Last weekend I was lucky enough to be a spectator at the Sydney Marathon. It was my second marathon major for the year after attending London earlier in 2026. And while many people assume you need to be a runner to enjoy these events, I can confidently say that's not true.
I don't run marathons. I go to support my partner. But somewhere along the way, I fell in love with the atmosphere, the people, and the stories these events create. What I love most is that marathons don't discriminate.
As long as you're old enough to enter, everyone is welcome. It doesn't matter what shape you're in, where you've come from, what job you have, or how fast you'll finish. You simply make the decision to stand on the start line and give it a go.
Of course, there are the elite runners. The athletes who seem to float across the pavement and disappear before you've even managed to take a photograph. They are incredible. Their dedication, discipline and talent are undeniably impressive.
But for me, the real marathon starts after they've crossed the finish line.
The real magic begins around the three-and-a-half-hour mark.
The Spectator's Marathon
My day started at 4am. First coffee in hand, I walked to the station in the dark to begin the journey across Sydney Harbour Bridge. The trains leaving Central Station were packed with nervous excitement. Every carriage was full of people discussing strategy, debating how best to tackle Sydney's notorious hills, and adjusting race gear one final time.
As I looked around, I heard accents from every corner of the world. Flags, national colours and running club shirts transformed the train into a moving celebration of diversity. There was a genuine buzz in the air.
We arrived just as the sun was beginning to rise. Toilet queues were already growing. Thousands of people moved slowly together towards the start area. Once there, runners found their allocated start groups and colour zones.
As a spectator, my role was simple. Kiss my partner goodbye. Wish him luck. See you in four hours.
The loud music, the race announcements and the nervous energy created an electric atmosphere. Then suddenly, they were off.
And so was I.
Coffee Number Two
I headed back into the city, grabbed my second coffee and made my way towards The Rocks to catch my partner at the first viewing point.
As I emerged from the station, Sydney looked spectacular. Music was playing, volunteers were smiling and spectators were already lining the course. Standing underneath the Harbour Bridge with the Opera House in the distance and a naval ship docked nearby, Sydney was unapologetically showing off.Â
While I waited, the elite men's field came through. Then the women. Blink and you'd miss them.
What struck me, though, was the camaraderie among spectators. Complete strangers were taking photos for one another, swapping stories and cheering for runners they had never met.
Eventually my partner appeared. Only 11 kilometres down. Still smiling. Still looking strong. Photo secured. Mission accomplished. Time to move again.
An Olympic Feeling
Closer to Circular Quay, the crowds became larger.
Cafes were overflowing. A DJ was pumping music into the streets. Volunteers danced and cheered. For a moment, I had a flashback to images of Sydney during the 2000 Olympics.
The city felt alive. There were people everywhere and nobody seemed to be in a bad mood. At the Opera House finish line, the atmosphere was incredible. The elite men finished with astonishing times. Then came the first woman. Watching human beings perform at that level is genuinely awe-inspiring.
But my day was far from over.
Coffee number three was calling.
Where The Real Marathon Begins
By mid-morning the sun was getting warmer, the crowds were growing and I had found a spot near the final downhill section, around 500 metres from the finish line.
This is my favourite part. The volunteers had been standing on concrete for hours. They were still smiling. The medics were already busy treating cramps and dehydration. Cowbells rang constantly. The cheering never stopped. And runner after runner appeared. Some had trained for months. Some had spent thousands of dollars to be there. Some were seasoned veterans who had been running for decades. Some looked like they had only discovered running recently. But every single one of them had earned the right to be there.
I found myself becoming emotional. I cheered for people I didn't know. I encouraged runners suffering with cramps. I rang my cowbell with more enthusiasm than should probably be allowed.
And then my partner appeared. Just over three and a half hours. Still smiling. Still moving well. One final photo. Five hundred metres to go.
His job was done.
And so was mine.
The Reunion
The next challenge? Finding each other. Among 44,000 runners and hundreds of thousands of spectators, this felt like a military operation. Eventually we found one another. We hugged. And I'll admit it, I shed a tear. Not because of the finish time. Not because of the medal. But because I knew how much effort had gone into reaching that moment.
Not Everything Is Perfect
No event is flawless. If I had one piece of feedback, it would be crowd management after the finish. When you've been on your feet all day, the sun is beating down and all you want is somewhere to sit with a cold drink, navigating dense crowds becomes challenging.
Major events are incredibly complex operations, and there is always room for improvement. But that small frustration couldn't overshadow what had otherwise been an amazing day.
The Celebration Continues
Back at our accommodation near Oxford Street, we sat outside eating pizza and drinking Aperol's while watching later participants pass through. This might have been my favourite part of the day. The elite runners were long finished. The television cameras were mostly gone. But these runners kept coming. For many, they had been moving for six hours or more.
Yet they continued.
Against a backdrop of 80s music, drag queens, colourful activations and cheering crowds, they pushed themselves towards the finish line. And they looked magnificent. Later that evening we met friends in Surry Hills. The local pubs were packed with marathon finishers. Medals hung around necks. Cold beers filled hands. The streets were alive with celebration. Everyone had a story. Everyone had achieved something.
The 1%
As the sun set and we reflected on the day, I realised I had walked more than 16 kilometres myself. I had witnessed extraordinary athletic performances. I had seen determination, resilience, courage and joy. But most of all, I was reminded how impressive the people are who decide to do something difficult simply because they can.
Not because they are guaranteed success.
Not because it's easy.
Not because somebody told them to.
But because they ask a simple question:
"Why can't I?"
Those are the people who inspire me.
And that is why I love marathons. Even though I'm not the one running them.