Behind every runner who crosses the finish line, there’s a silent hero who held our jacket, endured our early alarms, and waited for hours in the cold.
- Runner partners—the non-runners—do vital, behind-the-scenes work that’s often overlooked.
- Race prep affects the whole household: ungodly alarms, strict diets, and endless monologues about pace and mileage.
- The sherpa partner wears many hats: driver, pre-race therapist, photographer, and guardian of all valuables.
- The greatest act of love is waiting: standing for hours—sometimes in the rain—just to see your person pass by for a few seconds.
- Accepting that final hug (sweaty, sticky, exhausted) is the ultimate test of unconditional love.
- That medal around our neck? At least 50% of it belongs to the one who helped us get there.
To Everyone Waiting by the Barricades: This One’s for You
Every Sunday, in cities all over the world, runners line up in neon gear, buzzing with adrenaline, ready to suffer through 10, 21, or 42 kilometers. And just outside the barricades, there’s another army.
They wear civilian clothes, hold jackets that aren’t theirs, heavy backpacks, spare water bottles. They look a little sleepy but hyper-alert, obsessively refreshing a race tracking app.
They are our partners. Husbands, wives, boyfriends, girlfriends who don’t run. Or rather, they don’t run with their legs—they run on patience. They are the unsung heroes of our sport. They don’t get a medal, they’re not in the results list, but without them, many of us wouldn’t even make it to the start line. This is our long-overdue thank you to our very own sherpas.
The Art of Living With a Runner in Training (Alarms, Hunger, Nerves)
Let’s be real: living with a runner during race prep is a challenge worthy of sainthood.
We become single-minded, self-absorbed, and socially awkward.
You’re the ones who deal with 5:30 AM alarms on Sunday mornings when it’s still dark and the only sane thing to do is cuddle. Instead, we sneak out from under the covers (failing to be quiet), turn on lights, dig for socks, curse under our breath. And half-asleep, you forgive us.
You patiently endure our endless monologues about things no one else cares about: heel drop differences, hamstring twinges, and three-week weather forecasts.
The fact that you haven’t kicked us out for saying “I’m tired, I did intervals today” for the tenth time in a week? That deserves a statue in your honor.
The Sherpa Role: Driver, Photographer, Therapist, Gear Mule
On race day, our partner transforms into a mythical multi-tool of support.
First, they’re our designated driver, dropping us off in remote industrial zones or blocked-off city centers while managing our rising parking panic.
Then, they become a sports psychologist, absorbing last-minute meltdowns like “My knee hurts,” “Wrong socks,” or “I’m not ready,” and answering with memorized lines—even if they have no idea what “negative split” means.
Most importantly, they become the pack mule (aka Sherpa). Right before the start, we shed clothes like we’re at home—throwing sweatshirts, pants, car keys, phones in their direction. And there they stand, overloaded like a Christmas tree, guarding our stuff while we go off to have “fun” (read: suffer).
Oh, and don’t forget the photographer role: posted on random corners, trying to snap that perfect photo where we look like elite athletes—even though we’re red-faced and frothing at the mouth. And if the photo’s blurry? Obviously their fault.
The Wait at the Finish Line: The Ultimate Act of Love
Running a marathon is hard. Waiting for someone to finish one? Pure boredom.
While we’re at least moving and seeing new sights, you’re stuck in place. Maybe it’s raining. Maybe it’s freezing. Maybe there’s not even a café nearby. You stare at a little dot on a digital map that crawls across the screen.
You calculate pace, hop around town on packed subways just to catch a glimpse—maybe seven seconds—where you can yell “GO!” and maybe get a distracted hand wave in return.
Then comes the finish. When we finally cross the line—wrecked but euphoric—we look for you. And you’re there, by the barricade, smiling. You hug us. And let’s be clear: we’re dripping sweat, sticky with sports gel, reeking of effort. You’re fresh and clean. And yet you hug us anyway, without flinching. If that’s not love, we don’t know what is.
The Medal Is Ours—But Half Belongs to You
They put a medal around our neck. We bite it, we post it, we hang it proudly at home.
We feel accomplished.
But the truth—and we know it, even if we forget to say it—is that the medal is heavy. And half of that weight is held up by you.
It’s made of your patience, your sacrificed weekends, your pep talks when we wanted to quit, your dinners cooked when we were too tired to move.
So, dear runner reading this: next time you finish a race, look up from your Garmin. Look at who’s waiting for you. Take them out for dinner (real dinner—not athlete food). And just say thank you.
Because without our sherpa, the summit would be much harder to reach—and unbearably lonely.