I’d already decided that Philadelphia 2023 would be my last marathon. It seemed prudent to find other ways of keeping fit that didn’t require pounding the hot summer streets or sliding along winter sidewalks to make an inevitable decline less precipitous. For someone who’d only taken up running in his early forties, I’d not done too badly. I’d qualified for Boston twice, run New York eight times, and had even experienced a rare moment of mind–body synergy in Chicago in 2014, when all I recollect is effortlessness and speed.

Going into Philly, I’d completed a number of long training runs, but I was worried about a paucity of 40+-mile weeks and my general lack of nervous excitement. Yet Sunday November 19 dawned sunny, windless, and cool, and I realized I couldn’t blame the weather, the logistics, or anything or anyone else. Whatever occurred, good or bad, would all be down to me.

Through the historic downtown and among the parks, decked in autumnal glory, I nested myself within the 4-hour pace group. This was partly a quest for anonymity. In their wisdom, the organizers had printed each entrant’s first name on their bib. I’d only run one such marathon before, and, while “Yay Martin!” was fun in the early miles, by Mile 20 the last thing I wanted was to be told I was looking strong or was nearly there. Tucked in with a group of runners, I and my name were invisible. And it didn’t matter that the typeface used by the organizers rendered the bar that crossed the “t” in my name both narrow and short.

As I approached Mile 24, however, the throng had thinned as legs grew heavy and feet tired. I, too, was slowing down, and the 4-hour pace group was nowhere in view. But I felt okay. At least, that’s what I told myself.

Then I stopped.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to run, it was that I couldn’t. I tried to pick my legs up, but they refused to comply. I started to walk—well, hobble—in the hope I’d break into a shuffle, then a jog, and then run. That didn’t happen, either.

No longer in a pack, and passing spectators very slowly, my bib became visible. “Go, Marlin, go,” they urged. “You can do it, Marlin.”

I was at once embarrassed and irritated. I was Martin—with a “t”. How could I tolerate the next half an hour of this? Why couldn’t they leave me alone and let me stagger on in my misery?

“We’re with you, Marlin. You got this!”

If you’ve run long distances, you’ll be aware that a dissociative state sometimes kicks in, as the body attempts to make sense of the entirely unreasonable demands the brain is placing on it—and vice versa. Who was this Marlin the crowd seemed so enthusiastic about? Why was he receiving all this support?

Then something strange happened: I began to like Marlin. Martin was uptight, judgmental, and ridiculously competitive. Sure, he—the dogged pack-runner, the gritter of teeth and furrower of brow through nineteen marathons—had started the race, but Marlin was going to end it. Marlin didn’t care about negative splits or age-graded calculations. Marlin would enjoy the beautiful weather and appreciate the fact that he could walk at all.

It was Marlin who’d recall the man with no legs at Mile 17, propelling himself around the course on his skateboard, using only his hands. It was Marlin who’d recognize he wasn’t fleeing for his life with only the clothes on his back. Marlin had agency and choice, and, if that entailed Martin being brought to a halt to acknowledge he had them, too, then so be it.

So, Marlin lifted his head, waved (a little sheepishly) at the crowds, and, swinging his arms, limped across the finish line. He received his medal and bade farewell to his marathon career. And he took Martin along with him.

Martin is well on the way to recovery. He’s already started declaiming that he intends to run faster half-marathons and do more cross-training. Members of his running club don’t believe him when he says his marathon days are over. I’m unconvinced, too.

Marlin? He’s just happy to be alive.