This is my Sydney marathon story. 

I ran the 2026 Sydney Marathon. I finished the 2026 Sydney Marathon. 

Not everybody finished. Most people will never run 42.2 kilometres. Simply getting onto the start line of a World Marathon Major is a privilege. Health, circumstances and increasingly competitive ballots mean that plenty of people who would love to run a marathon never get the opportunity. 

This year, I was one of the lucky ones. I added my name alongside 123,000 others in the general ballot, hoping to secure one of just 35,000 spots. Somehow, I got a place. 

At 65, I was about to run my fifth road marathon, after decades of half marathons, trail runs, and dozens of City2Surfs. I had trained consistently for 12 weeks, followed a plan and arrived at the start line feeling strong, fit and ambitious. Very ambitious. 

Instead, I discovered that being fit, prepared and determined does not guarantee that your body will cooperate with your expectations. 

So why, after crossing the finish line, didn’t I feel happy and proud? 

Because the marathon I actually ran was very different from the marathon I had imagined. 

This is what happened. 

The race I thought I was going to run. I knew what to do. I had a plan. I fully intended to follow it. 

I was going to stay with the 4:40 pacer until 30 kilometres. Then, if my legs allowed, I would accelerate and try to finish in 4:30 – or perhaps even 4:25. 

I never doubted that I could finish. In fact, I became increasingly convinced that I could run much faster than my training history suggested. Even ChatGPT fed the dream once it realised I wasn’t going to be easily swayed by the reality of my training data! 

My ambition to blow it out of the park was, ironically, part of what derailed me. 

Race morning 

I was absolutely full of beans in the start chute as 5,000-plus runners were funnelled towards the start line on Miller Street. 

My legs felt warm, strong and ready to race. The sun was peeking through the trees. The atmosphere was buzzing. 

The toilet queues were still seemingly 200 people deep. Thankfully, after 12 weeks of practising my pre-run routine, I had my gut strategy down pat. Anyone who runs knows there are few things worse than needing a toilet at kilometre one! 

I found the 4-hour-40-minute pacer and enthusiastically shared my race plan with her. 

In my head, the dream was still alive. 

And off we went. 

I felt fantastic. 

I was smiling, breathing easily and thinking how effortless it all felt. Almost like a walk in the park. 

Of course, the opening kilometres were downhill. We’d been warned about that. We’d been told not to get carried away and run too fast too early. 

But knowing something intellectually and actually doing it in the excitement of race morning are two very different things. 

I didn’t pay enough attention to my watch. 

At around 10 kilometres, I finally looked properly. I still felt strong, but my heart rate had crept much higher than I wanted it to be this early in a marathon. 

I knew what that meant. 

I should slow down. 

But I didn’t slow down enough. 

Ho hum. 

Then the marathon started teaching me. 

By 15 kilometres, the 4:40 pacer was disappearing ahead of me. 

This part of the course was particularly confronting because of the switchbacks. On one side of the road I was still heading out, while on the other side the three-hour runners were flying back towards the city. 

They looked magnificent – fast, strong and almost home. 

I wanted to be that runner. 

Instead, my calf was beginning to cramp. Ahead of me stretched a sea of runners and many, many kilometres of road. 

That contrast was brutal: the runners I wanted to be beside were racing towards the finish while I was confronting the reality that my own race was beginning to unravel. 

I kept running until halfway at 21.1 kilometres. 

By then, the sun was higher, the shade had largely disappeared and the crowds had thinned. The calf cramps became intermittent cramps in both calves, and then my thighs joined the party. 

The second half became run/walk. 

Suddenly, 42.2 kilometres felt like a very, very long way. 

When your head says yes and your legs say no. 

This was probably the biggest surprise of the marathon. 

My head didn’t give up. 

I wasn’t frightened that I wouldn’t finish. I wasn’t telling myself I couldn’t do it. Mentally, I was still determined to keep moving towards that finish line. 

My legs simply couldn’t execute the plan my brain had written for them. 

That distinction fascinated me afterwards. 

For every marathon runner, the story is different, yet strangely similar. One runner is battling the fear that they won’t finish. Another discovers they can run faster than they ever imagined. Someone else is managing pain, heat, cramps, stomach problems or simply the accumulated fatigue of 42 kilometres. 

We all arrive with a story about what we think will happen. 

Then the marathon writes its own. 

The longest finish line 

By the final kilometre, heading downhill along Macquarie Street, my legs somehow found another gear. 

I could run again. 

Around the corner were crowds of spectators and runners collectively doing whatever they could to get themselves over that finish line. 

And there was the Sydney Opera House. 

On any other day, it is spectacular. Perhaps because I live in Sydney, or perhaps because I was simply too exhausted to care, I have to admit that seeing our famous Opera House didn’t produce the transcendent emotional moment I’d imagined. 

I just wanted to finish. 

And I did. 

Then I discovered that walking through the enormous runners’ finishing area felt like a second marathon. 

I also developed quite acute shoulder pain. The wonderful medical team gently reassured me that I wasn’t having a heart attack and that the best thing I could do was keep walking. 

By the time I finally escaped the Botanical Gardens, made my way down to Circular Quay and reunited with my gorgeous support crew, much of the acute post-marathon pain was beginning to subside. 

But where was my runner’s high? 

I was grateful to have finished, but my inner critic was in full flight. 

I’d trained hard. I’d followed a programme. I had decades of half marathons, trail runs, City2Surfs and four road marathons in these legs. 

Yet none of that could guarantee the race I’d imagined. 

And that, perhaps, is precisely why the marathon is so compelling.

The wins I nearly overlooked 

In the immediate aftermath, I focused almost entirely on what had gone wrong. 

I had missed my ambitious time goal. I had gone out too fast. I had spent much of the second half managing cramps and walking. I had finished, but not in the way I had imagined. 

With a little more perspective, I can see that Sydney contained plenty of wins. 

I ran my fastest half marathon during the race. That is easy to overlook when the second half becomes difficult, but it is still a genuine achievement and evidence of how much my training had improved my fitness. 

I also enjoyed the training process immensely. The early mornings, the structure, the gradual increase in distance and the feeling of becoming stronger were all deeply satisfying. Training wasn’t simply something I had to endure to reach race day. It was one of the best parts of the experience. 

I trained consistently for 12 weeks. That consistency matters. It gave me the fitness to get to the start line, the confidence to believe I could finish and the resilience to keep moving when the race became difficult. 

And I did keep moving. 

When my legs could no longer follow the original plan, I adapted. I ran when I could, walked when I needed to and kept going until it was done. 

That is a win too. 

Maybe a marathon is like childbirth? 

You can read every book. Follow the training programme. Listen to the experts. Prepare yourself mentally and physically. 

But nothing completely prepares you for what happens on the day. 

And just like childbirth, once the pain subsides, apparently some of us decide it would be a good idea to do it all over again. 

In my case, I don’t even have much time to forget. 

I’m already booked to run the New York City Marathon nine weeks later. 

Just enough time to recover, rebuild and try again. 

This time, I want to do something that sounds ridiculously simple but can be extraordinarily difficult when thousands of excited runners are streaming across a start line around you: 

Start slowly. 

So slowly that it almost feels too slow. 

In New York, I intend to pay much more attention to what my watch is telling me during those first 10 kilometres – and a little less attention to how brilliant I happen to feel. 

Sydney taught me that feeling fantastic at kilometre five tells you very little about how your legs will feel at kilometre 35. 

Oh, and after swearing that the idea of riding a bike home from the city was completely abhorrent, I somehow climbed onto an e-bike after a restorative snack with my loyal support crew and rode home. 

Marathon runners are strange creatures. 

Would I do Sydney again? 

Absolutely. 

What I learned 

The marathon gave me a long list of lessons, some of which I had heard before but clearly hadn’t fully absorbed. 

• Start more slowly than you think you need to. Feeling fantastic in the opening kilometres is not evidence that you should speed up. It is often a reason to be even more disciplined. 

• Consistency is powerful. Twelve weeks of regular training created a strong foundation. One perfect session would never have mattered as much as repeatedly showing up. 

• The process deserves to be enjoyed. The training was not merely a means to an end. I loved becoming fitter, stronger and more capable. That enjoyment is part of the reward. 

• Listen to the evidence, not just the excitement. My training history, heart rate and race plan were giving me useful information. I allowed ambition and race-day adrenaline to speak louder. 

• Don’t compare your race with somebody else’s. Watching the faster runners coming back towards the city made me want to be someone I wasn’t on that day. Their race was not my race. Comparison added disappointment but gave me no extra strength. 

• Your head and your legs may tell different stories. Mentally, I was still willing to continue. Physically, I had to accept that my original plan was no longer realistic. Good racing requires both determination and honesty. 

• Adaptation is not failure. Run/walking the second half was not what I wanted, but it was the strategy that got me to the finish line. 

• Keep going until it’s done. The race does not have to unfold perfectly for you to finish it. Sometimes the only goal left is the next kilometre, the next aid station or the next corner. 

• A finish is still a finish. It may not deliver the emotional high you expected, but completing something difficult remains meaningful even when the result is messy. 

Because you either win or you learn. 

And this time, I learned a lot. 

I also discovered that there were more wins than I had initially allowed myself to see: a fastest half marathon, twelve weeks of consistent training, immense enjoyment in the process, the courage to stop comparing myself with other runners and the determination to keep going until it was done. 

Now it’s a waiting game for the Sydney 2027 ballot to open – and for my next marathon in New York!