“Do you like running?” The question approached me out of the blue, coming from my English teacher whom I didn’t particularly like.
“I’m not good at it”, I said.
He replied, “That wasn’t the question.”
From that moment, a running club was formed, and I became a regular member, running 5Ks twice a week after school through the streets or sometimes within housing complexes around Tangerang, a region in central Java.
I can’t remember what initially motivated me, but I naturally grew to love it as I gradually improved my stamina and pace. For an awkward kid going through puberty, maybe I was searching for friends. Or perhaps it was my obsession for sports mangas like Eyeshield 21 that made me think that running was cool.
I participated in a few local 10K races. It was difficult for me then, running out of breath wasn’t exactly pleasant. But I remember the joy of bringing home a group picture with my friends proudly holding our medals. We were cool.
Eventually, university happened to me and it marked the end of the great running era. Ironically, just as a new beginning ended my running, the end of something else brought it back years after. It was the end of my two-year relationship with my first love. Much like the changing seasons. Yes, I know how common of a case study this is. If I had to guess, breakups must be the single reason more than half the guys my age signed up for a marathon. Or at least quarter life crisis.
The drive behind this rebirth wasn’t much different from what got me started initially. I wanted friends. I disliked feeling lonely. I wanted to feel cool and start loving myself again. Everything else supported those goals. From cooking nutritious meals, consistently leaving the solitude of my apartment, getting to know people at the local run club, trying out swimming, fitness, and yoga, and eventually becoming fit enough to find attraction in myself and diminish the need for external validation. My efforts compound just by showing up every day, rain or shine, winter till summer. Then one day, you’d look back and see how far you’ve traveled. I’m still as lonely as ever, but running has brought joy, energy, and confidence into my life, keeping me moving forward.
Running 300K in July was the peak of my training — a case of midsummer madness. The mild coconut water addiction, countless hours of stretching, podcasts and music on repeat, and the obsessive habit of applying sunscreen became second nature during those days. In August, I escaped to Japan. Juggling nighttime work, daytime travel, and running wasn’t easy. Most days, I’d excuse myself for short runs during my ‘lunch’ breaks at work. I was slowly recovering from a knee pain that started in July, hiked to the peak of Mt. Fuji, and averaged 15K steps daily while traveling. I eventually tapered off during the weeks my family visited Japan and returned to Canada just six days ahead of my first marathon. You only have one first marathon in your life. This was mine, and I sat with that thought, fearful of being unprepared. Que sera, sera.
A table for one at a dim sum restaurant in Toronto’s Chinatown. The server placed a hot bowl of porridge and a plate of Chong Fan in front of me. I craved it and knew it would be my lifeline for tomorrow’s race. I gulped every last bit and headed to my friend’s apartment in North York, where I closed my eyes on a cozy sofa and hoped for the best.
Expecting the worst-case scenario, I was pleasantly surprised when the Uber ride to the bag drop location was straightforward. No crowd, no navigating through road closures. Arriving early helped, as there were stretching zones with foam rollers and portable toilets before the long queue. Both eased the tension that beautiful morning. Despite the rainy forecast, we were bestowed with a dry morning breeze as the dawn broke in to a clear lilac.
Twenty-two thousand strong men and women marched to the starting line along Yonge Street. My fear broke into excitement. In a hypothetical scenario where we had to fight a gorilla barehanded and win, it would be because of this collective optimism and energy transferred from one person to another. Felt but unseen. An invisible field of energy bonded us like a flock of starlings dancing in unison through the sky that morning. By showing up — by pinning on the bib, by stepping into the corral — we were no longer particles in superposition. We localized our energy, consciousness, and identity. Out of the infinite possible versions of ourselves, we became this one: the runner, in this place, at this moment. The gun fired, and possibility became motion.
The first 21K was the best run of my life. I had never felt so happy. Running at a pace of 5 never felt so easy. I never felt so free. From the sidelines, Torontonians cheered us on, holding amusing banners and reaching out for high-fives. People were dancing, singing, banging drums as if there wasn’t already enough energy in the air. The city felt different today, and I loved it. When enough people believe in you, that’s when you start believing in yourself. That’s when I became unstoppable.
That Saturday night in Japan was silent as always. I hadn’t run since the hike to Fuji-san a week prior because it inflicted a new kind of pain on my calves. I knew the marathon was approaching in less than a month, and I wasn’t ready. Whether out of fear or courage, I headed out of my apartment for a 30K run, but by the end of the 15th km, cramps emerged. I sat on the dark pavement, staring at the distant city lights. It was beautiful. I jogged a bit before another wave of pain hit, worse this time, and the stiffness left my calves looking strangely contorted. I continued to breathe calmly, signaling to my body that things were going to be okay, and rested longer before walking home. I’m okay.
It came around the 21K mark. The familiar sensation emerged uninvitingly from my calves. I gradually slowed to a comfortable pace until it was no longer comfortable. The pain spread to my knee. An unbearable pain forced me to a complete stop. Grimacing, breathing, hoping it would soon pass, I moved aside as other runners rushed past me.
A few kind souls stopped to check if I was okay. I nodded in gratitude. I wasn’t okay, but this was what I signed up for, and as long as it wasn’t life-threatening, I would be okay.
When I felt strong enough to walk, I walked. Occasionally, I jogged until the pain resurfaced, and I’d walk again, deliberately ignoring the cheers that now felt unsympathetic.
‘Feeling strong enough’ was subjective. Perhaps the original marathoner who ran from the city of Marathon and later died at Athens felt he was strong enough. Perhaps I could push on if I truly needed to. If my life depended on it. But, to me, this was just a normal Saturday morning, and there was no reason to risk permanent damage. I opened the calculator on my phone, calculating how long it would take to finish at this pace. Two hours. I can make it.
The finish line wasn’t far away. I saved my energy for the last kilometer, determined not to sluggishly walk across the finish line. Too many eyes on me — I had to finish strong. “Andrew!” A familiar face in the crowd. I called out, and he saw me, cheering. The crowd near the end was electric. The same energy I felt at the start five hours ago suddenly felt real again. I pushed through with a smile and crossed the finish line.
Lacking the energy to stand, I sat at Nathan Phillips Square, consumed by thirst and hunger. The stranger next to me was Camilo. Over the next few minutes, we exchanged experiences.
It was comforting to realize that during those few hours, and throughout life, everyone is fighting their own battles too. Just as I fought against my runner’s knee and won. In retrospect, I didn’t win because of my spectacular time. I won because I completed the distance despite the adversity and cards I was dealt. I also triumphed over the 1400K I’ve run since January and the countless hours of work I put in. That was the battle I survived and won. I lived, therefore I won.
After our chat, we limped to a nearby food truck, wondering how nice it would be to have a loved one caring for us cripples today. Ironically, I thought I might not be here if that were the case.
I called my friend Bob, who kindly let me stay another night. There’s no place I’d rather be right now. I survived, so I just needed to sleep and recover stronger than ever.
Like the famous space tourist Katy Perry once said, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”