There’s this damned thing called a bucket list. Always there—a provocateur of the soul, a tester of our limits.
The List is vital. Obeying its ever-changing commands can make us feel alive.
I visit my list often. The last time was ten weeks ago. Entry: Marathon. Specifically, the 40th Authentic Athens Marathon. The birthplace—where finishing at the Panathenaic Stadium marks an indelible moment in the heart of every runner. I wanted that mark on my heart too. I needed it. Vital.
The list that dares us to live
August 21, I ran my first 5 km. November 9, my last. In between, a daily battle with the road, the stopwatch, the elements, but, mostly, against myself. I felt every emotion out there, on that road, each one a different checkpoint in the depths of my psyche. You learn much about yourself.
There were days that I wanted to quit. Mornings that I couldn’t drag myself out of bed, couldn’t get dressed, couldn’t run. An injury out of nowhere. Pain in the most improbable places. Fatigue piling up. Second thoughts. Doubts. And, amidst it all, my heart—stubborn and unmoving—overriding my body’s protests, silencing its nos and not todays, forbidding surrender, commanding continuation.
“Ἢ τὰν ἢ ἐπὶ τᾶς.” (With your shield—or on it.)
I still hear it now, as I write these words.
From Syntagma to the sacred start: November 12, race day.
5 a.m. I wake up. A quick breakfast. Then straight to Syntagma Square to catch the shuttle to Marathon – the starting line. A quiet awe accompanies the whole ride. It’s dark outside. The Runner sculpture across from the Hilton Hotel, it glows. I promise him we’ll meet again in a few hours—God willing. The distance markers for the Classic Route are on the opposite side of the road. I’m counting backward—40, 32, 21, 10, 5. That’s when it hits me: the sheer scale of this journey. That’s when I also understand why my dear friend and coach, Michalis Papacostas, who poured his heart into my training, kept telling me—every chance he got—to show the utmost respect to the Route.
We arrive in Marathon. Tens of thousands of people. Music blasting. A celebration of running. I go through my final checks before the start: hydration, carb-loading, gear, soul, heart—everything in place. I merge into the sea of runners, becoming one with the crowd’s tide. The collective energy is indescribable—one of those rare things you must live to truly grasp. A visceral experience. I head to my starting block. One last phone call to my three Angels, still at the hotel, to share my excitement and confirm our date at the Panathenaic Stadium.
I watch the start waves depart, one after another—three-minute intervals. Wave 8 takes off. “We’re getting close,” I think. Nervousness courses through me. Adrenaline, laced with anxiety for the unknown ahead. I close my eyes. I let it charge me. I’m in Marathon’s stadium, both my feet on its grass. In a few minutes, I’ll begin chasing everything I’ve dreamed of over the past three months. Goosebumps. I welcome it as the soft start before the real Start.
Wave 10. Wave 11. My turn. The Moment.
We head to the starting line. From the loudspeakers: “Baby Give It Up” by KC & The Sunshine Band. The crowd pulses. We stop behind the line. Waiting for the starter’s pistol to set us free. I close my eyes again to ground myself, to comprehend that this is real—this is truly happening. The countdown echoes.
3…2…1… And we’re off.
I run slowly, just as I was taught. No pushing; no rush. I let myself enjoy the Route, soaking in the energy of the crowd. Near the 5K mark, a little girl hands me an olive branch and a radiant smile. I thank her from the depths of my heart. I tuck the branch into my belt—and, suddenly, I feel lighter.
The long run through history and fire
I approach the first aid station and hear Fragkosyriani (Φραγκοσυριανή) playing over the speakers.
“A flame, a fury, burning in my heart.”
(Μία φούντωση, μια φλόγα
έχω μέσα στην καρδιά.)
How many times had I heard those lyrics during training…How many times had I cried, grown stronger, clenched my fists and kept going because of them, powering through all obstacles, physical and mental.
I was, crying again overwhelmed by the convergence of my training and this sacred moment on the Authentic Route.
I take the turn around the Tumulus of the Athenian Marathon warriors.
General Miltiades. Grigoris Lambrakis.
I run in awe. I enter Marathon Avenue. Keep going straight. A sign welcomes me to the town of Nea Makri. People line the streets—on both sides. Elderly folks, children, young couples. Voices calling out, overlapping, yet echoing the same words:
“Bravo, runners! Bravo to you!”
I had heard about the energy of the crowd on race day. That it lifts you—carrying you beyond the mountains of your doubts. But hearing is one thing—feeling it is another. Wings grew from
my feet. My stride became feather-light.
Yet I didn’t get carried away.
I knew what was coming.
I call Elena, my Guardian Angel. She’s still at the hotel with our two little angels.
“My love, I’m doing great! Everything’s perfect!” “Bravo, my love! Keep going—we’ll see you at the finish line!”
I press on. Already at the 10K mark, deep inside Nea Makri. At the aid station, Eye of the Tiger blasts through the air. It hits me like a jolt of fire
Then a voice message comes in from my dad, ‘My boy, keep your pace steady—you’re doing just fine.’
“I’m keeping it, dad” I say.
And that’s when the climbs begin.
And they don’t stop—for the next 22 kilometres. Now the marathon truly begins.
Passing through Mati. The scent of scorched earth lingers in the air. Grandmothers wave the Greek flag, offering homemade lemonade to the runners. And just when I thought the chills couldn’t run any deeper, I’m overtaken by an elderly man—barefoot, dressed as a Spartan warrior. My soul bows before him. My tank fills up. And I set course for the halfway point.
I reach Pikermi. I’ve crossed the halfway mark—but not the hard part.
I call my mother. My voice trembles. My eyes blur with tears. I just need to hear her voice.
“Mom?”
‘My love, what’s wrong?’
“Nothing, mom. I just wanted to hear your voice. I’m strong—I’m pushing through.”
‘Be careful, sweetheart, I love you.’
A mother’s voice. The most powerful energy shot in the world.
But now, my legs grow heavy. My breathing is ragged. My pace has dropped. And I still have more than 10 uphill kilometres ahead.
I pull the earbuds from my belt and put them in. First time that I do so since the start of the race. The song is preloaded. Sakis Boulas—Flasaki (Φλασάκι)
“Feeling lost, cast aside A stranger now, in your own city Put wheels on your heart, Roll through the hardship.”
(Μελαγχόλησες, νιώθεις πεταμένος
Μες στην πόλη σου σαν ξένος, βρε παιδί μου αμάν
Στην καρδιά βάλε πατίνια και δυο ρουλεμάν.)
So, I do. I give my heart skates. I give it bearings. I roll.
“Play the songs you love the most, Picture the moment you’ll reclaim it all, Think of festivities, girls, things that excite you, And a lonely kid looking for his way.”
(Βάλε στο μαγνητόφωνο τραγούδια που γουστάρεις
Σκέψου την ώρα, τη στιγμή που τη ρεβάνς θα πάρεις
Σκέψου κορίτσια και γιορτές και πράμα που σαλεύει
κι ένα παιδί που μοναχό το δρόμο του γυρεύει.)
I am that kid. Lonely. Looking for his way. I’m heading toward my girl. Toward my boys. Toward the festivities.
I’m now in Pallini. An old man in a wheelchair is clapping for us. He raises the ancient Greek war cry: “AERA!”—Wind!
I cry and run. To stop is shame. I push through pain. For the old man in the wheelchair. For my little boys waiting for me at the finish line. For my parents, who taught me that there are no limits—only the ones we construct in our minds. And for my own personal fuck it.
Kilometre 28. Gerakas. I feel my glycogen stores completely drained. I take my third energy gel and pray it kicks in before the final monster climb—Stavros.
I reach Stavros, in Agia Paraskevi. The crowd’s voices surround me:
“One last climb, runners! Stay strong!”
I grit my teeth. Lean my body forward. One foot in front of the other.
“Just one more climb…but it feels like an eternity.”
I push past Stavros. I’m still alive—but my body is beaten. There are still ten kilometres left. I remember something I once read: A marathon is a 10K race—with a 32K warm-up.
So, I think to myself—this is where it truly begins.
My body downshifts, but my mind accelerates. I enter Athens. I’ve never seen her like this before—so empty of cars, so full of emotion. So beautiful—because she’s hosting the place where my dream will meet its realization.
I pass the Mint, the Pentagon, the Katechaki junction, Errikos Dynan Hospital. Then, Vasilissis Sofias Avenue. I run past Mavili Square, past the Concert Hall. I’m in the heart of the city now. Each step is agony. But my mind won’t allow my body to stop.
And then—I see The Runner again, bathed in daylight.
“See? I told you we’d meet again today,” I whisper to him. A smile forms. I pass him, both my arms raised in a champion’s salute. I’m close—I can feel it. And I let the world see it.
I slow down, put my earbuds back in. Savvopoulos. Let the Dances Last (Ας κρατήσουν οι χοροί).
I skip straight to my favourite verse:
“May God keep us strong so we always reunite and celebrate with circular dances being free as rivers.”
(Να μας έχει ο Θεός γερούς
πάντα ν’ ανταμώνουμε
και να ξεφαντώνουμε βρε
με χορούς κυκλωτικούς
κι άλλο τόσο ελεύθερους σαν ποταμούς.)
I cry. No need to hold back, now.
No need to hold back. I grant myself this moment. Rare are the times in life where you feel something so profoundly visceral.
I enter Herodou Attikou Street. The stretch before the last. I know that somewhere along these beautiful 600 meters, my boys are waiting—ready to take my hand so we can cross the finish line together. I don’t know exactly where. Better that way, I think. I keep going, waiting for the sweetest surprise. I’m exhausted. My tank is empty. But my soul is full. One foot in front of the other—just like I did for all 41,500 meters behind me. A few more to go. A few. My soul pushes my body forward. 1–2. 1–2. My legs obey, like loyal little soldiers. Until the bullet hits them—and they come to a screeching halt.
200 meters into Herodou Attikou, my right leg turns to rubber. I can’t step on it. I collapse, crashing to the ground. A medic sees me and runs toward me.
I’m trapped in a delirium—pain, exhaustion, rage, despair.
“What happened?” “My leg…it’s gone.” “Looks like a tear. Let’s try to stand, see if it holds.”
It doesn’t. Not the first time. Not the second. Not the third. I stay down. My eyes catch a glimpse of the turn into Kallimarmaro—the final stretch. So close.
So far. I can’t believe it.
Then I hear the most devastating words I could possibly hear:
“I’m sorry. For your health and safety, the protocol requires us to remove you from the course. You can always try again next year.”
It was like being shot all over again. I didn’t know which feeling to process first. I choked up.
“I can’t quit,” I tell her. “My kids are just up ahead, waiting to cross the finish line with me. I’ll crawl there if I have to.”
Then—out of nowhere—two volunteers rush toward me. The woman kneels down until her eyes meet my tearful ones. I look at her. She looks back.
“Listen to me,” she says.
I try. Through the pain.
“Whatever happens, today you will finish.”
I remember her eyes—so fierce, so certain. I remember how hard I cried hearing those six words. I remember them lifting me up, balancing me on my one good leg. Telling me to take my time. To breathe. I remember thinking of the old man in the wheelchair, shouting “AERA!” I remember the three of us setting off, hobbling toward the finish. Stopping every ten meters, so I could catch my breath. My sweat pouring like a river down the asphalt of Herodou Attikou. I remember seeing my boys break past the barriers and run toward me—tears and fear in their eyes.
Then I heard the words of my guardian on the right:
“Don’t worry, kids—your dad’s fine. Let’s all go finish together!”
I reassure them. Tell them how much I love them. Tell them we’re so close.
I look at Elena—and she understands. Understands what my heart’s been telling me all this time:
“Ἢ τὰν ἢ ἐπὶ τᾶς.” With your shield—or on it.
I was almost on the shield. Almost.
We turn into the Panathenaic Stadium. I see it. We enter. The final 170 glorious meters on its sacred track, heading toward the arch of triumph.
We keep moving forward. So many people. Applause raining down. “Love Shack” by The B-52’s blasting. Flowerpots lining the sides—bearing the most beautiful blossoms my eyes have ever seen. The celebration I’d dreamt of. The dance I never wanted to end.
We reach the arch. We pass beneath it.
“Bravo, re Spyro!”
Collapse before glory
And then—my other leg gives out. I collapse. The shoulders of my two saviours are now my crutches. I embrace them. I kiss them. I cry into them. Nothing left in the tank. Only soul. Only wind. The wind of the old man in the wheelchair. And now—I’m the one in the wheelchair.
They place the medal around my neck. They embrace me.
They embrace my soul. And I reciprocate.
An ambulance rushes me to Laiko General Hospital. X-rays. The doctor’s face says it all.
“Hip fracture. Immediate surgery required.”
I collapse again—for the third time that day. Then, another saviour arrives. Constantinos. A Cypriot. Orthopaedic intern.
“Stay calm. We’ll handle everything. You’re going to be okay.”
He calls Hygeia Hospital. Arranges emergency surgery with one of their top orthopaedic surgeons. An ambulance transfers us all there, my three angels never leaving my side.
Admission. Pre-op checks. At 10 p.m., I’m sedated. I wake up at 03:39 a.m., in a dark room on the 12th floor of the clinic. An oxygen mask covers my face. I grab my phone and send a message to Elena.
“My love, I’m awake. Everything’s okay. Don’t worry. I’ll see you in the morning. I love you. I’m sorry for everything.”
I surrender to the numbness of the painkillers and drift off.
The next morning, the doctor visits me.
“It took three screws, Spyros. But you’ll be okay.” “Thank you, doctor.”
The return to Cyprus is an odyssey. On the plane, I look at my medal for the first time.
“Prize to the Victor. The Eternal Winner.”
The passion for the feat. The transcendence of limits. The defiance. The refusal to surrender.
Our personal ‘fuck it’. That euphoric high that marks the completion of a dream. The need to feel alive. The lessons. The stories we carry. One dream ends. Another begins.
I look out the airplane window. I try to smile—the pain stops me halfway.
“Ἢ τὰν ἢ ἐπὶ τᾶς.” I was almost on the shield. Almost.
*Dr. Spyros Yiassemides is based in Cyprus and in finance and government policy – he is also a contributor to Neos Kosmos.
