Everything was ready. I had planned every detail of this run down to the gram. Every drink, every gel, every step was part of a carefully tested routine. Weeks before the race, I tried two different electrolyte mixes on 40KM and 30KM runs they worked well. So the final plan was set: 250ml electrolyte drink every 20 minutes, and every full hour, one gel, 250ml water, and a salt tablet.
My friend Péter (one of my oldest and closest friends) would be with me on a bike the entire way. He’d mix and hand me each bottle like clockwork. Everything was packed into small labeled bags. It was all going to work.
But the night before the race, things were already slipping. We stayed up too late, excited, rushing last-minute preparations. I couldn’t fall asleep in the unfamiliar room. By the time I finally drifted off, it was past 1 AM. Wake-up was at 4:30. Just three hours of sleep before what was supposed to be the longest run of my life.
We left at 5:30. The start line wasn’t far, but we lost time trying to park. Then assembling the bike, loading the gear ,by the time we were ready, there were only two minutes left. Péter stayed behind. I sprinted alone to the start line, heart pounding, and arrived just as the race began. No warm-up. No breath. I started dead last.
The morning was cool, cloudy 20°C. For a moment, it felt promising. But Péter still hadn’t caught up. He was supposed to meet me for my first fueling stop, but support cyclists weren’t allowed on the course until the 65KM runners had started. That meant I missed my entire first scheduled drink. He only reached me at 6:44. I drank, hoped it wasn’t too late, and kept going.
There were other problems too. My trusted socks were back in England, so I ran in a new pair. By 24KM, I felt the first hot spot under my right forefoot. Blister. It hurt, but I stayed focused. My pace was good. My heart rate was steady. I was still in control.
At 33KM, Péter noticed something: my shirt was stained with blood. My left nipple had started to bleed a common runner’s issue, but still unexpected. The pinned bib pulled my shirt just enough to rub with each step. Soon, the right side began to bleed too. With the heat and salt from sweat, it became a sharp, constant pain.
At 50KM, the sun broke through and didn’t let up. The heat climbed fast, and by midday we were running in max 38°C. The air shimmered above the asphalt. Every breath felt hotter than the last.
At 56KM, my stomach gave up. Cramping. Diarrhea. I had to stop. Gels were no longer an option. I pulled them from the plan and hoped the drinks would be enough.
But they weren’t. Nearly every aid station became a toilet stop. I kept pushing, but I could feel the structure of my plan collapsing around me.
By the turnaround point at 65KM, I was drained. Still, I kept going. At 72KM, I vomited. Everything in my system came back up. Péter looked concerned (he had every right to be) but he left the choice to me. And I chose to keep moving.
To cope, I started breaking the remaining distance into mental chunks. Just make it to 75. Then 80. Then 84. I tried alternating running and walking. But every step now came with pain. Running triggered more stomach issues. Drinking made me nauseous. Even the thought of food made me gag.
I had a few salty TUC crackers. I tried using them to settle my stomach. For a short while, it worked. But by 80KM, nothing stayed down. Every sip, every bite in or out came right back up.
Blisters were forming on both feet. I was overheating. Still, I refused to stop.
Péter, as always, was by my side. He said, “You’re the boss. I’ll follow blindly.”
And he did. Step by step. No matter how slow, no matter how broken I looked he came with me.
By now, the sun was low, glowing straight into my face. We were on a long, flat dyke endless, quiet, mentally brutal. I stopped talking. I didn’t rest. I blocked everything out and focused on the single task of moving forward.
But the numbers don’t lie.
There were 39KM left. I did the math.
To make the midnight cutoff, I’d have to run 37KM nonstop, even if slowly. But in this state, I couldn’t do it. Not without risking a total breakdown or worse. My flight home was the next day. I had a choice: keep pushing beyond reason, or stop just short of the line with dignity and safety intact.
I asked Péter. He wouldn’t give advice just support. So I made the decision.
We would go to 100KM. And then stop.
And that’s what we did. well almost...
At 98KM, we reached an aid station. I stopped my watch. I sat on a bench. I cried.
Not out of weakness, but out of frustration. Because I believed I could do it. I was ready I had trained, I had planned, I had trusted myself. But sometimes, the body just doesn’t play along.
This wasn’t just 98 kilometers.
It could have ended at 56KM. That’s when the pain truly began:
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Bleeding skin,
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Blistered feet,
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Diarrhea,
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Vomiting,
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Total nutritional collapse.
But I didn’t stop there. I went 42 more kilometers not with strength, but with sheer belief.
That 42KM was the real marathon.
That’s where the battle was fought.
So no I didn’t finish the full 130KM.
But I walked away knowing I gave everything I had.
And more than anything, I didn’t do this alone.
Péter… I can’t thank you enough. You were my crew, my psychologist, my friend. I couldn’t have done this without you.
To everyone who supported this run — whether through kind messages, encouragement, or donations — thank you from the bottom of my heart.
I aimed to raise £100 for Macmillan Cancer Support, to help people living with cancer.
Together, we raised £418.
You’re incredible.
This wasn’t the finish I imagined
but it was the most powerful journey I’ve ever been on.
And one day, I’ll return for the missing 32KM.
Gábor
