I Lost My Girlfriend Somewhere Around Kilometre 17 — But Found Myself (and Possibly a Hernia)
1 kilometre in and I knew I had what it took to hit 4-minute kilometres—I just needed to drop the dead weight. That dead weight, as it turns out, was Cindy.
What a difference a day makes. Yesterday, I had a girlfriend who signed me up for “fun couples activities.” Today, I’m a free man—blistered, limping, and spiritually hollowed out, but free. My knees are gone. My calves are in open rebellion. And my toenails? No longer with us. But I have something Cindy doesn’t: a finisher’s medal and a questionable 3:30 marathon time.
Yes, I ran the ING Night Marathon. Cindy did not. She left me—emotionally and geographically—around kilometre 17, just past the samba drummers and a man dressed as a carrot.
Look, I told Cindy I’d stay by her side. That was the plan. But when the starter gun fired and confetti filled the air like corporate-sponsored pollen, something inside me snapped. I felt... primal. Hungry. Competitive. Possibly hypoglycemic.
I took off. Not at a sprint, exactly, more like a strong jog with delusions of grandeur. Sure, I may have jostled a few Sunday joggers into hedges. Did I fixate on the fastest man around my height and build and try to keep up with him? Absolutely. It’s called benchmarking.
By the 1km mark, I glanced at my watch: six minutes. That’s when I knew I had what it took to hit 4-minute kilometres—I just needed to drop the dead weight. That dead weight, as it turns out, was Cindy.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I was supportive. I waved enthusiastically when she yelled at me to stop, red-faced and betrayed. And I never said what I was thinking, which was: “You should’ve carb-loaded at lunch instead of eating that sad €14 quinoa salad. Skinny doesn’t win races. Complex carbs do.”
Could I have stopped? Sure. But then my time would’ve suffered. And time, in a relationship, is everything—unless you’re in a race. Then it’s just a number that defines your self-worth and manhood.
I focused on what truly matters: visualising myself on the podium. Maybe not first place, but definitely smug and shirtless, giving a TED Talk about grit.
Yes, I hadn't technically “trained,” but I had downloaded five motivational podcasts and listened to them while folding laundry. Also, I’d been manifesting success for at least two weeks. All those yoga retreats Cindy dragged me to? Finally useful. I deep-breathed my way up the hills of Kirchberg like a spiritual goat.
Around kilometre 38, things got... complicated. Cramps. Gastrointestinal distress. Whatever mystery elixir they were serving at the hydration station was clearly designed for people with a different gut biome. I briefly considered pooping behind a hedge near Limpertsberg, but then remembered: this is Luxembourg. There are laws.
I pushed on. I thought about life, death, tech startups, and how I never really liked Cindy’s cat. By the final stretch, I was hallucinating slightly. I saw myself accepting a LinkedIn award for “Most Resilient Thought Leader (Male, 35-44).” I felt euphoric. Possibly concussed.
Did I finish? Yes. Did I podium? No. But I clocked a strong time—3:30! (Give or take. I forgot to start Strava, so there’s no official record. But I know. My soul knows.)
I didn’t see Cindy at the finish line. Later, I saw her text: “You’re a shit.” Which, honestly, felt harsh, considering how far I ran.
But I’m not bitter. I’ve evolved. I’m on a higher plane now—one where pain is temporary, but digital bragging rights are forever.
Cindy’s gone. My toenails are gone. But I’ve got a new love now: the sport, the challenge, and the sweet, sweet silence of not having to go to couples yoga ever again.