I met Hugo November 16, 2020, after swiping right on Tinder. It was definitely love at first swipe. We immediately bonded over parenthood, our love for sports, and the weird coincidence that both our white and black French Bulldogs bore the name Stella. He is a volleyball player/cyclist, and I am a runner. Within weeks of dating me, Dani and I planned an impromptu ultra-marathon together. Hugo could not comprehend why anyone would want to run that far. I tried to bait him into the marathon frenzy by sharing memories of my sub-3-hour marathon in Amsterdam and my Elvis Presley dressed marathon in Las Vegas. He refused the bait and vehemently swore that he would never run a marathon.
The problem with marrying a runner is that sooner or later (and most often sooner) you become a runner too. Slowly but steadily, your closet becomes overtaken with running clothes and your shoe rack crammed with sneakers. Your once 8:30am wake up shifts to 5am for November Project workouts and early morning runs. Conversations are replaced with race jargon and WhatsApp messages are exchanged based on pace goals, fuelling needs, and training plans. When you marry a marathon runner, the truth is, you become a marathoner too, even if you don’t have any intention of becoming one.
Why we decided to make the 39th Athens Marathon Hugo’s first marathon, is still a bit hazy. Everyone told us that Athens is not a course to set a PR on. This seemed fine as this was Hugo’s first marathon so regardless he would be setting a PR. This was my first marathon post-Dima so likewise any time would be a record. Our friends that had run Athens before said that it is not an easy course. They warned us that Athens is about the experience and not the results. Truthfully, I think we half-heartedly listened to our friends. Hugo and I are both stubborn and both hold high standards for ourselves. Even though we read and heard that Athens is plagued by hills, which is nearly impossible to train for in the Dutch flatlands, we convinced ourselves that Athens couldn’t be that hard.
The Athens marathon race and course is inspired by the Ancient Greek legend of Pheidippides, a messenger who ran from Marathon to Athens to bring news of the Greek victory over the Persians at the Battle of Marathon. What people often forget to tell you or intentionally omit from this legend, is the fact that Pheidippides died from pure exhaustion after running this intense course. If I had one piece of advice for the race organizers of Athens Marathon, it would be to put a warning in big bold letters at the beginning of the registration that states: WARNING – LEGENDS HAVE DIED ON THIS COURSE. RUN AT YOUR OWN RISK. Honestly though, I am not even sure that such a blatant warning would have deterred our ignorance at this point.
Before we get to the start line, let’s go back to the beginning. It was May 9, 2022 and I was just over a month postpartum. I had oily hair, a milk stained pyjama shirt, stretchy pants, and a demanding one month old baby boy. It was 12 minutes before the registration for the Athens Marathon would open and I was desperately texting Hugo at work to get ready to register. I had basically given him no choice but to register for Athens. We had been married two months and I think he was starting to understand what exactly he signed up for. Happily ever after? Maybe not. Until death do we part? Perhaps. But, until one of us stops running? Yes (kidding, not kidding).
We had six months to train for Hugo’s first marathon; my first marathon post-Dima. How hard could it be? We momentarily (or conveniently) forgot about the sleepless nights that accompanied parents in the new-born stage. I did not understand the pain involved in running with breasts full of milk. The stress of going back to work to a new job escaped my view. We failed to remember the responsibilities of taking care of three other children and balancing their extra-curricular activities. We refused to accept the constant battle of having kids bring home colds, stomach bugs, and lice from school and day-care each and every week. We overlooked the fact that marathon training would take away time as a couple. Our intimate time together replaced with long runs, intervals, and tempo trainings. We ignored the energy that would be consumed navigating the emotional turmoil co-parenting our three other children would have on us. We tried to desperately balance new jobs, sleepless nights, family responsibilities, our health, and household chores. We struggled to run our weekly mileage with a restless baby in a buggy and two people drained emotionally, mentally, and physically.
Despite all these obstacles, our arms grew increasingly stronger while pushing the stroller, our legs more resilient with the increased mileage, and our minds more indestructible with the constant flow of chaos and anxieties. My pelvic floor slowly healed from the trauma of childbirth and my milk unexpectedly dried up at 6 months. I struggled with keeping fuel down during our long runs and Hugo struggled with the confidence he could ever finish 42.2 kms. But we stuck to the plan and carried on.
A few weeks before the marathon, Dima got an ear infection. Three doctor appointments later, no antibiotics, and no improvement, we had the hard decision to make whether we should fly to Athens or postpone the marathon. Even though the doctor assured us that the flight would have no damage to his ears, they could not guarantee us that the flight would be painless. For the 3 days leading up to our flight, we wavered back and forth. We worked so hard to get to that start line, to complete that marathon and yet obstacles continually stood in our way. Hugo and I often joke that when we found each other it was our last shred of luck. On Friday morning, despite our string of bad luck and with solid advice from Antoinette, we decided to chance the flight. His ears were fine during the flight. His over tiredness, which was exacerbated by a delayed flight, caused a new sort of trauma. By the time we arrived at our hotel, we were second-guessing our choice to come. Thankfully the food, a solid night sleep (Dima’s first full night of sleep), and the company (our November Project family) made it worthwhile.
On the day of the marathon, we awoke at 5:15am. We quickly showered, threw on our racing clothes, pinned on our bib, and bundled ourselves in sweaters and jogging pants we would discard at the start line. We grabbed our white Athens Marathon drop bag, left our sleeping baby with my cousin, Lexi, and headed into the darkness. As we walked to our meeting point, we witnessed a mass of runners all walking in our direction, all carrying their white drop bags. The scene reminded me of a colony of working ants all bringing food back to their queen after a restless night of foraging. At 6:15am we met Robbie, Michael, and Stephan outside the busy McDonald’s. It was a unique combination of where soon to be marathoners stood side by side with after-clubbing youngsters desperate for some grease to soak up all the alcohol. From there, we grabbed one of the many organized shuttles and began the long trek to Marathon.
The bus ride to Marathon was a cruel joke. It gave us a preview of what awaited us. It was a compilation of ugly rundown and unfinished buildings, dusty terrain, gas stations, and hills – loads and loads of hills. For those that have been fooled into believing that Athens Marathon is a beautiful course, this bus ride rudely proved otherwise. The only thing that took our minds off our final destination was a joke between us all that if Robbie got lost on the marathon course we would use the last photo we had taken of him at the expo as his missing person photo. I also accidentally ate both Hugo’s and my sandwich, leaving Hugo with a dry, white bun to somehow sustain himself an entire marathon…ooops.
At around 7:30am, we arrived in Marathon, which was basically a huge outdoor toilet – men and women were dropping their trousers and peeing behind trees, rocks, or any object that provided a remote sense of privacy. We snapped one group photo and parted ways. We all started in different blocks (Hugo and I in Block 10). It was cold and windy but Robbie had purchased us last minute jogging pants at H&M the night before. We were beyond happy with this purchase but also now in a dilemma. Should we discard these brand new, comfy pants at the start line like we originally intended to do or should we place them in our drop bag and be rewarded with them at the finish line? Hugo and I definitely share a tendency to be cheap and thrifty. The idea of discarding brand new pants (even if they only cost 12 euros) was too much and we made the final call to put them in the drop bag. Post marathon Heather has never been so happy with this decision!
After dropping off our bags, we made our way to the stadium. Everyone had told us that we were lucky to start in the last Block because at least we could start INSIDE the stadium. I am not sure if this was a translation error, but the stadium had no walls or roof. There was no distinction between being inside or outside of the stadium. We laughed at the vision we had of ourselves all warm and toasty inside the stadium while pitying those in the front start blocks shivering outside in the elements.
Upon coming ‘’into’’ the Stadium, I immediately joined a line at the porty potty and channelled Robbie’s British dedication to forming and respecting a good queue. At some point, we spotted Dani and Kate in the line-up. We had a ceremonial goodbye to our sweaters we were all wearing. Dani’s Uniqlo, pride tagged jacket, Kate’s brand new H&M black sweater, Hugo’s Wisconsin brewery hoodie, and my Mickey Mouse NP tagged sweater from my Cyprus ultra-marathon. We said our goodbyes for now and parted ways.
After my third bathroom trip, Hugo and I claimed a patch of fake grass and began to organize our gels, rest our legs, and manage our increasing anxiety. Within minutes, a lady tripped over me and plunged into metal grates on the ground. At first she laid motionless but within seconds she bent her knee exposing the damage and heartbreak. The grates had sliced open her knee all the way to the knee bone. Whether it was the sight of blood or the bystander effect where people refuse to intervene in emergencies but instead diffuse responsibility, Hugo and I were left alone with a screaming woman. Hugo desperately tried to ask other runners for help but after getting no response, he went looking for first aid. Helpless, and nauseous at the sight of the wound, I wrapped my arms tightly around the woman and kept repeating it will be ok. It will be ok. It will be ok, I promise. I don’t know if the hug was to comfort her or to comfort myself but regardless I felt her sadness seep into my embrace. The months of training, the dedication, the sacrifices that had gotten her to the start line would come to an unfair end. After what seemed like an eternity, first aid arrived, and Hugo and I stumbled into Block 10 to start the race. Slightly shaken and shocked, we repeated how thankful we are that we could start this marathon and mourned the loss of the marathon for that lady. Stranger, I truly hope you can run Athens one day, even if this was not your year.
At 9:28am, Block 10 began the slow, trudge towards the start line. We saw portable toilets and made the last minute call to use the washroom one last time before we embarked on our journey. Around 100 meters before the start line, we slowly jogged, gradually picking up our pace to our desired, agreed upon pace of 4:50 / km. Crossing the start line, Hugo was washed over with a sense of relief. Months of dreaded anticipation and self-doubt could finally be put to bed.
The first 10 kilometres were effortless. We ran like well-oiled machines. We weaved in and out of the crowd, jumped on sidewalks, and ducked under olive tree branches. The crowd of runners was thick. I told Hugo to swing his arms wider when passing to ensure that other runners bump into his arms and not into his feet. We dodged pot holes, litter, and half empty water bottles. We took our first gel at the 7th and again at the 14th km.
We united in our disappointment in starting in the back and the energy we were wasting in trying to keep a 4’50 pace. The afternoon before when I had switched from block 2 to block 10, we had discussed whether it is better to be the fastest in a slow group or a slow one in a fast group. I immediately felt we made the wrong decision. Getting blocked by slower runners was mentally challenging. While we originally thought it might feel good for the ego to pass many people on the racecourse, rather than be passed by faster runners, the reality was much different. The energy of trying to find space to pass people and jumping on the sidewalk to pass slower groups was gruelling. We were unable to fall into a rhythm or draft off of a similarly paced group. Instead, our kilometres were sprinkled with surges, halts, and jumps. At around km 15, amidst our growing anxiety, I told Hugo that we had to accept our reality. Looking at the hundreds of runners ahead, like a monstrous wave of bobbing heads, dodging runners for the entire 42.2 kms was our new truth. Once we accepted our fate, the frustration slightly waned.
Every few kms, I would check in with Hugo. The first 12 kms were flat and uneventful. There were few spectators along the dry road. They would applaud us, screaming Bravo, and wave olive branches our way. Hugo seemed to be doing fairly well until the half way point. Around km 18 (give or take a few), Hugo saw Michael in the wave of runners. He was still feeling the endorphins and able to say a few jokes before we departed. Robbie was nowhere to be seen. The missing person photo was becoming a reality.
Once the level course transformed into long hills, his attitude, and lactic acid build-up, began to shift. His once coloured cheeks turned white. His conversation slowed; his breath quickened. Panic was beginning to set in. I desperately tried to keep his pace in check and his mental game focused but (whether intentionally or not) he drifted further physically and mentally from me. I kept checking over my shoulder to ensure that the gap between us wasn’t growing too large. I brainstormed ways to bring him back but became increasingly nervous that I wasn’t going to be able to get him over this wall. As we continued to climb, the temperature too climbed hotter and hotter, leaving salt residue on my forehead.
We saw Dani at around km 22 and Hugo’s energy momentarily restored. We exchanged a few words and wished each other well on the second half of this brutal race. At around the km 23, we stopped counting down to the end of the marathon and instead focused on the 32 km mark, where the terrain was promised to shift from uphill to slight downhill towards the historic Olympic Stadium of Athens.
At this point, the marathon was transformed from a race to a battle ground. Everyone was fighting for survival. More and more runners dropped down on the side of the road. The course was claiming its victims. Cramping legs, heat exhaustion, and mental defeat were too much for many. First aid stations became busier as runners begged for the magical potion to help them finish the race.
At km 25, I decided to channel my inner bossiness. I grabbed a water bottle and a sports drink. Hugo grabbed and guzzled a glass of Coke. I told him to drink the sports drink and pour the cold water over his head. I hoped the cold water would unshackle him from his mental prison. He obeyed and gasped when the water hit the back of his neck. For the next 7 kms, Hugo was in survival mode. He began profusely apologizing, even more than the average Canadian. His feet hurt. His shoes were too tight. His legs were cramping. He couldn’t do this. As he rambled out every irritation, every self-doubt, I was reminded of every marathon I have ever done and the shared mental battle that he was currently witnessing. I had been there before. I too, have doubted whether I would ever reach the finish line.
At km 28, we passed Kate who was strangely chipper and positive about the marathon. We chatted for a bit but Hugo was too far into the darkness to carry on much of a conversation at this point. He kept asking to walk but I told him the faster we keep moving, the faster we would finish. At some point, realizing I had not taken any fuel since km 14 and yet had diligently been barking orders to Hugo to take gels, I had to vomit. Hugo seemed relieved, almost happy, that I needed to stop and throw up in the nearby bush. As I came out of the bushes, he was happily walking, swinging his arms, head turned upwards to the sun, and loving every second of his 20 second walking break. It was victory for him. He was finally allowed to walk. By the time I needed to vomit a second time, most likely from heat exhaustion, he was ecstatic to have a break, begging me to take all the time I needed.
Around 30 km we heard, Enola Gay playing on the speakers. This brought life back to Hugo. “You should have stayed at home yesterday” seemed a rather rude lyric at the moment, however.
At last, we hit the awaited 32 km mark and almost immediately the road shifted downhill. Hugo picked up his pace and remarked that if it was like this for the remainder, he could do this. There was light at the end of the tunnel. 500 meters later, however, the downhill no longer seemed like such a treat. The descent was equally hard on tired legs. Our pace slowed once again. I reminded Hugo that he has ran 10 kms hundreds of times before and this would be no different. I coached him to lean forward and let the downhill do the work.
In the last 5 kms, we entered crowd-thronged avenues of the city centre. Music was playing, people were cheering, and children were high fiving. As we made the last small incline before the finish, Hugo’s calf cramped. We quickly stopped and I massaged his calf, pretending I knew what I was doing. The placebo effect seemed to work, and Hugo was able to continue the final stretch towards Panathinaiko Stadium. Once we entered the stadium, the heaviness of the marathon lifted. I was certain we were going to finish, and I no longer had to find ways to divert Hugo’s attention. We crossed the finish line with Hugo grimacing and me smiling. We had followed Phelidippides footsteps from Marathon to Athens but unlike Pheidippides that eventually died from exhaustion soon after his journey, we survived.
We had made it. We had finished the Athens Marathon in a respectable time of 3 hours and 42 minutes. Our marriage had survived. We had somehow balanced new jobs, 4 children including a new-born baby, two dogs, ex-wife drama, long runs with the buggy, early morning trainings, and more. We had done it. As I saw the tears streaming down Hugo’s face, I felt the emotion of the last 6 months and the obstacles we had had to overcome to be here. I was so proud to have witnessed Hugo finish his first marathon and to be married to marathoner. Because when you marry a marathoner, it is only a matter of time before you also become a marathoner too. So, when is the next one, Hugo?
I am so proud of you!
Loved every word of it! So proud of both of you!
Great description of the prep and the race. Sounds brutal, and well done both of you.
Most I have done was a 10k… I know my limits. But Way to Go, Hugo & Heather!