I’ve been putting off writing about the Johnson Crane Marathon, mostly because I wasn’t quite sure how to explain what happened without sounding dramatic. But here it is: I finished. Barely. But I did.
I ran it with Sarie—which, let’s be honest, was a saving grace. There’s nothing like suffering up a hill next to someone who knows your life, your pace, and when not to speak. We’d both entered the race full of hope (and not nearly enough kilometres in our legs).
I’d only been training for three weeks after being sick, and I was trying hard to stick to my eating plan—I’d lost 7.3kg in 29 days and didn’t want to ruin it all on sticky race-day potatoes and Coke. That part was a bit of a dilemma. So, between being undertrained, under-fuelled, and overly optimistic, things got interesting fast.
The first 10km felt great. I even ran my personal best at 1 h 12 and started thinking this might go well. But at 20km, things started to fall apart. My legs seized. I had to stop and stretch and mentally talk myself into repeating what I’d just done—again. By 25km, a race official told us there weren’t many people behind us and if we carried on, we’d probably miss the 6-hour cut-off.
That’s when the panic kicked in. I started breathing like I was in labour and questioning all my life choices.
At 28km, we missed a turn and ended up doing a detour. And that was it—most of the field passed us. I had this moment where I thought, What am I doing here? I’m not cut out for this.
Then came 39km. The wall. I didn’t even want to see running shoes again, never mind wear them. But I kept going. Not because I was feeling inspired—but because I was stubborn. And also because I knew deep down, I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.
We crossed the finish line with a medal, sore feet, and a deep respect for anyone who’s ever done this twice. My time was slow. My body was broken. My ego? Let’s not talk about it. But I finished. And that medal felt earned in the truest sense.
So no, this wasn’t some glorious runner’s high story. It was grit. It was a friend who didn’t leave my side. It was a prayer between water stops. It was everything I didn’t plan for—and still somehow made it through.
And even if I never run that route again (never say never), I now know: finishing sometimes has nothing to do with speed. It has everything to do with showing up, keeping pace with Jesus, and refusing to quit—even when you’re second last.
My PB on the Johnson Crane Marathon:
