The magic of running is that thing that makes you set the alarm clock for 6am on Sunday morning, the only day off, the weekly break from work.
The magic of running is that thing that makes you have breakfast with a lukewarm, low-powered light when it is still dark outside, hearing the rain pelting down on your roof.
The magic of running is feeling the butterflies in your stomach, right after breakfast and coffee, and hardly ever being able to go to the bathroom properly.
The magic of running is that thing that makes you get in the car to go to the race, while the first “but who’s making me do this?” starts to build up in your head.
The magic of the race is arriving at the starting place and discovering that they have already started crowding the car parks with 3 km to go.
The magic of the race is getting out of the car and realising how many people have experienced the same moments this morning as you have.
The magic of the race is standing in the queue for the bag depot with people from all over the world exchanging weather and altitude opinions on the route.
The magic of the race is standing in line for the chemical toilets, because breakfast and coffee only kick in once you are on the race course. It is not known why.
The magic of running is to stand at the warm-up and find friends and fellow runners, ready with the usual “what’s your goal?”, “today this hurts me” and “today I’m just not going ahead”.
The magic of the race is to stand at the start and identify with a surgical eye the potential and most bitter adversaries, those who âno matter what today you will get ahead of meâ.
The magic of the race is realising every time that after all, our bitterest and fiercest rivals are ourselves.
The magic of running is that thing for which you would sell your mother or a lung for a personal best of even one second.
The magic of the race is sprinting to the start, fresh as young colts, and saying to yourself ‘today is the day’, ‘today the legs are feeling great’, and ‘today there is no one to lose’.
The magic of the race is to arrive at the third kilometre and realise that perhaps so much optimism was not so well justified.
The magic of the race is to grit one’s teeth and hope that a refreshment stop will give one the energy that was lost along the way.
The magic of the race is to see through the fog first the bell tower, then the houses and then the windows of the place where the finish line is located, which gradually approaches like a dreamlike image.
The magic of the race is to arrive exhausted and unpresentable at the last 250 metres, but to fix one’s hair and eyebrows with a smile and a feline sprint to recover one or two positions. And to look cool in front of the cameras.
The magic of running is doing all this for a paltry little medal, just so that the next day you can proudly flaunt it in front of friends and colleagues.
The magic of running is changing in changing rooms and tents in apocalyptic temperatures, summer or winter.
The magic of running is realising that by some obscure divine design the water in the showers is perpetually cold. And that there will always be someone begging for a shower gel.
The magic of running is to return to the car tired, hungry and cold and find the strength to cheer on the heroes who have decided to run the marathon and are passing by right now.
The magic of running is to dedicate a smile and a round of applause to all those, friends and family, but also famous strangers, who are suffering from fatigue but still find the strength to thank you.
The magic of running is turning around and having you by my side.
The magic of running is being able to share all this with you.
