We received this short (fictional) story from Pietro, and we think many will find it surprisingly relatable.
The Expectation
They call it The Hillside Half, but I—naively—thought it was just a clever marketing gimmick. Like one of those “Bridge Races” where the total elevation gain is… a single overpass.
But no. The hills were real. Alive, endless, and very much not optional. I didn’t know that at the start. I was convinced I’d set a new personal best. Not that I was actually in shape. But I’d read an Instagram post that said: “Believe it—your body is capable of amazing things.” It was over a photo of a guy with a single ravioli-shaped ab poking through.
I believed it.
The plan was simple: wake up at 6, light breakfast, motivational songs (that morning, Eminem’s Lose Yourself was hitting hard), and go. Everything was set. Which of course meant: everything went wrong. Starting with the alarm that didn’t go off, followed by burnt moka coffee, and topped off with a dead Garmin. Just so we’re clear: everything that could’ve gone wrong did. But not quite enough to make me back out.
The Crisis
Mile 4. (Yeah, I’m switching to miles now. That’s where it hit.) The real crisis. Not the “I’m a bit out of breath” kind. This was Texas-metal-festival heat, sweat stinging in my eyes, and a sweet little voice in my head whispering: “Just quit. Be kind to yourself. Go get ice cream.”
I wasn’t sure whether to listen to the voice or just start walking. I picked a third option: existential meltdown in motion. You know when you start asking yourself why am I doing this?, what’s the point?, who told me this was a good idea?. That. Out loud. A guy even asked me if I was talking to him. I said no, but appreciated the concern.
Around me, people looked like they were in some kind of trance. Some floated past me like air spirits. I, on the other hand, moved with the grace of an asthmatic panda. Meanwhile, the water at the aid stations was lukewarm. And gone. My choices were down to two: quit. Or keep going. Not to finish—just to understand.
The Turning Point
The turning point came around mile 9. Actually, no. It didn’t “come”—I had to make it happen. My body was toast. My mind even toastier. So I did something weird: I started smiling. Yep, right there in the middle of the disaster. Like the lead character in Fleabag breaking the fourth wall and realizing it’s no longer time to feel sorry for yourself.
I thought about my dad, who used to say: “It’s not about how far you go. It’s about making it back in one piece.” Then I remembered a friend who once told me, “You can finish a half just by willing it.” He was wrong. But I started pretending I was somewhere else. Not in a race, but on a journey. One of those “figure something out” kind of trips. Like in a Murakami novel, where at some point you’re not sure if it’s all a lucid dream soundtracked by Miles Davis.
So I stopped checking my watch, lowered my head, and just kept going. One step at a time. Like on the hard days. The real ones. You don’t need to be fast. You just need to not stop.
The Finish
The finish line was anything but epic. No one was waiting. No shiny medal. The banana had already turned brown. But I made it. I was there. In my own way—knees off-kilter, thoughts upside down—but whole.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t drop to my knees. I didn’t even take a photo for Instagram. I just breathed. And I felt good. Exhausted, but good. Like after a concert when you walk out sweaty, half-deaf, hoarse, and still say “that was amazing,” even though you got elbowed three times and lost a shoe.
Every half marathon I’ve run since has been different. But none like that one. Because it wasn’t about the shape I was in. It was about the shape I was made of. And sometimes, when everything falls apart, if you can just hang on—you realize you’re not just running. You’re becoming something stronger.
Or maybe you’re just becoming someone who doesn’t take himself too seriously. Which, between us, is a pretty damn great finish line too.