The Long Game
At 13 miles I reached the edge of my experience. Everything beyond that point was unknown. The lesson I learnt there would carry me through surgery and life.
Thirteen Miles and the Rest
Running a marathon teaches you very little about running.
What it teaches you instead is how you behave when the plan runs out.
My preparation for the marathon was steady, disciplined, and imperfect. I trained consistently, fitting runs into a life that was already full: surgical training, long days, early starts, late finishes, and a young child who needed me just as much as my job did. Some days I ran early, before the world had woken up. Other days I ran late, squeezing in miles after the noise of the day had finally settled.
On some of the longer runs, I took my daughter with me, pushing her in a pram for two hours at a time. It wasn’t efficient. It wasn’t elegant. But it was necessary. Training didn’t happen in a vacuum; it happened alongside responsibility. The pram runs were slow and heavy, but they taught me something important early on: progress doesn’t always look optimal. Sometimes it just looks committed.
I followed most of the programme. I respected the structure. I trusted the process. But there was one glaring omission: I never trained beyond thirteen miles.
Not once.
Partly because of time. Partly because of fatigue. Partly because life simply didn’t allow it. Surgical training does not pause because you have a long run planned. Nor does parenthood. At some point, you accept that your preparation will be good enough, not perfect.
And so I turned up on marathon day with a quiet truth lodged firmly in my mind: everything beyond thirteen miles would be unknown territory.
I didn’t dwell on it. I had already made a decision that mattered far more than any training schedule—I had decided that quitting was not an option.
There’s a joke runners like to tell: What time does the average person take to complete a marathon?
The answer is simple. The average person doesn’t do a marathon.
I was under no illusion that this was something everyone could—or would—do. I wasn’t chasing a time. I wasn’t trying to prove anything to anyone else. I just wanted to finish.
The early miles felt almost suspiciously comfortable. The crowd carried you along. Adrenaline smoothed over imperfections. The body does what it has been trained to do. There is a deceptive ease to the first half of a marathon that can make you believe you’ve underestimated yourself.
Then I reached thirteen miles.
I remember it clearly. I crossed the marker and felt a distinct shift—not physical, but psychological. An unmistakable realisation: this is the furthest I have ever run in my life.
Everything beyond this point was untested.
My legs still worked. My lungs were fine. But the safety net was gone. There was no memory to fall back on, no previous experience to reassure me. Just forward motion and stubborn resolve.
That was when the marathon truly began.
What followed was not heroic or dramatic. There were no epiphanies, no cinematic moments of transcendence. Instead, there was repetition. One step after another. Small bargains made with myself. “Get to the next mile.” “Get to the next water station.” “Just don’t stop.”
I remembered a quote I’d heard somewhere along the way: Rest if you must, but don’t you quit.
So I rested when I needed to. I slowed down. I walked briefly when my body demanded it. But I never quit. Not once did I entertain the idea that stopping altogether was an option.
That distinction mattered. Resting was strategic. Quitting was final.
The further I went, the clearer it became that this was no longer about fitness. It was about identity. About the kind of person I was when things became uncomfortable and uncertain. About whether I could tolerate sustained discomfort without a guaranteed endpoint.
At some point, the discomfort stopped escalating. It simply existed. A constant, dull presence that no longer needed commentary. I realised then that my mind had adapted. That what had initially felt impossible had become manageable—not because it was easy, but because I had accepted it.
I crossed the finish line tired, sore, and utterly certain of one thing: I was capable of pushing myself further than I had previously believed.
That lesson stayed with me long after the soreness faded.
Surgical training is full of thirteen-mile moments. Points where you realise you have reached the edge of your preparation, and yet the expectation is that you continue. Exams that stretch beyond your confidence. Rotations that test your identity. Nights where fatigue and responsibility collide. Moments where quitting would be understandable — but unacceptable.
The marathon gave me a reference point.
When things became difficult later, I could tell myself something simple and true: I have been here before. Not in the same setting, but in the same mental territory. Beyond preparation. Beyond certainty. Operating on nothing but resolve.
Refusal to quit.
I did not become a runner because of that race. But I did become more certain of my capacity to endure. I learnt that persistence, applied consistently, carries you further than perfect preparation ever can.
Perhaps that is the quiet gift of doing something most people never attempt. Not superiority. Not bravado. Just a deeper understanding of your limits — and the growing suspicion that they are rarely where you think they are.
If you think this is about running, it isn’t.
The real race was still ahead.
Average Black Surgeon: Confessions from a Life Misunderstood
The Last Smack
I was four years old when I realised I could not control everything — but I could control myself. The last smack became the first lesson in resilience.
