Spring loop by the tarmac

I didn’t plan to jog around Munich Airport. Nobody ever does.

It just sort of happened—in-between my meetings ‘in person’ and ‘meetings online’ I laced up my shoes and went out in search of a loop.

There’s a path of sorts that follows the edge of the airport—a thin ribbon of service roads, emergency exits, and gravel trails worn in by bored staff or locals who like planes. It's not scenic in the usual sense. There are no vineyards or historic facades. Just perimeter fences, blinking lights, and the distant throb of turbines. But in its own way, it’s beautiful.

Spring in Bavaria is always a bit hesitant, like it’s not sure whether it’s allowed to bloom yet. I ran past clumps of grass with frost still clinging to the shadows, and then through warm, open stretches where the sun had coaxed dandelions into premature joy.

It’s a strange feeling to be on foot beside something built for departure. The planes lifting overhead seemed impatient. Loud, dramatic, urgent. I, on the other hand, was just padding along. Steady. Directionless. Entirely unimportant. And it was freeing.

Around kilometre four, I passed a tiny rest area for staff—one bench, one vending machine, and a plastic ashtray already filled with the day’s stubs. No one was there. Just the leftover energy of waiting. I kept running.

The funny thing is, I wasn’t really going anywhere, but it felt like I was arriving. Thought after thought loosened as the body found its rhythm. A kind of clarity comes when you're not aiming for anything.

I noticed how persistent life is in these overlooked places. Weeds flourishing between slabs of concrete. Birds nesting under metal awnings. Dandelions blooming just as confidently beside a security gate as they might on a village trail.

That’s when I realized—this wasn’t just a way to pass time. It was a small act of reclaiming it. A moment when I stopped trying to outrun the pause, and just moved inside it.

There’s something about spring and airports. Both full of potential, both slightly chaotic, both waiting for something to shift.

And maybe that’s the point. That some days, it’s not about flying off or checking in. It’s about jogging quietly beside it all. Listening to the hum of a world that never stops moving—and letting that be enough.