New York Marathon — Headlines That Didn't Survive the Bridges and Borrows

 

Six stars, eight Majors, twenty-five marathons, and a social media post that kept rewriting itself.

I already had my Instagram and Strava caption in mind even before reaching New York.
 

“Finally, another monkey off my back. I am BQ!”

Boston qualification was on my mind. The qualifying standard I was targeting was 3:50, but I knew getting accepted would probably require another five or six minutes faster. Having run a personal best of 3:40 in New Delhi earlier this year and trained hard for this tough Major, I thought another good performance was possible.

And what better occasion than my final race of the original six World Marathon Majors?

Clearly, I was being a bit overconfident. Funnily enough, as the miles passed, the caption kept changing.

But first, the good news. The Six Star medal was finally mine. It was due last year, but life took a few good turns. Sydney and Cape Town came along, and the final star of the original six had to wait another year. I ended up completing eight World Majors before collecting my sixth star.

New York was also my 25th full marathon, and I finished in 3:58—my sixth sub-four-hour finish in eight Majors. Not bad, one would think. Yet I was disappointed. I still had unfinished business: I wanted to earn the title of Boston qualifier, something many serious amateur marathon runners aspire to.

Preparation had been reasonably good. I studied the New York elevation profile and included repeated hills in my long runs. Unlike a single big climb, New York's bridges interrupt your rhythm at regular intervals.

An injury threatened my preparation, but my physiotherapist Dr Manali helped me recover. Then, just three days before travelling, a wrongly sized shoe caused a serious toenail injury. A timely procedure by Dr Khade saved the situation. By race day the injury was no longer a major concern, but jet lag, travel and sightseeing had disturbed my sleep all week. Not excuses, but certainly not ideal recovery either.

The Marathon Before the Marathon

New York Marathon is not a three- or four-hour affair. It starts long before the starting gun. The race began in 1970 entirely inside Central Park. In 1976, it moved to the five-borough route, starting on Staten Island and passing through Brooklyn, Queens, Manhattan and the Bronx.

Getting to Staten Island is an adventure in itself. We left our hotel roughly five hours before our 9:45 a.m. start. Early transport, security and considerable waiting. Imagine preparing for a marathon for five hours, mostly by sitting or standing in the cold!

Fortunately, the organisation was excellent. Coffee, bagels, volunteers and even therapy dogs were available at the start village. I had never imagined a marathon might provide dogs to calm nervous runners. The expo too had been efficient, with bib collection taking just minutes.
                                                                                                   

Race week gave me another special experience—representing India in the Parade of Nations at the opening ceremony, wearing traditional Indian attire. When I started running in 2014, I hadn't imagined anything like that. Running has taken me to unfamiliar cities and introduced me to wonderful friends. But wearing Indian colours at the opening ceremony was a different kind of pride.

Now it was time to negotiate New York's 42.2 kilometres.

 Veraazono welcomes you with a beautiful climb 

      

The starting gun went off, and immediately we began climbing the Verrazzano Bridge. New York doesn't allow you to settle into a rhythm on flat roads. The first challenge arrives in the first kilometre.

Our wave ran on the lower deck. The morning view over the waters of the Narrows was wonderful, although I suspect the upper-deck runners had an even better one. I tried spotting the Statue of Liberty but had no luck. The descent towards Brooklyn was tempting, but I resisted speeding up. No point punishing my quadriceps so early.

Once we entered Brooklyn, the atmosphere changed completely. Thousands of spectators lined the roads, cheering almost continuously. Runners from different starting lanes merged into a colourful river of people.

One placard caught my attention:

“YOU ARE A F**KING ATHLETE. RUN!”

It did more than encourage me. After a sleepless week, a runny nose and an intermittent cough, I had started with borrowed confidence, hoping everything would settle once I began running. I had trained hard, and the placard reminded me of that.

I recalled a placard from Cape Town that said “KEEP GOING”. Those two words had helped me through a difficult final 10 kilometres there.

Other spectators held placards cheering John, Mary, Abigail and many more. If someone holds a “GO JOHN!” sign for several hours, surely every John passing that spot benefits from it!!

Halloween had been celebrated the previous evening, and New York was still in a festive mood. People were out in colourful, sometimes ghostly costumes. The weather was sunny but cool, almost ideal for running.

Having run Chicago and Boston, I couldn't resist comparing their characters. Chicago has long straight roads and perpendicular streets. Boston winds through neighbourhoods and rolling terrain. New York seems to offer a mixture of both, interrupted by those famous bridges.

As a civil engineer, I find these details interesting. Even the numbered streets entertained me. I started counting steps between intersections, estimating the shorter blocks at around 70–75 metres. Street numbers generally increase as you head north and decrease as you travel south. Probably not the most accurate survey of New York, but I have a habit of noticing small details along a route. Such distractions make my runs enjoyable and the effort more bearable.
        
 

Autumn added another dimension. Trees were turning red, orange and yellow, with fallen leaves scattered along the roads. In Boston, I had admired trees blossoming after winter. Here, in another month, they would be bare, dark silhouettes, ready to bear the weight of winter snow. And I remembered seeing those bare trees in Tokyo, just before the cherry blossom season. Three marathons, three stages of nature's cycle. Different seasons, different beauty.

 Back in race, the legs were still cooperating fortunately.

The Bridges Begin to Collect Their Dues

Kalyani, an excellent runner from Nagpur, was alongside me. I have achieved PRs in Sydney and New Delhi with her discipline pacing.  We had agreed to remain controlled until around 32 km and then push if we felt good. At Cape Town I had pushed after halfway and suffered cramps around 32–33 km. I didn't want a repeat.

The Pulaski Bridge took us from Brooklyn into Queens, with the halfway mark on the bridge. We were slightly behind our ideal schedule but comfortable enough. The scenery shifted from red brick buildings to commercial structures and high-rises, with Manhattan's skyline in the distance.

And then came Queensboro Bridge.

I had studied its long incline and tried to reproduce similar efforts in training. But there is a difference between climbing a hill on fresh legs and climbing one after 24 kilometres.

The cheering disappeared as we entered the bridge. Thousands of runners moved together, yet we heard mostly footsteps and occasional traffic noise. I enjoy running alone, so the silence didn't bother me. The incline did. It seemed longer than the elevation chart suggested. My pace dropped, and I was reluctant to attack the descent.

Finally we turned beneath the bridge and entered Manhattan. Suddenly, an explosion of sound. First Avenue stretched ahead, a wide river of runners with spectators lining both sides. Probably the most spectacular moment of the race.

First Avenue looks almost flat in photographs and elevation charts. In reality, its gentle gradients are deceptive after Queensboro. We were running reasonably well, but maintaining pace was taking more effort. London is perhaps the only Major I've run where the crowds felt comparable.

There were placards displaying photographs of pets, including dogs with missing eyes or ears. Were they rescue animals, or were runners supporting animal welfare causes? Another subject to investigate later. I also noticed runners with disabilities and their guides, and wheelchair participants supported by their teams. Their determination was admirable.

I kept looking for distractions—streets, buildings, even how volunteers managed pedestrian crossings. In Sydney I had seen temporary pedestrian bridges for crossings; New York relied on carefully coordinated crossing points.

We crossed the Willis Avenue Bridge into the Bronx and the Madison Avenue Bridge back into Manhattan. Five bridges completed. I was relieved. But New York had not finished with us.

 My Social Media Headline Needs Editing

At around 32 km, Kalyani began experiencing cramps and asked me to go ahead, as we had agreed. I increased my effort. Or at least I tried.

The plan was to run the last 10 km faster if I had enough energy. But the watch showed no improvement. I was working harder merely to maintain pace. Perhaps 3:50 was still possible? That would meet my qualifying standard, even if it wasn't enough for the eventual cutoff.

The headline underwent its first revision:

“BQ achieved. Who cares about the cutoff?

A tired marathon runner can be remarkably generous with his calculations. Unfortunately, my legs were less generous. Despite the effort, the pace fell. Fifth Avenue's long gradient wasn't helping.

By 36 km, I needed another distraction. I decided to count runners I overtook, targeting 100 per kilometre. An ambitious target, but I soon lost count as my legs stopped taking orders.

I started walking.

This was puzzling. I had carb-loaded, taken gels regularly and followed my hydration and electrolyte plan. I had trained on hills for this course. Was it muscular exhaustion, disturbed sleep, the repeated climbs? Probably a combination. I would analyse it later.

For now, a little walking wouldn't harm, I told myself. My watch, however, kept counting every second without sympathy. I ran again, hoping for a kilometre below six minutes. Instead, it was closer to 6:30. Another walking break followed. My BQ headline was becoming irrelevant.

 The Crowds That Refused to Carry Me

I was approaching Central Park, surrounded by cheering spectators. Earlier I had enjoyed the placards. Now I'd lost interest in John, Mary, Abigail and their pets.

I remembered what I'd heard repeatedly before New York: “The crowds will carry you through the final miles.”

Really? Here were thousands shouting themselves hoarse, and here I was walking helplessly. Nobody seemed interested in carrying me anywhere! The absurdity made me laugh.

I had travelled halfway around the world, trained for months, studied every bridge and incline, and was now walking through one of the greatest marathon atmospheres in the world. I decided to keep smiling. If I couldn't run fast, at least I could look happy.

Somewhere along the way I remembered that Brooklyn placard: “YOU ARE A F**KING ATHLETE. RUN!”

At the beginning it charged me. Now I wasn't sure. Only months earlier I'd run 3:40 in Delhi. I had come dreaming of Boston qualification and was already thinking about a strong Comrades next year. And here I was struggling to maintain six-minute pace. Was I really an athlete, or just a marathon finisher getting carried away by his ambitions?

Then I remembered the Six Star medal waiting at the finish.

With about 800 metres remaining, I abandoned the Boston calculations. Forget BQ. Forget 3:50.

“At least make it sub-four!”

Another headline revision. I tried counting ninety right-foot steps four times, a little mental trick. I lost count, but kept running. Eventually the finish appeared. I straightened myself, put on the widest smile I could manage and crossed the mat.

3:58.

The smile for the camera was somewhat artificial. The relief wasn't.

## The Final Headline

And then came the Six Star medal, finally around my neck after eight World Majors. There was pride, happiness and relief, but some disappointment remained. Perhaps that's the problem with being both runner and coach. The runner wants to celebrate while the coach is already analysing what went wrong.

Still, this was my 25th marathon, my sixth sub-four-hour finish in eight Majors, and another qualifying performance for Comrades. Not bad for a race that hadn't gone to plan. I am fortunate to have the understanding of family, business partners and colleagues, and the help of doctors and friends along the way.

My imaginary social media headline had travelled from “Finally, I am BQ!” to “BQ achieved. Who cares about the cutoff?”, then “At least make it sub-four!”

And finally, something I hadn't thought of before the race:

“Six Stars. Eight Majors. Twenty-Five Marathons.”

Perhaps I should have written that headline in the first place. But then what would I have done with all those kilometres of calculations?

And that placard in Brooklyn? At 5 km, I believed it. At 40 km, I questioned it. At the finish, I decided it was probably right after all.

A couple of days later, while browsing the World Marathon Majors website, I discovered something I hadn't realised at the finish. I was among just 28 Indian runners who had completed all eight World Marathon Majors.

Perhaps that Brooklyn placard was right all along!

Six Stars. Eight Majors. Twenty-five Marathons. And still learning. 

Decoding Satara Hill Half Marathon

 

Running Satara Smarter: How Course-Specific Training Turned 1:56:01 into 1:54:30

A case study in hill training, segmented pacing and energy management at the Satara Hill Half Marathon

Satara Hill Half Marathon | 6 September 2026
Dilip Ghadge | Age 59

My Result	2026
Chip Time	1:54:30
Overall Rank	271 / 7,716
Gender Rank	260 / 6,516
Age Group	Male 55–59
Age-Group Rank	8 / 509
Bib No.	59057

Finishing 8th out of 509 runners in my age category and improving my Satara PB by around two minutes was satisfying.

But the more interesting achievement was how I did it.

Last year, I finished the Satara Hill Half Marathon in 1:56:01. I was happy with the result, but not with the amount of effort and stress it took.

This year, I wanted to find out whether I could run Satara faster—not simply by pushing harder, but by understanding the course, training specifically for it and executing a better race plan.

The experiment worked.

And the segment-wise comparison between the two races tells an interesting story.

---

Last Year: A Good Result, but a Stressful Race

My problems began even before the race.

I entered the packed corral early without a proper warm-up. By the time the race started, my body had cooled down.

Satara gives you little time to settle—the climbing begins almost immediately. The crowded opening kilometres made it difficult to establish rhythm, and just as I started feeling comfortable around km 4, the notorious climbs of km 5, 6 and 7 arrived.

I pushed continuously, didn't hydrate properly and spent too much mental energy chasing average pace.

Later, I attacked the long descent, but when I returned to the city, my tired quads struggled even on the relatively mild rolling terrain.

The Problem With Average Pace at Satara

On a flat race, average pace is extremely useful.

At Satara, the constantly changing terrain makes it misleading. Looking at overall average pace doesn't necessarily tell you whether you are running the current section well.

You start calculating:

How much time did I lose on that climb? How much should I recover downhill? What average pace do I need now?

That sounds easy in hindsight.

At kilometre 12 of a hard race, the brain already has enough work keeping you running. Constant mathematics only adds stress.

After last year's race, I made a mental note:

If I run Satara again, I will run it better.

I knew there was room for improvement—not necessarily because I could become dramatically fitter, but because I now understood where I had gone wrong.

---

Step One: Train for Satara, Not Just for a Half Marathon

This time, my training tried to reproduce the specific demands of Satara.

Because the race starts climbing almost immediately, I deliberately began many training runs with elevation rather than always allowing myself several easy kilometres first.

On alternate weeks, I used progressive 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6-minute hill repetitions. Finding a six-minute continuous climb isn't easy in a city, but I found a hill providing approximately 60 metres of elevation gain over one kilometre and used it sometimes.

I added hilly long runs, a treadmill session with approximately 30 minutes of steep incline running, and regular 10–20 second hill sprints.

I also included specific strength training for the quads, glutes, hamstrings and calves, with particular emphasis on single-leg strength and stability. This helped prepare the legs not only for climbing, but also for the eccentric load of the long downhill and the tired final kilometres.

---

Step Two: Stop Treating Satara as One 21.1 km Race

This was probably the biggest strategic change.

Instead of chasing one average pace for 21.1 km, I divided the course according to terrain.

Segment	Course Character	Race Objective
Km 1–4	Moderate to heavy climb	Settle, don't panic
Km 5–7	Monster climb	Controlled climbing
Km 8–10	Moderate climb + rolling	Recover while maintaining progress
Km 11–13	Heavy rolling + turnaround	Stay controlled
Km 14–18	Major descent	Use gravity without destroying the quads
Km 19–finish	Tired legs + city rolling	Race the finish

For each segment, I assigned a target average pace based on the elevation and my previous year's performance. I programmed these segments into my COROS watch about two weeks before the race.

I also practised programmed, segmented running several times before race day so that following the watch became familiar.

That removed a surprising amount of mental load.

Instead of constantly asking:

“Am I still on target for 1:54?”

I only needed to ask:

“Am I running this section according to plan?”

---

Step Three: Don't Start Cold

This year, I completed a proper warm-up before entering the crowded corral. Even inside, I kept moving with small jumps and movements without disturbing other runners.

Interestingly, I was slightly slower over the opening kilometres.

But there was a major difference:

I wasn't pushing hard just to maintain the pace.

---

What Actually Happened? 2025 vs 2026

When I compared the watch data afterwards, the numbers gave me perhaps the most useful lesson from the entire experiment.

Race Section	2025	2026	Difference
Km 1–4: Initial climb	22:30	22:45	15 sec slower
Km 5–7: Monster climb	21:52	21:01	51 sec faster
Km 8–10: Climb/rolling	17:02	16:59	3 sec faster
Km 11–13: Rolling/turnaround	15:28	15:27	1 sec faster
Km 14–18: Major descent	22:21	22:35	14 sec slower
Km 19–21: Final city section	15:02	14:25	37 sec faster

These segment totals are calculated from watch kilometre splits and are intended for comparative analysis. My official 2026 chip time was 1:54:30.

The fascinating thing was that I wasn't faster everywhere.

Far from it.

---

Finding 1: A Slower Start Was Fine

I was 15 seconds slower over the opening four kilometres.

Normally, seeing yourself behind last year's pace during a PB attempt can create anxiety.

But I wasn't stressed. Unlike last year, I wasn't pushing—I was controlling.

Those 15 seconds didn't worry me because actual race was ahead.

---

Finding 2: The Training Paid Off on the Monster Climb

Then came the three kilometres I had specifically trained for.

Km	2025	2026	Improvement
5	7:24	7:06	18 sec
6	7:26	6:58	28 sec
7	7:02	6:57	5 sec
Total	21:52	21:01	51 sec

The section I had trained most specifically for produced the biggest early gain:

51 seconds in only three kilometres.

Yet I didn't attack the climb recklessly.

I took water and electrolytes at the aid station, poured water over my hot body and even walked a few steps where necessary.

Last year, I had suffered a side stitch in this section, possibly because I had been pushing continuously from the beginning. That was somewhere in my mind, but fortunately it didn't return.

I concentrated on segment average rather than individual kilometre pace, trying not to let it drift much beyond 7:00/km.

Most importantly, it didn't feel as though I was pushing harder.

That, for me, validated the course-specific training.

---

Finding 3: Recover Without Giving Time Back

Once the hardest climbing ended, the temptation was to accelerate immediately.

I deliberately resisted it.

I took approximately one kilometre slightly easier, allowed the body to recover, and then gradually returned towards the target pace.

Across kilometres 8–13:

2025 — 32:30
2026 — 32:26

Almost identical.

But that was exactly what I wanted.

I recovered without giving back the time I had gained.

---

Fuel, Hydration and Cooling

I carried gels but chose not to use them. With adequate carbohydrate loading beforehand and an expected race duration under two hours, I felt comfortable concentrating on hydration and electrolytes.

That was my personal race-day decision rather than a strategy I would automatically recommend to every runner.

The important difference from last year was that I wasn't too stressed to use the aid stations properly.

I drank water, took electrolytes and used wet sponges for cooling. A few seconds spent doing that were part of the plan rather than something to fear.

The race arrangements also deserve appreciation: the aid stations were well stocked and volunteers were always ready to help.

---

Finding 4: I Actually Lost Time Downhill

After the rolling section around the turnaround came approximately five kilometres of significant descent.

This was where I expected to gain time.

I didn't.

Section	2025	2026	Difference
Km 14–18	22:21	22:35	14 sec slower

I was actually 14 seconds slower this year.

I was slightly more cautious, and two-way runner traffic made taking the best racing line through the hairpin curves difficult.

Initially, those 14 seconds looked like time lost.

The final kilometres made me wonder whether they were actually an investment.

---

Finding 5: The 37 Seconds That Mattered Most

When I entered the city again, I looked at the total elapsed time on my watch for the first time.

Some quick maths told me that the final section needed to be better than last year.

And this was where the difference between the two races became most obvious.

Km	2025	2026	Gain
19	5:13	5:01	12 sec
20	5:09	4:49	20 sec
21	4:40	4:35	5 sec
Total	15:02	14:25	37 sec

Thirty-seven seconds gained in the final three full kilometres.

Last year, by this point I was surviving.

This year, I was still racing.

I took water without walking and maintained my pace. My watch recorded the final approximately 300 metres at around 4:26/km.

After everything Satara had thrown at my legs, I could still accelerate towards the finish.

That, perhaps more than the PB itself, told me that the plan had worked.

---

What Did I Learn?

The comparison was surprisingly simple:

I gained time on the ascent.
I lost some time on the descent.
I gained substantial time when it mattered most—towards the finish.

The PB wasn't created by attacking every kilometre harder.

Understanding the challenges of the course changed my entire approach. Course-specific hill and strength training, segmented pacing, a proper warm-up, better hydration and a controlled descent helped me conserve enough energy to race the final kilometres strongly.

Last year, I tried to run Satara fast.

This year, I tried to run Satara intelligently.

The PB was the consequence.

---

About the Author

Dilip Ghadge is a marathon and ultramarathon runner who started running in his late 40s. He has completed 25+ full marathons, including the 7 World Marathon Majors, and is a Comrades Marathon finisher. A trained marathon coach, he coaches recreational runners and is the founder of the Borgaonkar Rotary Kalyan Marathon.

His interest goes beyond finishing races—he enjoys studying training, pacing and race data and applying those learnings to improve performance with age.

— Dilip Ghadge (DG)

Cape Town Marathon - From Kipchoing to Keep Going

 

CAPETOWN MARATHON – Kipchoing to Keep Going

 

 

A Silent Rivalry with the GOAT

I don't know who is following whom, but once again I found myself running the same race as the GOAT, Eliud Kipchoge.

This was our third encounter. He may not know it, but I have been steadily closing the gap. At the 2023 Berlin Marathon, he finished 128 minutes ahead of me. In Cape Town, the difference was down to 92 minutes.

Simple mathematics suggested that, if both of us continued at the same rate, I could catch him in about eight years.

There are, however, a couple of problems with this plan.

On my return flight, I sat next to Francis Brennan , a 75-year-old British runner who had finished almost as fast as I did and was runner-up in his age category. If Francis  can run like that at 75, I suspect Kipchoge might still be running 2:30 marathons in his late forties.

The second problem is that performance curves are never linear. Cape Town Marathon proved that to me.

It wasn't a heartbreaking finish, nor was it a survival finish.

It was a liberated finish.

I arrived in Cape Town expecting another breakthrough.

Cape Town Marathon had other plans.

Somewhere beyond the 32-kilometre mark, the race stopped being about pace targets and finish times. It became something entirely different.

Sometimes, when you let go of expectations, running gives you something more valuable than a personal best.

That may well be the lesson I remember most from Cape Town Marathon.

 

Journey to Cape Town

After the disappointment of last year's postponement and the uncertainty surrounding its World Marathon Majors candidacy, Cape Town Marathon still remained firmly on our calendar.

Our travel group had made up its mind long ago. Dr. Sudha from Thane, Kalyani from Nagpur, Latika from Bangalore, Dr. Vijay, young Bhavin, and I had already shared memorable marathon journeys together since London 2024. Whatever happened with the Major status, we wanted to run in one of the most beautiful cities on Earth.

 

As I often say, reaching the start line is usually harder than crossing the finish line.

This time, that saying proved true.

The weeks leading up to our departure were filled with uncertainty. Flight disruptions caused by the conflict in the Gulf region threatened travel plans across multiple routes. After months of training through the harsh Indian summer, there were moments when I wondered whether all that effort might go to waste before I even reached South Africa.

Fortunately, the journey worked out.

As my taxi approached the hotel in Cape Town, excitement quickly replaced anxiety. The first word I heard after stepping onto the pavement was "Kipchoge."

He had just finished a meet-and-greet session at the V&A Waterfront and was leaving the area moments before I arrived. Once again, I had narrowly missed meeting the greatest marathon runner of all time.

My silent rivalry with the GOAT would have to continue from a distance.

Still, Cape Town immediately made an impression.

Towering mountains, fresh ocean air, and a city buzzing with runners from around the world created a special atmosphere. Everywhere I looked, there were marathon banners, runners discussing race plans, and volunteers preparing for the big weekend.

The journey had been uncertain, but at that moment I knew it had been worth every kilometre of training and every hour of travel.

Cape Town Marathon had begun long before the starting gun.

About the Newest World Major

Cape Town Marathon may be the newest member of the World Marathon Majors family, but in terms of organisation, it already belongs among the best.

From registration to bib collection, race communication to result delivery, everything was handled with remarkable efficiency. Every important update reached runners on time, making the entire experience stress-free.

The Expo was not the biggest I have attended, but it was neat, well organised, and easy to navigate. More importantly, it felt personal. Everywhere there was a sense of excitement that Cape Town was on the verge of becoming Africa's first World Marathon Major.

What struck me most was that this event felt bigger than a city and even bigger than a country.

Throughout the race materials, expo displays, and promotional campaigns, one message appeared repeatedly: Africa United Through Running.

Maps of the African continent were everywhere. Runners had travelled from across Africa and around the world. It did not feel as though South Africa was hosting a marathon. It felt as if an entire continent was welcoming the world.

That feeling reached its peak during the concert at DHL Stadium. The performances were outstanding, creating an atmosphere more like a celebration than a pre-race event. When Eliud Kipchoge took the stage, the excitement among runners was palpable.

Among several memorable remarks, one story stood out. Kipchoge spoke about his wife preparing to run her first marathon and the advice he gave her:

"Don't race. Just enjoy the experience and finish with a smile."

It was a simple message, yet a powerful one. Coming from a man who has spent a lifetime chasing world records and redefining the limits of human endurance, it carried special meaning. For most of us, marathon running is not about winning. It is about the journey, the challenge, and the memories we create along the way.

Little did I know that I would need that advice myself on race day.

Kipchoge's presence was impossible to miss throughout the weekend. His image appeared on giant screens, promotional videos, and race displays across the city. On race morning, he was everywhere. Standing in the start area beneath the shadow of Table Mountain, watching Kipchoge on the giant screens, you could feel a special energy in the air.

Part excitement. Part anticipation. Part history.

This was not just another marathon. It felt like the beginning of something significant for African running.

The volunteers deserve special mention.

Every volunteer I encountered was enthusiastic, informed, and eager to help. On race morning, volunteers were stationed throughout the city, guiding runners towards the start area long before dawn. Even runners staying several kilometres away from the start line could easily find their way.

Like London, Cape Town uses multiple start areas, and the flow of runners was managed smoothly. The only improvement I would suggest is adding more toilets at the start village.

On the course itself, aid stations were plentiful and exceptionally well stocked. Water, Coke, and sports drinks were available throughout the race. In fact, I have never seen so many Coke stations in any marathon before. It quickly became clear that runners in Cape Town have a special relationship with Coca-Cola.

The finish-line experience was equally impressive. Medals, refreshments, recovery support, and even breakfast for international runners were organised efficiently. Families could easily locate runners through clearly marked alphabetical meeting zones, removing much of the confusion that often follows large marathons.

To top it all off, race results arrived on WhatsApp almost immediately after finishing.

Cape Town Marathon delivered a world-class experience from start to finish. If World Marathon Majors are judged not only by history but also by organisation, runner experience, and community spirit, then Cape Town has already earned its place among them.

My Preparation

The months leading up to Cape Town Marathon had been among the most satisfying of my running journey.

After recording seven personal bests in my previous eight races, I felt I had finally begun to understand my body better. Improvements in pacing, nutrition, recovery, and training had helped me improve by nearly thirty minutes over the previous two years.

More importantly, this was probably the most disciplined marathon build-up I had ever completed. For the first time, I did not miss a single scheduled training session. Through the harsh Indian summer, I woke before sunrise to complete long runs and workouts before the heat became unbearable.

As race day approached, the numbers looked encouraging.

Cape Town's rolling course was never expected to be as fast as Berlin or Chicago, but I believed it could become an important stepping stone towards my long-term Boston Qualifier goal. My pacing plan was prepared, my nutrition strategy rehearsed, and the training data suggested that another personal best was within reach.

Perhaps I was confident.

Perhaps I was a little too confident.

Looking back, I realise that success can sometimes teach the wrong lessons. A streak of personal bests creates the illusion that progress is always upward and that every race will naturally be faster than the last.

Running has a way of correcting such assumptions.

The elevation profile looked manageable. The weather seemed favourable. The target appeared realistic.

As I stood among thousands of runners on race morning, I felt calm, prepared, and optimistic.

All that remained was to execute the plan.

Or so I thought

 

 The Race

One lesson Cape Town Marathon teaches quickly is that pacing by numbers alone can be misleading.

At Sydney Marathon, Kalyani had paced me to a personal best. In Delhi, we ran together as part of a group effort that resulted in another PB for me and a Boston Qualifier for her. For Cape Town, we agreed on a simple plan: run together until halfway, then let the stronger runner on the day follow their own race.

Unlike London or Berlin, Cape Town was not overwhelmingly crowded. Within the first few kilometres we had settled into a comfortable rhythm.

Or at least we thought we had.

By the third kilometre, the course had already begun to reveal its character. The rolling terrain arrived almost immediately. As Coach Lyndsey Parry had warned in his podcast—and later repeated when we met him at the Expo—Cape Town is a rhythm-breaking course.

You cannot maintain the same pace. You cannot even maintain the same effort.

You have to constantly adjust gears while preserving energy for later.

The hills are only part of the challenge. Another feature of the course that rarely appears in race reports is the pronounced road camber. Many roads have a noticeable lateral slope designed to drain rainwater away from the roadway. It may not seem significant at first, but after running for hours on a tilted surface, the uneven stress on the legs becomes noticeable. Experienced runners soon learn to stay on the left-most side of the road whenever possible, where the camber is less severe.

Cape Town is a course that demands attention not only to pace and effort, but also to where you place your feet.

And yet, what the route takes away in speed, it returns in beauty.

To my left stretched the rocky Atlantic coastline. To my right rose the majestic Table Mountain range, its peaks draped in the famous white "tablecloth" clouds that seemed to flow between the mountains like a slow-moving river in the sky.

This was not a course for staring at a watch.

This was a course for looking around.

As the kilometres passed, the route carried us through dramatically different parts of the city. One flyover seemed to transport us from postcard-perfect waterfront neighbourhoods into vibrant working-class districts.

We were passing through Woodstock, one of Cape Town's most fascinating neighbourhoods. Old warehouses and industrial buildings stood beside art studios, cafés, and creative workspaces. The contrast felt very Cape Town—layers of history, industry, and modern urban culture existing side by side. Like the marathon itself, the city seemed to blend many different worlds into one.

 

Cape Town felt alive.

The crowds were energetic, diverse, and enthusiastic. While the noise was not as deafening as London, there was a warmth to the support that felt uniquely African.

For a while, everything seemed under control.

We were only a few seconds behind target pace at 10 kilometres.

Nothing to worry about.

Or so I believed.

The Turning Point

By the halfway mark, I was still slightly behind my target pace.  “Shall we push a little now” I asked. No, you go ahead, I will hold this pace for some time.”

I remembered reading that the next several kilometres were among the easier sections of the course. The terrain felt friendlier, the legs felt strong, and the temptation to make up lost time became impossible to resist.

I gradually increased the pace.

For a while, everything went according to plan.

  Around that point, the route passed through an area that looked unusually open for a city so close to its centre. There were stretches of land with surprisingly little development, and I later realised we were running through District Six.

For many runners, it is just another section of the course. For South Africans, it is a place filled with memory.

District Six was once a vibrant, multicultural community where people of different backgrounds lived side by side. During the apartheid era, however, more than 60,000 residents were forcibly removed from their homes after the area was declared a "whites only" zone. Families were uprooted, homes were demolished, and an entire community was scattered.

As I ran through the area, it was difficult to imagine the scale of that human tragedy. Marathon runners often travel through cities admiring landmarks and scenery. Here, the route passed through a place that tells a much deeper story about South Africa's past.

The road ahead soon returned my attention to the race, but District Six remained in my thoughts for several kilometres. It was a reminder that Cape Town Marathon is not only a journey through a beautiful city, but also through layers of history that have shaped modern South Africa.

 

The crowds were thinner here, but enthusiastic. The sun was shining, the road seemed faster, and my watch was finally showing numbers I liked. The lost seconds were beginning to disappear.

Then, around the 25-kilometre mark, the course reminded me that Cape Town does not surrender easily.

A climb appeared earlier than I had expected.

"Oh, it starts here," I thought.

It was not a brutal hill, nor was it particularly long. But after more than two hours of running, even a moderate incline demands respect. The elevation charts I had studied before the race suddenly felt less reliable. Cape Town's profile tells only part of the story. The route constantly throws small surprises at runners, forcing them to adjust effort and expectations.

Fortunately, the following kilometres were manageable, and before long I found myself approaching one of the most memorable sections of the entire race.

At around 31 kilometres, the course suddenly turned left into a narrow tree-lined lane.

Within seconds, the atmosphere changed completely.

The noise of the city faded. The open roads disappeared. Runners entered the historic Company Garden, a place with nearly four centuries of recorded history and often described as the birthplace of modern Cape Town.

This was no ordinary city park.

The garden has witnessed Dutch settlement, the arrival of enslaved people from regions including India and Southeast Asia, British rule, the Boer Wars, apartheid, and the emergence of modern democratic South Africa. Few places in the city have observed so much history.

The path itself was surprisingly demanding. A long uphill stretch paved with stone and concrete blocks wound through the trees. The change in scenery was beautiful, but it also broke whatever rhythm remained in my legs.

For nearly a mile, the course climbed through this historic landscape.

I found myself torn between admiration and fatigue.

Part of me wanted to absorb the surroundings. Another part was focused entirely on reaching the top.

Eventually, a sharp right turn carried us out of the garden and back onto city streets.

The road finally pointed downhill.

I felt relieved.

Thirty-two kilometres completed.

I allowed myself a moment of optimism.  Average pace was within reach .

Unfortunately, Cape Town had one final lesson waiting for me.

 

Keep Going

A sharp pain shot through my left calf.

I shortened my stride immediately.

Then the right calf tightened.

Then right Arm.

Right Chest

Cramps.

Not a warning. Not a twitch. Proper cramps.

A few moments earlier I had been calculating pace and finish times. Suddenly none of that mattered. My world had shrunk to the next step.

I tried running.

I tried walking.

Neither felt natural.

The nearest aid station became my only target.

"Do you have ice?"

Blank look.

"Spray?"

Another blank look.

The volunteers were eager to help, but what I was asking for clearly wasn't part of the standard marathon toolkit.

I swallowed the salt tablet and started jogging again.

The race had changed.

This was no longer a race against the clock.

It had become a conversation with myself.

KEEP  GOING

The words appeared on a spectator's placard.

I read them aloud.

"Keep going."

A few hundred metres later, I repeated them again.

"Keep going."

Soon it became a rhythm.

Not my running rhythm.

My survival rhythm.

Keep going.

For the first time all day, I stopped looking at my watch.

The target pace was irrelevant.

The personal best was irrelevant.

Even the finish time was becoming irrelevant.

And then a funny thought crossed my mind.

All weekend, Kipchoge had been everywhere. At the concert. On giant screens around the city. On giant screens at the start village. In conversations among runners. Even in my own private calculations about closing the gap between us.

All morning, I had been trying to do my own version of Kipchoing.

Chasing pace targets.

Calculating finish times.

Looking at my watch every few minutes.

Trying to squeeze every possible second from the course.

That was racing.

That was Kipchoing.

Now the race had changed completely.

The watch no longer mattered.

The pace no longer mattered.

I was no longer Kipchoing.

I was Keep Going.

One step.

One kilometre.

One aid station at a time.

Keep Going.

The words on the placard suddenly made perfect sense.

Strangely, it felt liberating.

I remembered Kipchoge's message from the concert.

Speaking about his wife preparing for her first marathon, he had said:

"Don't race. Just enjoy the experience and finish with a smile."

At the time, it sounded like advice for first-time marathoners.

Now it felt like advice meant specifically for me.

I also remembered a conversation the previous day with Coach Norrie Williamson. During our discussion, he had warned us not to get carried away on the easier sections of the course and to remain patient throughout the race.

Kalyani had followed that advice perfectly.

I had not.

She would go on to finish strongly and become the fastest Indian woman at Cape Town Marathon 2026.

The race was teaching me a lesson in humility.

Progress is not linear.

Neither is marathon running.

As I let go of expectations, I started noticing things I had been too busy to appreciate earlier.

The vibrant colours of Africa.

The spectators dancing and singing.

The beautiful colonial-era houses.

The Atlantic Ocean appearing in the distance.

The runners ahead silhouetted against the sea.

At one point, I saw a spectator holding a mischievous sign:

"I know the shortcut."

No runner was about to cut across the grass after suffering for more than thirty kilometres.

The notorious final section of the course was approaching, but for the first time all day I wasn't worried about it.

I wasn't racing anymore.

I was experiencing it.

Gradually, the cramps became less aggressive. My pace returned to something that felt comfortable. Not fast. Not slow. Just sustainable.

I returned to an old game I often play late in marathons.

Pick a runner ahead.

Catch them.

Then find another.

A blue shirt, then a yellow one. then white

Nothing dramatic.

Just small victories.

One after another.

The kilometres continued to pass.

The finish line was getting closer.

More importantly, I was enjoying the final miles of a marathon that had every reason to be miserable.

That surprised me.

Perhaps Kipchoge was right.

Perhaps finishing with a smile matters more than finishing with a number.

Finish Line Reflections

The final kilometres passed more comfortably than I could have imagined when the cramps first struck.

I continued playing my small mental games. Spot a runner ahead. Catch them. Then find another target.

The finish line was drawing closer.

I glanced at my watch occasionally, but only out of curiosity now. The obsession with pace had disappeared somewhere back near the 32-kilometre mark.

Even after my watch recorded the 42nd kilometre, I made no attempt to sprint.

That surprised me.

In most races, I would have emptied whatever was left in the tank.

Not today.

Today, I simply cruised towards the finish line.

As I stepped onto the blue finish mat, I raised my hands and smiled, hoping at least one race photographer would capture the moment.

3:45:45.

Not bad.

I smiled again as I walked towards the medal collection area.

The sub-3:40 target was gone.

The streak of personal bests was over.

But somehow I wasn't disappointed.

Cape Town had reminded me of something that every runner eventually learns and occasionally forgets.

Progress is not linear.

Some races reward you with personal bests.

Some races reward you with lessons.

Respect the course.

Respect hydration, Patiance, Experience.

And above all, respect the marathon.

As I collected my medal and walked through the finish area, I thought back to the opening chapter of this story.

My silent rivalry with Kipchoge would continue.

Of course, there is one small problem.

On my flight home, a 75-year-old British runner named Francis Brennan had finished almost as fast as I did and was runner-up in his age category.

My silent rivalry with Kipchoge would continue. The mathematics still suggested I might catch him one day.

 

If Francis can run like that at 75, I suspect Kipchoge will still be running frighteningly fast marathons long after my calculations have expired.

Of course, catching Kipchoge was never really the goal.  

The idea is simply a reminder to stay positive, stay motivated, and keep learning from the people who inspire us.

Every runner needs a lighthouse somewhere on the horizon. —distant, unattainable, yet constantly guiding the way forward.

But Cape Town taught me that not every race needs a  PB .

Sometimes the achievement is simply adapting when things go wrong.

Sometimes the goal is not Kipchoing.

Sometimes the goal is Keep Going.

And that, more than any finish time, is what I will remember from Cape Town Marathon 2026.

 

TATA Mumbai Marathon - We keep coming back here

Every time I sit down to write about TMM, the same question comes up—what more is left to say?

I’ve written about TMM a couple of times before. But this year, the answer arrived even before race day. The route changed, and the discussions erupted.

Two new inclines were added near Pedder Road, and the running community’s social media went on fire. On one hand, there was genuine excitement about running on the iconic, brand-new Coastal Road—an engineering marvel of modern Mumbai. On the other hand, there were questions. What would it feel like with an additional 25–30 meters of elevation? A longer silent zone with no spectators? More humidity, running right next to the sea and within the dense city vicinity?

One clear plus point was that flyovers and bridges are generally not paved with hard concrete. The more responsive asphalt surface was expected to help maintain a good pace.

 We Indian runners usually don’t stress too much about pollution—but yes, we do worry about weather and humidity.

While much of India was enjoying pleasant weather—the North even colder—Mumbai, true to its nature, chose to stay warm (and humid). Yet runners came from all over the country. This annual running pilgrimage never stops.

And once you step off the starting mat, all doubts disappear. Trained legs simply follow trained plans.

This year was no exception — not even for me

 I had trained well. After Sydney, I had a very good Satara Hill Marathon. Then one careless step on slippery monsoon streets and I had a hard fall, injuring my left arm. A few weeks of training were lost. The legs were fine, so I resumed — carrying a still-paining shoulder.

With the New Delhi Marathon coming up in February, a sensible thought crossed my mind — run Mumbai easy and chase a PB in Delhi. But when it is called a race, you have to race.

I had my personal best here last year. Why not try again?

Some training experiments had already paid off. Sydney gave me my first sub-3:50 with a 3:48 finish. I added a few more experiments this time, leaning heavily on the immense knowledge given to the running world by the late Jack Daniels.

Despite this being my 24th full marathon, I couldn’t sleep the entire night. At the start line, nothing felt right. Plans looked like distant dreams. I hoped the drowsiness would fade once the legs started moving.

The holding area, starting corral, and atmosphere were electric. I always wear a T-shirt with my name — it helps easy spotting for outstation runner friends. The start line becomes an annual catching-up point.

The race started sharp at 5:00 a.m.                   

The start was slower than planned because of record participation. The upside was disciplined corrals — almost everyone around me was running at a similar pace, with very little zig-zag overtaking.

In Boston, start waves are divided into even smaller corrals of similar pace, often without pacers, because everyone runs at roughly the same speed. With the way the Mumbai Marathon is growing, I can see that happening here in the near future.

It was dark and quiet except enthusiastic aid station volunteers, some big uniformed cheering squads — Nike, ASICS — appeared sporadically. The first five kilometres have switchbacks where you can see runners ahead and behind. In smaller races, I sometimes count runners for distraction. Here, the numbers were overwhelming. I simply thought — it would be nice to be among the first thousand runners.

That is what I love about marathons. You decide your own winning post. Everyone is a winner here.

By the time I reached Marine Drive, I was behind my 5 km target, but the drowsiness was wearing off. I forced a wide smile — sending the right signals to my mind and body. Everything happens in the mind first.

 A pillion videographer on a motorbike hovered ahead of me. Who is he filming? Some influencer? I gave up guessing. Cameras have a strange way of making you look confident anyway.

 

I quickly reconsidered my strategy. I dropped the idea of fixing average pace early. Years of running have taught me that lesson the hard way. There was time. Half marathon would be the real checkpoint.

     One of the micro goals of the plan was to achieve negative splits.  According to study conducted by Geeks on feet Just a fraction of TMM finishers could achieve that, mainly because of the infamous Pedder Road and rising tempature.

By the time I reached the easier side of Pedder Road—actually, it is not easier, it is the same elevation—but at the 10th kilometre, you are high on energy and don’t find it tough.

Around this stretch, I noticed a woman running strongly in a simple salwar kameez. No flashy gear. No costume. Just steady, confident running.

It struck me more than any elaborate outfit ever could. This was not about attention — it was a quiet statement. An invitation, perhaps, to countless homemakers who put themselves last every day.

  The fast downhill on other side of Pedder Road improved average pace by few seconds though still behind schedule.

        I passed a runner in farmer’s costume.  Once national attire of India changed to just fancy costume over the years,

  But Mumbai is changing too rapidly.

I could see a breathtaking web of flyovers against a backdrop of skyscrapers on one side and Arabian Sea on the other, as I approached the Mumbai Coastal Road.
It looked like some futuristic city we see in Hollywood movies.

 We could spot  faster HM runners on right  in opposite lane and on left faster  runners  already on the incline of the Coastal Road. The long incline  was not looking that  steep .

  Race was completely silent now. We were on the sea.  No spectators No cheering squads of sponsors. No runners talking to each other. No selfies or videos on the iconic bridge. Just thumping of shoes on tar.

   when you chase a target, you don’t see anything else. In earlier editions, when I was not chasing a PB, I used to listen banter, jokes, slogans, videos on Sea Link.
And it must be happening right now, a couple of kilometres back, among carefree runners just enjoying the race and not chasing targets like office deadlines.

I sighed, “When you achieve something, you lose something.”

I looked at the city—it was still dark. But you could see silhouettes of huge skyscrapers, some lights, and their reflections in the sea.
     Luckily, I noticed another runner with a small placard reading “Save SGNP.” I had one too, pinned to the back of my T-shirt.

A brief smile, a nod, and we ran together for a short distance. It turned out to be Kranti Salvi, a fellow World Marathon Major runner, her group  trying to draw attention to proposed development plans affecting the Sanjay Gandhi National Park — truly the lungs of Mumbai. Hence the placard.

Halfway mark was approaching. I was monitoring lap pace well.  Little behind planned average pace. The body knows its own limitations; it doesn’t always listen to your desires.

There was a steep incline just before halfway. Runners sprinted to cover some lost time

Everyone complains about Pedder Road incline, but one should thank  for downhill   gifts as well. Until last year, there was a mile-long double switchback. We used to spot pacer flags and friends ahead or behind, calling out in parallel lanes.

Now the race enters the spectator zone. We get wide support from citizens from here.
In any marathon, these middle miles is a trying period. People lose motivation here. But luckily, on the TMM route, this zone is never boring—the crowd keeps you motivated.

It is daybreak by the time you reach Mahim. Now runners start recognising, chat a little , greeting to fellow runners while moving ahead.
I made a mental note to keep lap pace below 5:15. Whenever I noticed a drop due to an aid station or chat, I pushed a little to cover it. Not much—just a second till that streetlight and so most of my middle kilometres were series of these small victories

 I didn’t bother any other parameters on my watch. Just  total time, lap pace, and average pace. And every 30-minute beep for nutrition.

“Don’t ignore gel time,”
Over the last year, I trained my gut for hydration, nutrition, and electrolytes in every training run. I kept track of water and electrolytes I sipped, but kept pouring water on my head as I was feeling increasingly hot.

Someone shouted, “Ganpati Bappa Morya!”
The Siddhivinayak temple stood glowing in the morning light. Almost instinctively, runners bowed their heads for a second or two. So did I.

 Asking for Strength to tackle  thePedder Road  , Coastal Road inclines and rising temperature  

Faith doesn’t make you faster, but it makes you calmer. And sometimes, that is enough

Around Worli, with its sharp turns and switchbacks, I became conscious of tangents. Last year, my watch showed I had run nearly 500 metres extra. In a crowded city marathon, running exactly 42.195 km is almost impossible. Even a clean corner adds a few extra metres.

Sometimes I wonder if the sport should acknowledge this reality — perhaps one route measurement optimised for elites chasing records, and another more practical one for amateur runners navigating crowds. Thousands of runners unknowingly run extra distance and miss qualification times by seconds.

Just a thought that keeps returning in big city races.

 

I was climbing the Coastal Road again, the sun now fully up. The deafening cheers from Worli faded suddenly into silence. Just a river of tired runners spread across a massive road over the sea. The next three kilometers were flat—then came the descent, the reward. A chance to claw back lost seconds.

On that steep downhill, I spotted the 3:45 pacer flag below me. I was close.

I was already rolling. Sprint for a while and jump onto the bus?
No.

I had a plan. My watch is my only bus.

This is my race. Everything else is a prop—bib, route, crowds, fellow runners. They exist for one reason: my time. Don’t chase the props. Follow the script.

I surged. A warning shot—light cramps. My injured arm throbbed. I backed off. Pedder Road was just a mile away.

I did the math. Even with caution, the PB was safe.

That’s the real villain.

The brain negotiates. The legs listen. Pace slips.

I need to beat that villain too.

Top of Form

 And then—almost without warning—Pedder Road returned.

The real Pedder Road.
The dreaded one.

Late in the race, when fatigue is deep in the legs and mental math has already done its damage, the same incline feels brutal. This is where Pedder Road earns its name.

I didn’t fight it. I respected it.

I walked a few steps—not in defeat, but control. I let the crowd carry me. This isn’t where you win the race, but it’s exactly where ego can make you lose it.

I sang my old line again—“I love Pedder Road”—my private ritual.

Last year, YouTuber runner Avinash Kumar caught this moment on camera. It went a bit viral.

The downhill paid me back. Pace returned quicker than expected.

But as I hit Marine Drive, the numbers crept in again. PB was still possible—even with caution. Cadence dropped. The urge to push faded.

Mental math again. Wrong signals from the brain to already aching limbs. Cramps returned. Both arms protested. The noise from the crowds couldn’t bring the speed back—but it helped me hold on.

Pushing now wasn’t calculated—it was survival.
The 1 km to go sign appeared.

Just 45 right-foot steps, ten times.

Five hundred meters. Push.
“Not interested,” the legs replied.

Two hundred meters.
“Just 90 right-foot strides,” I begged.

I crossed the second timing mat and stopped my watch.

3:47:15.

A personal best.

It felt more like relief than celebration. I will always prefer a strong finish. I missed negative splits by just over a minute — after months of training, despite an arm injury, chasing that elusive goal on the TMM course.                                      

But it was close.

And maybe that is exactly why I keep coming back.Every marathon gives you something — a time, a lesson, a memory.

                                           And a new reason to return .