At Yeouido Hangang Park, in the heart of Seoul, where the Han River whispers and running crews claim their space, a curious cultural debate is unfolding—one about the simple act of jogging while shirtless. What first appears as a sporty quirk has evolved into a micro-battle over manners, freedom and the meaning of public space in contemporary South Korea. The treadmill isn’t involved, but the pace of the discussion is unquestionably brisk.
A recent report by The Korea Herald reveals that running groups are increasingly challenging social norms by removing their tops while pounding the paths near Seoul’s riverside. The article – titled “’Keep it on’: Shirtless joggers are frowned upon in Korea, but some push back” — makes clear that many locals bristle at the sight. Signage has gone up along the path outlining rules for “running crews”: no shirtless running, no cheering or clapping, no large group runs, no shouting “move aside!”. To many observers this seems like a mild policing of fitness culture; to others it highlights a fundamental cultural tension between individual expression and the communal ethos of 한국 (hanguk, Korea).
On one side of the track are fitness enthusiasts who view running without a shirt as a form of liberation—an expression of 몸 (mom, body), effort and self-transformation. One trainer interviewed in the article insisted that it’s not about exhibitionism but about energising oneself and others: “Running is a sport that symbolises freedom,” he says, treating the removal of a shirt as an extension of that freedom. On the other side, many Seoul citizens argue that the major public jogging zones are shared spaces and shouldn’t assume a gym-oriented aesthetic: although shirtless running is not illegal under Korean law, it is increasingly framed as a matter of public etiquette, or 예의 (yeui, courtesy).
This conflict offers a fascinating lens into broader shifts in South Korean society. South Korea has seen dramatic changes in body culture, fitness culture, and the visibility of the individual within communal life. The nation’s rapid modernisation brought with it not only high-rise apartments and ultra-efficient public transport but also a fitness boom, K-beauty waves and gym culture where the body is both project and display. The popularity of running clubs—often synchronised, social and shared on SNS—reflects this. At the same time, Korea remains rooted in ideas of 공동체 (gongdongche, community) and shared impact, where something as seemingly private as one’s chest or torso in public becomes a signal to others.
The fact that local governments in Seoul felt compelled to hang banners saying “러닝 크루 4대 금기 사항” (running crew four big taboos) speaks volumes: this isn’t simply about heat or sweat, but about how public behaviour is negotiated in contemporary urban life. The absence of legal prohibition doesn’t mean there’s no social pressure. Indeed, sociologists suggest that rather than formal regulation, social norms (규범 gyubom) guide whether shirtless runners feel welcome or judged.
For foreigners living in Seoul, the punchline isn’t lost: one Canadian trainer quipped that in his home country it’s just easier to run sans heavy, sweat-drenched top whenever you like—but here he says he’ll avoid it on crowded paths. That anecdote neatly summarises the cultural drift: personal comfort versus public comfort, the self in motion versus the shared pavement.
Yet it’s not just about the shirt: the debate reflects generational change, evolving public behaviour and divergent expectations of shared space. Running clubs that once were niche are now part of the urban rhythm of Seoul. The jogger’s body becomes a moving billboard of health, strength and lifestyle. But when that body removes its shirt, the billboard becomes more visible—and in doing so, invites all kinds of reactions from passers-by who might feel watched, excluded, or simply inconvenienced.
The takeaway? In Korea today, even the act of taking off your shirt while running resonates far beyond sweat and cardio. It touches on what it means to own one’s body in public, what counts as decorum in shared urban zone, and how a society balances the individual’s drive with the collective’s peace. It’s no longer just “run faster, burn more calories”—it’s “run together, respectfully”.
For visitors or long-staying residents in Seoul keeping fit (and perhaps mindful of local mores), the advice is simple: you can jog shirtless if you wish—but you might prefer to keep your 셔츠 (syocheu, shirt) on when paths get crowded or when you run past families out for a riverside stroll. Because here in Korea, even fitness feels like a civic act.
Oh my, what a heated debate over a few square inches of male skin! Auntie has seen her fair share of scandals in Asia, but this one—about men running shirtless in the parks of Seoul—feels almost poetic. Respect versus freedom, decorum versus sweat. And the nation that gave us K-pop abs and beauty salons on every block now can’t decide whether a glimpse of a jogger’s torso is inspiring or indecent. Mmm… Auntie herself is torn.
Because honestly, what’s so terrible about a few well-toned chests catching sunlight along the Han River? Auntie won’t lie—she enjoys the view as much as anyone with good taste and functioning eyesight. A little display of momsae (몸매, physique) can even be motivating! But she also understands the aunties and uncles walking their dogs or their grandchildren who might suddenly blush, choke on their ice cream, or mutter “Aigo!” when an oiled-up runner breezes past.
Still, who exactly gets to decide what’s “too much”? Legislators? Priests? Instagram influencers? Auntie wonders if we’re mistaking 예의 (yeui, courtesy) for control. South Korea has long walked a fine line between a Confucian sense of restraint and a hyper-modern obsession with beauty and image. People sculpt their faces and bodies like art projects, but when those bodies step into public space—bare and proud—suddenly we remember “morality.” Hypocrisy, anyone?
Now imagine—just imagine!—if women started doing the same. If a group of strong, confident unnie-deul (sisters) decided to jog topless along Yeouido Park, claiming equality under the hot summer sun. Auntie can already hear the media frenzy, the sermons, the hashtags, the police statements. The conversation about “public decency” would go from polite discomfort to full-blown panic. Because when men do it, it’s freedom; when women do it, it’s chaos.
Maybe that’s the real problem—not the bare skin, but the double standard covering it. Auntie says: let’s stop pretending this is about obscenity. It’s about who is allowed to take up space, to show their body without fear or shame. If we’re going to talk about modesty, then let’s apply it evenly—or better yet, replace it with mutual respect and a dash of chill.
Until then, Auntie will keep her eyes open on her morning walks—purely for sociological research, of course.