The Impressions of the 36th Eurasia Marathon in Istanbul, told from the perspective of a sensitive Russian soul

On Sunday, November 16, 2014- the race day, I felt that Kara Goucher was so very right when she said, “That’s the thing about running: your greatest runs are rarely measured by racing success. They are moments in time when running allows you to see how wonderful your life is.” I felt it a few times at the moments when I was ready to cry (that happened to me twice, yes) and when I cried (yep, I did it).

But first, I guess, I should place my thoughts and events in order….

The Eurasia Marathon is becoming bigger and bigger a deal and, living in Istanbul, I cannot miss such an opportunity. Not in the marathon part though, I dare to run only 15 km. Although it is not the first of my races and the second Eurasia one, I went to bed with my heart fluttering a little bit. And I woke up a few minutes before my alarm clock with my body and brain fully alarmed. Taking a taxi was a clever decision, although after Gayrettepe, the roads were closed and the taxi driver spent some 10-15 minutes looking for alternative routes to deliver my friend and myself to the ferry station. Meeting my wonderful excited friends made the day brighter and happier. Also, the weather was just perfect for the run: it was not too cold, so our limbs could operate all the time, but it was chilly enough for a comfortable run.

The spoiler of the day was using the portable toilets and checking in the bags. The portable toilet experience was far from nice or funny, though it does seem a bit funny today. Some of my friends simply could not use it and left it as soon as they entered the world of filth and disgusting smell. Some friends dealt with it, but you could hear coughing apparently caused by the lack of proper J air and some time was spent recovering from the toilet adventure. Well, I thought it was a bit funny, but I left the magnificent portable body-cleansing place coughing too, in spite of my covering the nose with some tissue. But what can we do sometimes?

Dropping the bag was another adventure of mine, which nearly created a hatred for the world and human beings in my sensitive heart. However, remembering the commonly used behavior in my dearly loved place, I just started pushing everyone with my elbows, or whatever I could push people with at the contact time. I passed through the narrow path between the buses and the fence and managed to drop my bag at the correctly numbered bus despite the returning people walking closer to the bus and the drop-off line being on the further side. To stay positive, I decided that it was a chance for me to get some extra adrenalin for the run and I did it!

But all those tiny negatively charged events were successfully forgotten when the time got closer to the start. And here the sensitive part starts. First, there was a group of huge Turkish guys behaving noisy and silly next to us, but when the anthem had started, they all stood to attention and started singing the anthem of Turkey loudly and proudly. That was the first time when I nearly cried: I am always impressed with how much Turkish people love their March of Freedom; how they believe that they have something to live for, to be proud of. I really felt proud to be a part of Turkish nation too (well, ok, I am Russian, and I am proud of it, but I’ve lived in Turkey for 4 years, so I am partially Turkish too).

And finally the race had started. The number of the participants was so huge (I think there were about 2 thousand women and 4-5 thousand men in 15 km), that I could not even hear the countdown and it took some time to get to the actual start line which was right by the bridge.

Crossing the bridge is one of the moments making it really worth time, money and effort to participate in any distance part of the race. The gorgeous view and curves of the Bosporus, the mosques and palaces on its banks, and just the feeling of being on the bridge open to walking only once a year are breathtaking. It was the time of amazement and enchantment. Especially because this year I did not really push myself to run fast, so I could enjoy the views to full extent.

Running down the Barbaros Bulvari provided another teary moment. On one of the road bridges, there was hanging a portrait of Atatürk, the great founder of the Turkish Republic. And the way people were looking up to him, cheering and waving at him made me feel proud to be a part of Turkish culture again. Though I have to immediately explain that by no means do I support the cult of personality. Russia learned her lessons from it. However, the way people believe in Ataturk, believe in what he made for the country, how he made it (or started working on it) quite open-minded and democratic, believing that they need a leader like him these days- all these made me feel amazed that this is what makes people believe in the better, in the need to support their country.

And a few kilometers later, there was the time to cry…. When I was crossing the Galata Bridge looking at the Hagia Sophia, the Blue Mosque and the chaotic streets, the storm of emotions rose from my heart. It is pathetic, I know, but I simply could not fight the feeling of happiness and pride running into the actual Constantinople. My mind was overwhelmed by the fact that so many peoples tried to conquer it; that the Ottomans carried their ships over the land to attack it; that many people had a dream of ruling it, living there… I will not enumerate other thoughts of the grandeur of the place. And I did start crying. I cried of the fact that I could just run into this magnificent part of the city without any negative consequences for anyone….

What else can I ask of life?