People collect all sorts of things — butterflies, stamps, vinyl records.
In John Fowles’ novel The Collector (highly recommended), the main character collected something else: women. Creepy, obsessive, dangerous.
So every time I meet someone obsessed with collecting, I think: careful… that stuff can turn dark.

Yesterday I visited a photo vernissage in Axams, Austria — the work of Frank R. Hoffmann. He’s a street photographer who collects faces.
From Berlin, London, Paris, New York. Young and old, poor and rich.
Huge format. Beautiful work. Good conversations.

And that’s when I realized something:
Frank collects character.
I collect miles.

I collect runs.
I collect goals, medals, and finish-line T-shirts.
Each kilometer added to the pile makes me feel more like myself.

I’m a collector too.
Is that dangerous?
Maybe.

But for now, it’s my obsession — and it’s keeping me going.

Today’s run was wet — really wet. It’s been raining almost nonstop since days, and parts of my usual 10K route are already underwater. Nothing special training-wise, just collecting miles. But it felt good anyway. One more run on the pile.