So I ran my first marathon.

According to legend, a messenger named Pheidippides was sent from the battlefield of Marathon to Athens to deliver news of victory and warn that the Persians had been defeated before they could attack the city. He ran the entire distance without stopping. When he reached Athens, he reportedly gasped out the words, “We have won,” and then collapsed and died.

Not far off my effort, to be fair.

And let’s be clear. When I say I “ran” my first marathon, what I really mean is that I started running and finished in an altogether slower, less elegant fashion.

Things were going reasonably well until around 18 kilometres, when my knee, which has spent the last two years providing me with equal parts pain and frustration, decided to reintroduce itself. It didn’t scream. It didn’t dramatise. It simply whispered, very calmly, “I’m not enjoying this run.”

The sensible option would have been to listen.

Instead, being the pig-headed fool that I am, I carried on. Not with grace. Not with rhythm. But with determination, stubbornness, and a growing collection of strange compensatory movements that probably horrified passing physios. It wasn’t pretty, but I kept moving forward and eventually reached the finish line in whatever form that qualified as forward motion at that point.

The marathon was in Valencia, and I have to say the atmosphere was electric. Proper goosebumps stuff standing at the start line. Thousands of people, nervous energy crackling in the air, music blaring, strangers wishing each other luck like old friends. The support along the route was relentless. Crowds several people deep, cheering, clapping, shouting names, offering encouragement to runners they would never meet again. Over 42 long, arduous kilometres, it mattered more than I expected.

What mattered even more was that my two sons joined me for the experience. That alone made the day something special. My eldest daughter had also signed up, but after tearing her Achilles she was forced to pull out. She was there in spirit, if not on the start line.

As always, my long suffering wife accompanied by our daughters in law walked half of Valencia to cheer us on at as many points as humanly posible, offering support and painkillers as needed. We couldn't have done it without them. We even had some online support from my other daughter which spurred me on.

When I finally crossed the finish, I almost cried. Seeing my two boys waiting for me, and my daughter on a video call so she could share the moment, hit me harder than the last few kilometres ever did. Exhaustion, relief, pride, gratitude. All of it landed at once.

The joy, however, was short-lived.

I made the optimistic decision to walk from the race venue to a nearby pizzeria, only to discover that my legs had absolutely no interest in this plan. Somewhere between the curb and the first street corner, reality set in and I called a cab.

The next day, stiffness was expected. What surprised me was the level of pain. Both ankles had swollen enough to make walking genuinely difficult. My legs felt like they belonged to someone else entirely. It took a full week before I could walk normally again. My poor wife once again getting me through it all. 

What would I do without her 

No normal person would do this voluntarily. And if they truly understood the pain waiting on the other side, they’d never want to hear the word “marathon” again, let alone entertain the idea of signing up for one.

Anyway.

I’ve just signed up for Valencia 2026.

Wish me luck.