The journey to the Valencia Marathon didn’t quite start like something out of a glossy travel brochure. We arrived in Valencia, where there had recently been major flooding.
We headed straight to bib pickup, slightly jet-lagged and with that familiar feeling of “do we actually have everything?”. But once we got there, we were met by impressively smooth organization. Despite the huge number of runners, everything flowed remarkably well. It almost felt like they were thinking: “We’ve handled worse — a few thousand runners won’t be a problem.”
We picked up our bibs without any drama, which was almost a bit disappointing. As runners, you kind of expect a little suffering somewhere along the way. But no — just smiles, efficiency, and everything working as it should. Suspiciously pleasant, really.
And just like that, we were standing there with our bibs in hand, ready to take on our own 42-kilometer adventure. Mostly full of anticipation… and just a hint of “this seemed like a great idea at the time.”
Day two in Valencia started the way all good marathon weekends should — with a gentle morning jog. We woke up, laced up our shoes, and headed out to explore the surroundings at an easy pace. Nothing ambitious, just enough to wake up the legs and remind them what was coming. After that: shower, breakfast, and the comforting feeling that everything was (more or less) under control.
Once refueled, we set off on a walk through the city’s famous futuristic area, the stunning City of Arts and Sciences. It almost felt like stepping into another world — all white curves, reflections, and architecture that makes you question whether you accidentally signed up for a marathon on Mars.
From there, we made our way into the old town, Ciutat Vella, which couldn’t have been more different. Narrow streets, warm colors, and a relaxed, welcoming atmosphere — the kind of place where time slows down and you suddenly forget you have a race ahead.
Lunch turned out to be a highlight. We found a cozy Argentine restaurant and settled in for what became a proper feast: perfectly grilled meat and vegetables, simple and full of flavor. To top it off, we enjoyed a glass (or two) of Argentine Malbec — because hydration comes in many forms.
After lunch, we strolled back toward the hotel at a very civilized pace, letting the day sink in. The afternoon and evening were spent sitting at a restaurant, watching the rhythm of the city — people passing by, conversations flowing, and that unmistakable pre-race calm settling in.
Not a bad way to spend the day before 42 kilometers of questionable decision-making.
Race day in Valencia started early — very early. Alarm goes off, and for a brief moment I wonder whose terrible idea this was. Then I remember: mine.
After a quick breakfast, we head out. It’s a bit of a walk to the start corral, so we join a quiet, slightly sleepy parade of runners moving through the cool morning air. There’s something special about it — thousands of people, not fully awake, all voluntarily heading toward 42 kilometers of effort. Questionable life choices, united.
Inside the corral, I end up chatting with an Irish runner who notices my Valencia CF jersey. A few words, a bit of pre-race banter, and then we wish each other good luck as the crowd slowly starts moving forward. It’s a powerful feeling — being carried along with so many others toward the start of something big.
The gun goes off, and my plan is clear: open at 6:30 min/km. I’m not exactly in peak shape, but quitting is not on the menu. The goal? Enjoy it. Somehow.
And then… something unexpected happens. I feel good. Actually, really good. Before I know it, I’m cruising at 6:00 min/km and it feels comfortable. Who is this person? Have I secretly become a machine overnight?
I pass 10K feeling fantastic — even stop briefly to talk to my wife, proudly declaring that today, I am strong. Confidence level: unreasonable.
Another 5K goes by smoothly. I start doing race math in my head — you know, calculating finish times like a true expert… which, as always, leads to absolutely no clear conclusions.
At 20K, reality begins to knock. Legs are getting heavier. I hit halfway and notice the pace starting to slip. I try to push, but now the legs are responding with a firm “no, thank you.” The burn is real.
I see my wife again — she cheers, motivates, pushes me forward. This time, I’m significantly less confident. The swagger is gone. Replaced by survival mode.
The pace keeps dropping, the legs feel like concrete, and somewhere after 30K, I reach an agreement with myself:
200 meters walking, 800 meters running. A deal is struck. Not ideal, but acceptable under the circumstances.
I stick to this strategy until 40K. Then something shifts. Two kilometers to go. No more deals. Time to run it in.
The final stretch is incredible. The crowds are loud, cheering, lifting us forward. My Valencia jersey gets plenty of encouragement — which I fully accept as proof that I am, in fact, a local hero.
The last kilometer… I’m not even sure I’m running anymore — it feels like I’m being carried by the crowd, by the noise, and by that overwhelming rush of realizing: I’m going to make it.
And just like that — across the finish line.
Another marathon done.
Another completely unreasonable idea that somehow turned out to be a great one
To be …