‘Who Cares About Running?’

Who cares about running? Not me, or so I thought. Like nearly every runner I now know, I started running again during Covid. But it wasn’t until late 2023 that I thought this is something that can be a big part of who I am. Joining Unofficial Run Club when it was still only a handful of people led to a team of us winning Red Bull’s Race The Sun in 2024, which drew me on to the Sydney Marathon. That turned into me being taken to New York by New Balance, where I ran a 2:48 and found myself staring down the barrel of a Boston qualifying time. I told myself, “Maybe this is your sport.”

I cruised through the first half of 2025 knowing my big goal was the Sydney Marathon. The first-time world major would be where I’d try to best my NYC time and give myself the confidence going into a build to Boston ’26 that I could pull off something special.

I started my block healthy and in relatively good shape. By the 10-week mark, I was sitting at 2:37 shape, having just completed a big marathon-simulation workout: 34km with 3 x 6km at 3:37/km average pace. I was feeling sharp and the training was paying off. I was enjoying the weekly sessions and long runs with my training crew (Cam, Ella, Rien) when a small niggle reared its head, never went away – and then bang.

Stress fracture.

In the space of a week I went from running six or seven times a week with a solid training group, and feeling like I was in incredible shape, to being sidelined. The pause forced me to face the question again: “Do you really care about running?”

Along comes Sydney Marathon week and with it, a plethora of emotions both high and low.

For the last three months, I’ve joined some of my best mates on a podcast, Never Run Alone, and we were lucky enough to interview some incredible people who’ve been in town for the marathon. Debutant Sam Clifford, Olympian Roberto Mandje and Tempo’s very own Mack Dewar kickstarted the chronically packed week with chats about events, our training builds and how excited we all were for Sydney’s first major.

On the Friday night before the big Sunday, we went from the podcast studio into the city for some good old fashioned street racing with Furies x Adidas. Up until this point in the week I hadn’t had many feelings – neither here nor there – about not being able to run.

But this hit different: I was with my people, out in the community, at something I 100% would’ve taken part in if I wasn’t injured. Who cares though, right? At this point I was still trying to convince myself I was fine with being on the sideline.

Saturday rolled around and Unofficial held what ended up being the biggest shakeout of the weekend. About 2,500 people rolled through, the most people I’d ever seen running together outside of a race context. While obviously that was huge, it was the moment before the hoards of people arrived – when the venue was empty and I was just watching individuals, couples and big groups doing their own shakeouts – that really made me pause.

Running has awoken this city and it really feels like people care. The marathon is spilling out of running circles and people are getting behind this insane sport in a way I haven’t seen in Sydney before. I’ve been loving Josh Lynott’s short poems over the last month and there’s one that really captured this week: “You don’t love running. You love 35,000 people cheering for you.” Collectively, of course we do. What’s better than feeling connected to that many people all doing the same thing, crossing the same start and finish lines?

Race day. I laid out my kit and got to work – same as everyone else. Kind of. My kit was a bit heavier: camera, crutch and moon boot. I would not be running any PBs today. Maybe an unofficial PB of most photos taken in a day while on a bike? Photography is something I’ve always done as a hobby, and there’s something beautiful about freezing the movement of running in a still frame. I’ve always wanted to shoot a race and, although the circumstances weren’t great, I was excited to see what I could capture.

Marathon morning is something you never forget. With Sydney and NYC last year, and back to Sydney this year, there was this incredibly familiar feeling of nerves and excitement. This time around it wasn’t about me. Instead, it was about being on course for the people I loved, and being nervous and excited for them. My crew, Rien and Ella, were gunning for personal bests on a course that pulls no punches. Of course I was going to be nervous for them. I was sad I wasn’t running, but I was excited to give them every bit of energy I could to get them over that finish line.

The wave of disappointment in not running hit me real hard as soon as I stepped onto the train headed toward the start line in North Sydney and saw everyone in their race kits. That feeling only grew as we exited the station along with hoards of people all about to take part in the biggest running event the Southern Hemisphere has ever seen. Joining the 35,000 runners were close to 500,000 spectators (that’s an outrageous guess but it felt that big). But who cares about the numbers? This was bigger than that.

Standing in the silence before the race, there was no hiding from the fact that the day would be hard for me. Yet as soon as I heard the swell of cheers from up the road as runners started, I was brought back to why I was there in the first place.

To cheer, to celebrate, to take part in Sydney’s first major, albeit from the sideline.

There’s nothing quite like witnessing the start of a marathon. The elite field ripping past, and then the thousands of people who have spent the better part of the last six months preparing themselves to run.

The last two times I’ve run a marathon I’ve cried. In Sydney ’24 I cried because it was my first marathon and I’d never put myself through that kind of physical trial. And then in NYC six weeks later, just past the finish line, I ugly cried as soon as I’d finished vomiting the race’s gels right back up. I was in a foreign country, without my wife and kids, and I’d just shattered a goal I had set (I went out hoping for sub-2:55 and walked away with a 2:48). I was physically finished but damn was I proud of what I'd just achieved alongside Rien. We ran every step of our training and then subsequently the race together. We carried each other, bearing each other’s weight at different points along the course – and we’d just done it. Nothing like a bro hug to let some tears out.

Sydney ’25 was a little bit different and saw me crying on the sideline – at the start line, no less. About halfway through the first wave of athletes there was a dad who went over to his wife and small child who’d been waiting to see him come past. He stopped to kiss his partner and hug his little girl. And that was the moment that undid me.

Why? Who knows?

But it really did make me pause. Who cares about running? His family probably doesn't. Our loved ones just want to see us happy. And we’re happy because we care about running.

Between the start line and the rest of the course, I Lime biked my way around, stopping at Martin Place (the 14km marker, and a huge vibe) and Centennial Park, a course intersection where you can catch runners at 18km, 28km and 32km. I screamed at Rien and Ella, happy to lift their heads out of the pain cave, if only for a moment. Centennial was a real melting pot of spectators and runners; I shared moments with complete strangers, screaming at their runners in unison, all of us completely connected to the marathon.

Of course I care about running. It just took me stopping, taking a step outside of myself and investing in other people’s journeys to realise that running is so much more than the action itself. It’s the community I've found myself in. It’s the emotions, high and low. It’s connection.