Words: Jeremy Kuhles | Photography: Danny Easton

It’s 6:30 on a Sunday morning.

Tokyo’s wide roads will soon fill with taxis and trucks, but for now, they’re quiet.

Listen closely: the click of traffic lights changing, the soft hum of vending machines offering cool relief from the rising heat. A monk in robes sweeps outside a temple, his movements slow and deliberate. Just beyond him, Tokyo Tower rises, red and white against the early light.

And then another sound.

Pat-pat-pat.

Two runners pass by, side by side. Silent but in sync.

Pat-pat-pat.

Light feet on tarmac.

Their pace locked into the city’s rhythms.

Tokyo is a runner’s city. But from the outside, the scene can be hard to read.

The clubs seem tight-knit, and the rules unwritten. The energy is there on the streets, in the parks, at the riverside and on the Imperial Palace loop, but it moves below the surface.

However, what looks closed isn’t closed on purpose. It’s just built differently.

Tokyo isn’t chaotic, it’s intentional. It runs on subtle rhythms: of etiquette, of habit, of legacy. Running doesn’t interrupt that; it plugs into it.

To understand that rhythm better, I spent time with two runners who know it from the inside.

Both grew up in Japan’s running culture. And both are now helping redefine what it means to run here. Their paths may differ, but they both move to Tokyo’s rhythm.

And through them, we start to hear it too.

Like in many global cities, running in Tokyo has caught fire. But what exactly are people chasing?

For Chiaki Morikawa, the answer has changed over time. She spent 12 years competing at the elite level, running for a corporate jitsugyōdan Ekiden team, a world shaped by strict training blocks, collective pressure, and relentless targets. “プロとして走るのは苦しかった。今は、速くなくてもいい,” she says. Running as a pro was hard. Now, I don’t need to be fast to find meaning.

These days, she’s more drawn to quiet runs with friends, less about results, more about rhythm.

That shift, she says, isn’t just personal. It’s something she’s seeing across the city. People still train seriously, but there’s a different energy now, more freedom, more self-expression. Running, she suggests, has become a kind of cultural currency; something that communicates intention, not just ability.

Guykuma’s story mirrors that shift in a different key. He grew up running Ekiden in school, but after an injury, his life moved in another direction. He dove deep into Tokyo’s fashion and nightlife scenes, where movement meant dance floors, not distance.

It wasn’t until his thirties that running came back into his life. At first, he ran alone, unsure if he fit into the city’s tight-knit running groups. But after joining a casual race hosted by a friend, he felt something click.

That experience led him to start building his own spaces, designing apparel, hosting underground events, and shaping a kind of running culture that blends athleticism with creative energy. “昔はクラブ行って、酒飲んで、それがかっこよかった。でも今は運動してるのがクール.” It used to be cool to go out drinking and clubbing. Now it’s cool to train.

Guykuma’s events reflect that shift in spirit. They’re low-key but full of energy. One of his recent races had a simple rule: each runner paid ¥1,000 to enter, and the winner took the pot. No sponsors, no medals, just movement, tension, and a sense of shared intent. “賞金だけ。シンプルだけど、緊張感もあって面白い,” he told me. Just prize money. It’s simple, but it brings excitement and makes things interesting.

These kinds of events don’t just challenge conventional race formats; they reshape how people gather, compete, and express themselves. No longer just a way to get faster running, it becomes a way to build something new.

From the outside, Tokyo’s running scene can seem like a model of discipline. Groups run in formation, custom gear neatly color-coded, no music, no chaos. Just quiet focus and unspoken rules. It fits a broader image of Japanese society: orderly, group-based, well-mannered.

So is that actually the case?

Guykuma and Chiaki nod.

Yes.

And no.

The etiquette is real and important. “海外だったらもっと自由だけど、日本ではマナーとか細かいルールが多い,” Guykuma told me. In other countries, people run more freely. But in Japan, there are lots of rules, even if they’re unspoken.

These rules aren’t there to exclude but to maintain flow for everyone. They reflect the larger rhythm of the city: a respect for space, timing, and not disrupting the collective.

And group running is absolutely central. Chiaki sees it especially among women and new runners: people looking for community, safety, or just a rhythm to fall into. “東京の人は、どこかに属してることで安心感を得ていると思う,” she said. In Tokyo, I think people find comfort in belonging somewhere.

So yes, the structure is there. But dig a little deeper, and things get more nuanced.

Most runners don’t stick to just one team. “みんな、月曜はこのチーム、火曜は別のチーム,” Chiaki laughed. People run with one team on Monday, a different one on Tuesday. It’s not disloyalty. It’s just how the scene moves.

So while the surface suggests fixed tribes and tight rules, the reality is far more flexible. Belonging, it turns out, is less about limits and more about rhythm.

Where does Tokyo’s running scene actually happen?

It’s tempting to point to the obvious answers: the neat loop around the Imperial Palace, for example, a route where, as Chiaki put it, “日本の伝統と近代的なものとがミックスされてるのを感じることができる。” You get this sense of Japanese tradition blending with the contemporary city.

Or perhaps the tidy circuits of Komazawa and Yoyogi Park, or the long riverside paths where university Ekiden teams log their morning miles.

But not every runner feels pulled toward these well-trodden hubs.

I like running where there aren’t too many people, Chiaki told me. “私はあんまりいないようなところを走るのが好き。”

After years on the professional circuit, training on strict schedules, sharing the track with national-level teammates, she now prefers quieter routes.

Guykuma is different. He often runs in the city's core, setting out early before the streets fill. His loop usually takes him past the Imperial Palace, then back toward his neighborhood, 15 or 20 kilometers of smooth repetition. It just feels good to run there, he said. "気持ちよく走れる。"

 For him, it's about mood. Some days he sticks to the routine. Other days, he wanders, choosing slower paths to see the city from new angles.

 Both are tuned into the fact that where you run in Tokyo is more than terrain; it's about expression. Do you want solitude or energy? Repetition or surprise?

 In that sense, routes here are more than geography. They're rituals, a way of experiencing the city. Over time, they become part of your rhythm.

So what does it take to understand Tokyo’s running scene?

Talk to Guykuma and Chiaki, and you’ll quickly learn, it’s not about being the fastest, the loudest, or the most committed to one group.

It’s about being yourself.

Showing up in a way that feels true, while moving in sync with the city’s quiet groove.

Chiaki still runs with the discipline of her elite years, but these days, it’s the joy of running with friends that matters most. Guykuma, once unsure where he fit, now helps create spaces that others can move through freely.

There are codes here, but they’re not designed to keep you out. They’re signals to help you fall in line with Tokyo’s running rhythm.