Finding Equanimity in the Wild of Changing Things — The Journey of the 2023 Berlin Marathon

Committing to Berlin:

I returned back home to Karachi after my first few months in graduate school emotionally, physically and intellectually depleted. I had spent much of the semester unwell, fighting a persistent flu and cough followed by the onset of covid during my final exam week. I struggled to find consistent motivation for my studies and running. My identity as an athlete, the ecstatic memory of the Istanbul Marathon I had run a year earlier, and the wonderful running community I had forged back home felt distant — almost like a past life.

However, back in a place of comfort, love and security, I started to feel more like myself. I reveled in the early morning and late night walks on my rooftop, which had been a constant companion during the previous four years before graduate school. I spent time with my parents, sisters and nieces and was reminded of the precious relationships I was blessed with. I slowly found the motivation to go on sunrise runs by the sea with my running community, the Sea View Running Club (SVRC).

After a 10K run on one of those mornings — where I could barely maintain a pace of 4:27 min per km [8:00 min per mile] — a close friend proposed what initially seemed like a wild idea — that I should consider signing up for the Berlin Marathon in September 2023, and attempt to run the race in less than 3 hours [4:15 min per km/7:00 min per mile]. Although seemingly arbitrary, that barrier holds enormous significance for runners, marking the transition to becoming a highly trained and skilled amateur athlete. It is also the official qualifying time for the Boston Marathon — the oldest and most prestigious race in the world, one I hoped to run before graduating in 2025.

For our fledgling running community, this was going to be one of our biggest group events — more than 20 runners from SVRC and almost 60 of Pakistani origin were planning to run the race. It was going to be a landmark moment for the sport in my country, proving that even in harsh, unforgiving running conditions, we could build a deeply committed community. Our motto, “Train here, race anywhere” would be on display for all to see.

A part of me resisted the idea of running the Berlin marathon. I worried whether I could commit to such an ambitious goal given my life as a graduate student and the experience of the previous semester. But I also knew that this commitment offered the possibility to renew parts of my identity. It would help me re-discover the latent discipline that I had developed as a runner over the previous few years. Committing fully offered the hope of bringing some stability in my life during a period of uncertainty and transition. As I paid the race deposit, I felt a rush of energy through my body, as if I were waking up after a long period of dormancy. Whenever I experienced doubt, I visualized the start line — my friends and I standing in an ocean of 40,000 people after months of preparation. That image began taking shape as my north star as I boarded the flight back to Boston to commence the new year, 8 months away from realizing the dream.

Rediscovering running:

“The first step on the journey of faith is to recognize that everything is moving onward to something else, inside us and outside” — Sharon Salzberg

The above line is from one of my favorite books, Faith. Salzberg, a Buddhist teacher, writes further, “faith is seen simply as a beginning, one in which we surrender cynicism and apathy. Its abundant energy propels us forward into the unknown”. The first morning back in Boston, it was faith that enabled me to put on my running tights, hat and gloves to run in temperatures I previously feared. On my first run — a modest 5K — the Charles river gleamed in the early morning sunlight whilst the wild geese gathered along its banks. I remember whispering quietly to myself, “This is “day 1”. It felt sacred, the start of something beautiful in my life.

In the weeks that followed, the early morning runs no longer felt like a novelty. They became part of my life again, like re-discovering an old friendship. Sometimes, I’d run alone, finding joy in extended periods of solitude amidst the cacophony of social and academic priorities. When I struggled to find motivation to run in the sub-zero temperatures, I’d join the campus running group or ask a fellow runner to accompany me for part of the journey. I loved the way my body warmed up, able to resiliently withstand and embrace the same conditions that just a few minutes prior felt impossibly harsh. I felt childlike joy and awe running through my favorite running spots across Boston — the mystic lakes in Medford, Fresh Pond in Cambridge, the Pendula trees along the Esplanade, and the relatively quiet nooks along the Charles enroute to Watertown. Although I wasn’t able to consistently hit my targets every week, I started to feel like a runner once again.

The semester wore on, full of its usual anxieties — finding community, a summer internship, academic motivation. At times, my student and professional identity felt skeletal, lacking self-worth. But my identity as a runner served as a necessary anchor in a larger ocean of doubt that I now realize was so deeply unnecessary, so devoid of faith. Running helped me build confidence in myself. In March, on a windy afternoon, I broke the 40 minute barrier for the 10K for the first time. In May, I ran the Providence half marathon in less than 90 minutes. The dream of Berlin felt less distant; the elusive 3 hour barrier a real possibility.

I sustained my training wherever the year took me. I ran everywhere — by the Fort San Felipe del Moro in San Juan Puerto Rico, the Rivers Bosna and Danube in Sarajevo and Belgrade, the old city walls in Dubrovnik, and the gleaming waters of Kotor Bay in Montenegro. Running became part of the way in which I engaged with the histories of these lands, from the tragic, inhuman siege of Sarajevo, to the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand that sparked off World War 1. A part of me considered travelling throughout the summer, wandering Europe in my running shoes before finally making my way to the Brandenburg Gate. Ultimately, though, I decided to return home for the main leg of the training journey.

Returning home:

Following my arrival, Karachi felt nothing like the training ground for a sub-3 marathon. After my first week running in the unforgiving heat and humidity, my body felt fatigued for days. I was reacquainted with my dust allergies and the feeling of intense dehydration on runs. To add to these states of discomfort, the city was in a state of decay — the roads had been dug up, people were leaving in search of better pastures, and there was debilitating negativity about the country as a whole. I had to learn how to accept these realities for what they are and maintain equanimity. And so I forged ahead, putting in week after week of consistent training. The same body that adapted to the Boston winter now adapted to the Karachi summer. I felt grounded by a myriad of rituals — running in unison with 40 people at 4:30 AM on Saturday mornings, breakfast with my parents, late nights discussing race strategy over karahi at Boat Basin. Although I didn’t have beautiful parks or rivers to run alongside, I had a community of people that I loved, people who too were waking up every morning and working towards the same goal as I was — something I didn’t have in Boston. These were people without whom I never would have started this journey. I realized that it’s the people make a place, and this was nowhere truer than the city that I called home.

By the end of the summer, my Garmin watch showed a predicted marathon time of just around 3 hours. After a wholesome trip, I felt emotionally anchored, well trained, and motivated. I was ready to board the place for Boston once again for the start of the new semester. I bid my running community farewell, looking forward to meeting them in Berlin just a few weeks later.

Berlin:

The final days of my training coincided with the start of my journey at business school, a time known to be notoriously disorienting. Sleep was hard to come by. I felt exhausted all the time. But I still managed to find time for my runs. My last long run at Fresh Pond — 36KM at a pace of 4 minutes 36 seconds per kilometer — made me feel just about ready for the race. A couple of weeks later, I took off for Berlin, about to put my training to test.

I arrived in the city the Friday before race weekend on a plane full of Berlin hopefuls. The airport was pulsating with energy as flight after flight of marathoners descended for race weekend. A few hours later, our running group re-reunited and we made our way to the Berlin Tempelhof airport to pick up our race bibs. Out there on the tarmac at one’s of Europe’s pre-eminent airports prior to WW2 — I could feel the weight of history. We held firmly onto our race packs as the sun set gently behind us. My pictures from that day show a face full of excitement and anticipation. Beneath the veneer of that wide smile though, nerves were beginning to grip my body. Everyone, including myself, was expecting me to run the race in less than 3 hours. I carried that pressure as I got ready for Sunday.

It is rare to get a full night’s sleep before race day. The body knows what is to come. The feeling, although uncomfortable, was familiar from my previous races in Istanbul and Karachi. One doesn’t need to put an alarm (although I had several). I couldn’t sleep past 4:30 AM and got up to begin my morning race rituals — listening to some afro-beats, moving my body (or shall I say dancing?) to get the blood flowing. I went down to the breakfast room at 5:30 to do my final bit of carbo-loading and drink coffee. After multiple trips to the restroom (a standard race day occurrence for me now), I put on my battle armor — a skinny white tank-top and super shoes, my short pockets bulging with energy gels that one is expected to consume every 5–7KM during the race.

Our hotel was only a couple of kilometers away from the starting line. It was a cold, misty morning, with grey skies but thankfully no rain forecast. My mind was a quagmire of thoughts — will I make it to the start line before 9:15 AM? Will I get a chance to pee again? Will I have time to warm up? As we got closer to the starting line, there was chaos around, the feeling of an impending stampede. Although I had imagined a sight like this, nothing prepares you for the moments leading up to the start line of a world major race. I was grateful just to find a small space for myself to stand amongst the 40,000 runners, trying to ground myself in this moment. I waited anxiously for the sound of start gun. 3…2…1. The sound reverberated through the air. I was off. The sea of runners flooded the city.

As the race began, I kept a consistent, sub-3 target pace. Historically in races, I have tended to start slow and gradually build up speed. However, I felt breaking the 3 hour barrier required something different — I had no margin for error. The first 20 minutes or so breezed by. At the 5th kilometer, I started to feel the onset of a stitch on the left side of my abdomen. As a runner, developing a stitch at any point during the race, let alone so early, is truly a nuisance. More than a decade earlier — when I used to run track and field in high school — I developed a stitch during a 5K race and had to pull out. There was no way I could pull out of this — I had invested too much time and heart into making it here. I gripped onto my abdomen, a tip I recalled reading many years ago in an introductory running book. After a few kilometers, the stitch disappeared. But, the joy of the race had already waned substantially. I worried it would return again, with greater force, and jeopardize my race.

And surely enough, it did return. Whenever I drank water or consumed my gels, its intensity grew. It was deeply uncomfortable, but I had no choice but to continue bearing the pain. Unfortunately, I went into a state of hyper-vigilance. Instead of absorbing the incredible atmosphere of the city — the people who had come out in droves to cheer us on, the bands, the boundless, ecstatic energy of being in a world major race — my mind was only focused on two things — the stitch and my watch. I tracked every kilometer, holding onto my dream of not only completing the race but trying to do it under 3 hours. Given that I was so deeply stuck in my head, the race felt very different from my last experience running a marathon in Istanbul. I remember being full of joy and wonder as I ran by the Bosphorous and the Dolmabache palace. This, on the other hand, felt like I was in the middle of a nightmare. I just wanted it to stop.

Time moved slowly, but it moved forward, nonetheless. Despite the pain, I remained at target pace for about 37 kilometers. I didn’t know whether I would break the sub-3 barrier, but I knew I’d be close. By the time I approached the Brandenberg Gate, my pace had dropped substantially. I crossed the finish line, hand tightly clasped onto my abdomen, and hugged an elderly volunteer as she placed the medal on my neck. My time: 3 hours and 55 seconds. I missed the mark by just under a minute.

Despite the disappointment, it felt trivial in the face of the sheer relief I experienced not only surviving the last 3 hours, but also bettering my Istanbul marathon time by 17 minutes. I broke down, weeping like a child. The tears were uncontrollable. The last time I cried liked this was when I summited Mount Kilimanjaro several years earlier. After a harrowing night trudging up in the snow, I wept after seeing the sun rise over the African continent. This time too, the tears kept flowing, as I found a quiet spot under a tree and called up my family. A friend of mine miraculously found me, and we embraced one another before reuniting with the rest of the group.

Renewing faith:

As I reflect on the race, I realize that the primary lesson of the day was this: even in the face of extreme pain, we have the power to hold steady, to persist, to continue pursuing our passion. After all, no matter how well we are prepared to face life, a stitch may still be around the corner. How we respond, and more importantly, how we keep faith in ourselves is often the hardest challenge. There is a poem I love by Morgan Harper Nichols, which goes something like this: “Let yourself be, even in the uncertainty. You don’t have to fix everything. You don’t have to solve everything. And you can still find peace and grow in the wild of changing things”. The word I’d like to replace peace with is equanimity. Sometimes, it feels impossible to find peace. But we can still have equanimity. That was what I kept telling myself during the race.

Another lesson Berlin taught me is that sometimes we will knock at the door of our dreams, but still miss the mark. It feels cruel to have felt short of my target by 55 seconds. I learnt that sometimes we can bring our full selves to a pursuit, but it might not be the right time time for us to achieve the end goal we have in mind. The universe has a deeper purpose for me “missing the mark”. If anything, I know I have the hunger to try again.

I am writing this essay on the plane back from the US to Pakistan as I head home for winter break. I feel depleted after yet another exhausting semester. But I know I am returning back to a place of love and security once again. Whether another marathon is on the cards, or some other pursuit altogether — I have faith in the way things are moving forward in my life. I would like to dedicate this race and all its lessons to the Sea View Running Community — for transforming my life and imbuing it with boundless potential. To my friends back in Cambridge and around the world who see me fully for the dreams I harbor and my sincere — if not always successful — attempts to achieve them. And finally, to my family, who always support me in my quest to live authentically and deliberately in the wild of changing things. I love all of you.