“Balls to the wall” — that’s how sharply and accurately George summed up my plan to run a marathon alone. The idea was that he’d ride alongside me on a bike, carrying my nutrition. But it was late November, cold enough to make us question our sanity, and the bike was canceled moments before the start. My wife took over as my sole support crew. She stood at the only aid point, while I ran back and forth in looping “petals” so I wouldn’t miss my chance to refuel — or to meet her eyes.
A solo marathon is a test of pure, unfiltered inner motivation — something that at times resembles the tougher, defining chapters of life. From the very beginning you’re left alone with your body, your thoughts, and the raw truth of how you’re doing. They ask sharp questions. Sometimes, they whisper betrayal: just stop.
In races, you’re carried by the atmosphere — by competitors to chase, spectators cheering, by the finish gate shimmering in the distance and pulling you toward it. But here, it was just me, my watch ticking off kilometers with painful honesty, and the recurring temptation to quit.
George and I started together. He stayed with me for the first 10 kilometers, then continued on his own. After the half marathon mark — 21.1 km — the realization hit me: I had to run the same distance again, and I was already spent. My legs felt that thought instantly. But then George appeared again, almost out of nowhere, and pulled me through the next five kilometers. He found the exact words I needed: “Relax. Stay focused.” For a while, it worked like a spell.
By kilometer 27, the mantra he’d handed me had faded. I drifted into self-pity, and it slowed me down. But I caught myself and remembered Kipchoge in the Tokyo Olympic marathon in 2021. He started breaking away after 27 km. Why should I be any worse? My ego eagerly grabbed onto this sweet thought, and in that imagined world I made it all the way to kilometer 36.
Past 36, all positive thinking evaporated. Only pain remained — and a glance at my Garmin every 500 meters. Maybe a miracle would happen and I’d see only a couple kilometers left. No miracle came. The kilometers ticked by brutally slowly. Not a soul around. No competitors, no spectators. Just me. Where was I supposed to find external energy now? What was I supposed to latch onto?
Only my wife kept me grounded — standing in the center of my makeshift “flower loop” with a bottle of Coke. Each time I ran past, I caught her caring look, answered with a faint smile, took two quick sips — and that was enough fuel to carry me to kilometer 38.
After that, everything went exponential. The cold tightened its grip, and my right hamstring threatened to seize. I moved like a wounded elk — Lionel Sanders-style. Except he runs entire marathons like that, and I only had to hold on for a few kilometers. Enough self-pity. Keep going.
Then the left calf joined the rebellion. I adjusted however I could — anything to avoid slowing down. A short loop through the forest helped: the soft ground was slower, but kinder to battered muscles. At kilometer 40, that kindness mattered.
Another glance at the watch: 40.2 km. This was supposed to be the moment of renewed strength — the finish nearly in sight. But there was no finish. Just silent forest, patches of first snow on frozen leaves, and the rhythm of my shoes.
George reappeared on a bike, bundled in some eccentric outfit — I instantly envied him. He said something encouraging, though the words were hard to decipher through the fog of effort. Even so, his presence cut through the numbness. His ridiculous clothing made me smile. He looked back and said: “You’re like Kipchoge — he smiles on the home stretch too.” Kipchoge again… but damn, it worked. Kilometer 41.
Six hundred meters forward, a 180-degree turn, six hundred meters back. I would have preferred to swim it. No finish line anywhere — only the Garmin dictating reality. Instead of spectators, there were a couple of dogs (a bear would’ve been better entertainment). Two hundred meters more. More dogs. The watch showed 42.22 — and that was it. I stopped, or more accurately, I let my legs give up.
After the finish, I was surprisingly alive — and incredibly happy. I’d run the full distance. And more than anything, I felt overwhelming gratitude to my wife and to George for their care, the moments of support, the right words, and the positive emotions — without which this would have been far, far harder.
Oh, right. The watch read 2:42-and-something. Not bad at all.