Comrades 2025: Running My Race
I didn’t grow up dreaming of running Comrades. I didn’t even know it existed.
It was never part of my plan - until Greg Karpinski from KEO challenged me. I was focused on Ironman, recovering from injury, and easing back into running. Saying yes to a 90km ultramarathon through the hills of South Africa wasn’t logical. But I’ve learned that detours sometimes carry more growth than the path you planned.
This one did.
The Unknown, and the Bathroom
We flew into Durban, but the race starts in Pietermaritzburg. That meant a 2:30am shuttle and waking up just after 1:50am. It’s strange what moments stand out most from an ultramarathon, but one of the first I’ll never forget was… the bathroom.
Yes, the bathroom.
One of our teammates convinced the owner of a tiny Pakistani-run supermarket to let us use the backroom instead of the chaos of the porta-loos outside. There we were - grown adults in running kits, quietly taking turns, grateful for soap and a flush. In that unlikely place, the pre-race nerves settled into camaraderie.
Tension at the Start Line
Comrades is loud, emotional, charged.
They build up to the start with music:
the South African anthem,
Shosholoza
Chariots of Fire
Cockcrow
Gunshot
Runners sing, cry, and bounce in nervous energy.
But I wasn’t feeling any of it.
I had trained poorly. My longest run was 44km, barely half the distance. I was nursing multiple injuries: ankle, hip, Achilles, back. I wasn’t doubting I’d finish, but I didn’t know how. The unknown sat heavily on me.
I had a goal: sub-11 hours. It would earn me a bronze medal instead of the “Vic Clapham” (given to those who finish between 11 and 12 hours). Arbitrary? Maybe. But I carried it like a rule.
The First 30 Kilometers: Everything Wrong
From the first few kilometers, things felt off. My heart rate was too high. My nutrition plan didn’t click. I was scanning my Garmin obsessively, chasing the math, calculating the pace.
Instead of looking up, I was spiraling inward.
The sun rose. The crowds cheered. Runners moved like a wave. But I wasn’t there. I was in my head, fighting my own rules. By kilometer 28, I couldn’t imagine how I’d cover 60 more.
This wasn’t the race I came for. And I’d been here before, my first marathon, in Porto, ruined by a meaningless goal that stole the joy from the finish.
Letting Go
At kilometer 30, I reached our support tent. I refueled. I tried to reset. And then, the 11-hour pace group - the “bus,” as they call - passed me.
I wasn’t supposed to see them. I had trained (or convinced myself I had) for 10:45. Their appearance broke me, but also woke me up.
Around km 35, something clicked. A quiet voice in my head whispered:
“No one else cares. No one else is measuring you. You made up this rule. Let it go.”
And I did.
It wasn’t dramatic. I didn’t cry. I just stopped chasing, stopped frowning, and started running differently.
Everything Changed
From that moment on, the race became something else.
I started smiling. I chatted with runners. I stopped at Arthur’s Seat, a Comrades tradition where you leave a flower for luck in the second half. I soaked in the chaos of the water points, the joy of strangers shouting “Portugal!” because of the flag stitched on my shirt.
I breathed better. My heart rate dropped by 10 bpm. I began repeating quotes in my head, Derek Sivers’ “Hell Yeah or No”, and my daughter’s song:
“My father is big, almost touches the sky…”
I passed a man running barefoot for charity. I accepted salt sachets from the crowd. At one point, a woman handed me a peanut butter sandwich, and I swear it tasted like wagyu. My gut had rejected everything else by then.
I was in pain. My quads were wrecked from the relentless downhill. My knees screamed. The camber of the road gave us no relief, always slanted, always pulling. But I was no longer suffering. Pain was present, yes. But I was choosing not to suffer.
The Call
The most emotional moment came at the very end.
I turned left into the final stretch and called my wife and baby. I wanted them to see the crowd. I wanted them to hear the roar. But mostly, I wanted to say thank you.
Thank you for holding the fort at home so I could chase something like this. Thank you for being part of this finish line, even from afar. I couldn’t have done it without them, and I didn’t want to.
What I Carried Across the Finish
I crossed the finish line in 11h20.
Not with tears. Not with fireworks. Just quiet, deep satisfaction.
The Vic Clapham medal, the one I tried so hard to avoid, is the most meaningful one I’ve ever earned. Not because of the time. Because of what it represents: a moment of mindset shift that turned suffering into joy.
I ran almost half the race under pressure and tension. I ran the second half with presence and peace. Same body. Same race. But a completely different experience.
What I’ll Take Forward
Comrades reminded me that no one cares about your time but you. No one will push you down unless you let them.
It taught me the difference between pushing for a goal, and pushing past the point of joy. Two minutes faster means nothing if you lose everything in the process.
It gave me back something I needed more than another medal: calm confidence. The sense that I can do hard things myway, not someone else’s. That following my path - whether in sport, in work, or in life - is more than enough.
I Don’t Know If I’ll Run It Again
Right now, I’m happy knowing my longest run in the next few months will be 20km. But part of me wonders, what if I ran it again, from the start, with this mindset?
Maybe one day.
For now, I’m holding onto what matters most:
