again and again.
I grew up in a country town about 45 minutes from the coast. From an early age I developed a love for both the bush and the ocean. The bush offered space, adventure and solitude. The coast offered freedom, perspective and a sense of awe that never seems to fade.
Running through our coastal national parks gives me the best of both worlds. One moment I’m winding through eucalypts and banksias, breathing in the scent of the bush after rain. The next, the track opens to sweeping ocean views where the horizon stretches endlessly ahead. Few places combine those landscapes as beautifully as the Australian coastline, and I never take that for granted.
Running wasn’t always something I associated with the coast.
For years it was simply part of my fitness routine, something squeezed into a busy schedule and mostly completed on a treadmill in a gym. It was practical and predictable, but it lacked something I couldn’t quite define.
Then COVID arrived, gyms closed, and like many people, I was forced to rethink my routine.
What began as necessity quickly became discovery.
I started running outdoors and realised that what I had been missing wasn’t fitness. It was connection. Connection to the environment, to the changing seasons and, perhaps most importantly, to myself. Away from fluorescent lights and television screens, I found something much quieter. I found solitude.
Over time, those early morning runs became less about exercise and more about creating space before the noise of the day arrived. Before emails, meetings, notifications and obligations. Before the world began asking things of me.
People often ask me what I’m training for.
The truth is, I usually do have another run on the horizon. There may be a race on the calendar, a personal goal I’m chasing, or a distance I’m not entirely sure I can hold. Running has a way of teaching humility as much as confidence.
But most mornings, I’m training for nothing at all.
There is no finish line waiting. No medal. No audience.
Just a quiet trail, the sound of my footsteps and the rising sun.
Those are the runs I cherish most.
With headphones on and the world switched off, I settle into a rhythm that feels both familiar and freeing. Problems that seemed complex become simpler. Ideas surface. Worries soften. The kilometres pass almost unnoticed.
There is a discipline in it too.
Some mornings the alarm feels unforgiving. The warmth of bed is hard to leave behind. The weather doesn’t always cooperate. Yet there is something deeply rewarding about choosing to show up anyway. Not because someone is watching, but because the commitment matters.
I don’t run the coast to escape my life. I run to return to it.
I’ve come to realise that I don’t run the coast to escape my life.
I run to return to it.
I return calmer. More present. More patient. More grateful.
The coastline has a remarkable way of putting things into perspective. Standing above the ocean as the sun rises, watching its first light catch the water, it’s difficult not to feel grounded. The challenges waiting later in the day seem a little smaller. The opportunities seem a little clearer.
Every run becomes a reminder that progress doesn’t always have to be dramatic. Sometimes it’s simply putting one foot in front of the other and trusting the path ahead.
As the tracks begin to fill, the dog walkers appear and the coast slowly wakes to its daily rhythm, my own quiet hour comes to an end. But its effect stays with me long after the run is over.
And perhaps that’s the real reason I run the coast.
Not for the distance. Not for the race. Not even for the fitness.
I run for that rare and precious feeling of being fully present in a beautiful place at the beginning of a new day.
If you’ve ever watched the sun rise over the ocean or stood alone on a coastal track with nothing but the sound of the sea for company, you’ll understand. And if you haven’t yet, I hope one morning you find yourself there, breathing in the salt air, feeling the first warmth of the sun, and discovering your own reason to run the coast.
