Patience as a Teacher: My Journey Through Sport

I wasn’t an athlete. This isn’t just a factual statement; it’s a part of me that I’ve learned to accept and, in some ways, transform. For most of my life, physical activity was a marginal necessity, a backdrop to an existence focused on other things. Then, something changed—and looking back now, the change came at the most paradoxical of times: during lockdown, when everything seemed to come to a halt. It was then that I discovered a desire to run. Not because I could, but because I couldn’t. As often happens, what is denied to us becomes a powerful dream.

Running, for me, didn’t start with a training plan, fancy shoes, or expert advice. It started with a simple urge: to try. When I could finally step outside after months of restrictions, I made what, in hindsight, I would call a fascinating mistake: I ran 10k on my first outing. There was no gradual build-up, no preparation. Just a pure and uncontrollable desire to move, to feel my body respond.

The memory of that first run is vivid. I remember my legs feeling like they were about to explode, my heart racing too fast, and my ears ringing for hours afterward. But most of all, I remember how I felt: exhausted, yes, but also incredibly alive. And perhaps that mix defined my initial relationship with running—an attraction to the thin line between euphoria and destruction, between a sense of achievement and the risk of losing control.

From that moment on, running became a constant, almost an obsession. Every day, I added kilometers, ignoring pains that should have stopped me. I believed in a philosophy that now makes me shudder: "no pain, no gain." It wasn’t a carefully considered belief but something I had absorbed from others, grom the gym, from the stories of extreme athletes and the culture surrounding the wieghtlifting world. In my mind, pain and progress were intertwined, as if one guaranteed the other.

And so, within a couple of months, I decided to run my first marathon. It wasn’t an official race. There were no crowds, no medals, no timers. Just me, my wife waiting at the finish line 4 and a half hours later with a beer, and a road that was far too long for my abilities. After the 20th kilometer, the run became sheer agony. I walked, limped, and staggered. But I finished, and in that moment, finishing was all that mattered.

The Cycle of Haste

From there, my journey became an almost inevitable sequence of missteps and improbable achievements. After the marathon, why not try to run as long as possible? I ran 70k along a highway until I physically couldn’t go any farther. I stopped, called my wife, and she came to pick me up. I couldn’t walk for a month. Then, I discovered trail running, and the cycle repeated: 10k in September, 32 in October, 80 in January, 112 in April, all within 7 months. Every race was a gamble, a leap into the unknown. And every time, through sheer luck or stubbornness, I managed to cross the finish line.

My philosophy, if it could be called that, was simple: don’t stop. No matter how much it hurt, no matter how unlikely the outcome, keep going. And in its way, it worked. I achieved goals I never thought possible. I discovered parts of myself I didn’t know existed—a capacity to endure pain, to find inner strength during moments of crisis. But I also paid a price.

Injuries were constant companions. My hips, my feet, my tendons—every part of my body protested in its own way. There were times when I couldn’t walk, others when I had to stop training for weeks or months. Each time, I returned with the same mindset: pick up where you left off, push even harder, go for the next big thing.

The Revelation of Patience

At some point, though, something changed. It wasn’t a single moment but an accumulation of experiences. I realized that dragging myself for 40 kilometers wasn’t running. That finishing a race only to be unable to walk for weeks wasn’t sustainable. That sport, as much as it can be a challenge, should also be a pleasure.

The real turning point came when I accompanied a friend on his first ultra. It was a 110k trail with 4000melevation gain, and I decided to "run" at his pace, slower than my own. For the first time, I wasn’t at my limit. I wasn’t battling my body or the clock. I was simply experiencing the race. And without a doubt, it was the most beautiful race of my life.

I’ll never forget the emotion of that day—the sense of calm, the ability to take in the scenery, to guide my friend through his struggles, to enjoy every step. And then, the next day, I was upright. I wasn’t limping; I wasn’t exhausted. I took my daughter to a party, went to work with a smile. It was a new, different, almost strange feeling. And it made me think.

Time as a Teacher

Since then, I’ve learned to respect time—not just the time spent training, but time itself as an essential element of sport. It takes years to build a solid foundation, one that allows you not only to finish a race but to enjoy it. Every kilometer you run, every day you go without injury, every calm, deliberate training session is an investment in your future as an athlete.

This doesn’t mean giving up on big dreams. Dreaming is important, essential. But dreams must be fueled by patience, not haste. Every goal you reach too quickly risks being fleeting, whereas what you build with time and dedication lasts forever.

Advice to My Younger Self

If I could go back, I would tell my younger self to slow down. Not to stop, not to give up, but to respect the process. Haste gave me so much but also took much away. It gave me immediate "victories" but robbed me of the chance to fully enjoy the journey.

I would tell that version of me to savor every phase. The first 10 kilometers, the first half marathon, the first trail race—every milestone has its value, its beauty. There’s no need to rush to the next one or go excessively big on the miles. There’s time, and that time is precious.

A Message for Those Who Read This

If you’re at the beginning of your journey, if you’ve just run your first 5 or 10k and are thinking about a 21, or if you’ve completed a half and dream of a marathon, know that your enthusiasm is a gift. Don’t stifle it; don’t ignore it. But use it wisely. Let it drive you, but don’t let it consume you.

Don’t be afraid to dream big, but learn to respect time. The body needs to adapt; the mind needs to grow. Every step you take today is a brick in your foundation. Don’t rush to finish the house—enjoy every phase of the project. And remember, sport isn’t just about reaching goals; it’s about the experiences along the way.

Embrace patience. It’s your greatest ally. It doesn’t slow you down; it gives you the time to become who you want to be.

A Small Final Note

Here’s everything I’ve learned from my experience. And yet, if you’ve made it this far, you might smile when you read this: next season, I’m planning to participate in a 250k 12000m+ race for which, as of now, I’m completely unprepared. With a new baby and drastically reduced training time, I already know I’ll approach the starting line with the usual hope for a miracle.

Not enough? Well, having completed only one full Ironman, I’m seriously considering signing up for a double Ironman. Double continuous, yes. 7.6k swim, 360k bike and 84k run. Because, in the end, I am who I am. I stay true to my approach—a method I would never recommend to anyone.

Or perhaps, in the end, the truest advice is this: don’t take advice, not from me, not from anyone.. Follow the path that puts the largest smile on your face, even if it’s utterly crazy. Because yes, sport can be a patient and rational journey, but there’s nothing more beautiful than being carried away by your passion, even when it doesn’t make sense to anyone but you.

A Greeting from the Past

As I was writing this, I remembered a message I wrote to myself last year. I dug through my notes and found it, just as I had left it:

"Hi Martino of the future,
This is you from 2023. Just married, work finally going well, a few months away from the new house, no major drama on the horizon.
I’m going to screw up your hip. It’ll cost you a prosthesis, which you probably would have needed anyway—though a few years later.
But I want to give you the memory of an UTMB, a Marathon des Sables, an Ironman. More than the medals, I want to give you the memories, the journey it will take. The thousands of hours with yourself, the introspection, the growth we’ve embarked on.
It will have been worth it, no matter how or when it ends. Wherever we find ourselves, better this than leaving with healthy hips but a life wasted on cirrhosis or apathy.
Love,
M."

And there it is, perhaps the ultimate truth. It doesn’t really matter which path we choose or how rational it is. What matters is that it’s our path, the one we feel drawn to walk—with all its madness, joy, and pain. In the end, what remains are the memories, not the medals.