Frankfurt Marathon

Honestly, long live the summer of 2024 — the summer I discovered all the beauty of working remotely.

The things that catch up with you later… well, you think about those later. Or better yet, you don’t.

Anyway, let’s go back to Camino de Santiago — 380 kilometers walked from Portugal to Spain in a pair of Hoka shoes that I later sold online, saying goodbye to the best walk of my life and quitting my job shortly after.

I started working remotely, and my family immediately knew this probably wouldn’t end peacefully. “What’s she going to come up with next?” The problem is, nothing really comes to my mind on purpose. Things just happen. I signed up for a half marathon in Budapest as an introduction to the Frankfurt Marathon. I’ll talk more about Budapest later, but it was a trip worth mentioning, especially because one of my favorite things in life is watching my mom experience a city for the first time with me — while I experience it with her.

My brother moving to Frankfurt a year earlier was already a BEAUTIFUL enough reason for my first marathon to happen there. And once again, running somehow connected family, travel, my then carefree remote-work life, and gave me another version of the most beautiful day of the week.

Fast forward — Sunday arrives. Marathon day. The feeling? Like leaving for the seaside at 5 a.m. for a one-day trip to Makarska. I was awake before I even woke up.

But things were not ideal. And every woman will understand when I say: it could happen any other day… just not on the first day of your period. I barely ever take painkillers, but of course this had to hit me at full force that morning.

My brother, the rational one in the family unlike me, goes: “Jovana, take it easy. Stop if it hurts. It’s raining too…” But honestly, who ever learned anything by protecting themselves too much?

A friend of mine, Igor from Banja Luka, joined me for the race — and later gave me one of the biggest life lessons without barely saying a word.

Normally, I never listen to music while running. Depending on where I am, I love hearing footsteps, birds, my heartbeat, even cars passing by. I don’t know if it has something to do with my soul, meditation or whatever, but I think it’s about focusing on one frequency only. Try it sometime. It’s beautiful.

But for the first time, I doubted whether I’d be able to ignore the cramps once the Nimulid stopped working, so I made an emergency playlist instead: Vesna Zmijanac, Ana Bekuta, Dara Bubamara, Sanja Đorđević, Viki Miljković — absolute Balkan women power royalty. I was convinced that if THAT couldn’t lift me out of cramps, then not even 100 painkillers could.

And honestly, it worked brilliantly until kilometer 32. I still remember crossing the Main River somewhere around kilometer 13 and suddenly seeing Frankfurt’s skyline in full view. That’s when I finally understood why people call it the European Manhattan. A surprisingly peaceful part of the course — perfect for one honest wish for the following year. :)

If you’ve ever talked to runners, you’ve probably heard the word pace repeated a hundred times. Pace is simply how many minutes it takes you to run one kilometer. But I already said we’re not talking about mathematics here. Nobody’s grading anyone. I live the same way I run — and if you already run, or want to start, find a pace where you can still enjoy yourself.

A pace slow enough not to forget the streets once it’s over. To high-five kids cheering for strangers. To wave at a grandmother who brought juice outside for runners. To flirt a little with a volunteer who hands you another German painkiller after previously doubting you could continue. Honestly, now that I think about it, God knows what I actually swallowed that day.

At kilometer 32, I told Igor I needed a bathroom. I stopped after 32 kilometers of genuinely enjoying myself, surrounded by German spectators and a playlist that had apparently had enough of me too. Like every serious marathon runner, I brought absolutely nothing with me except headphones, a phone, and blind optimism.

Inside the tiny portable toilet I suddenly started feeling faint and thought: “Fuck… am I claustrophobic now too?” I walked out and searched for the first open café I could find. Igor kept going, fully BELIEVING I’d catch up eventually. And of course — Balkan people somehow manage to keep cafés open in Frankfurt on a Sunday. They didn’t know my name, but I overheard someone say: “She’s not doing well.”

I splashed water on my face once. Then twice. Then three times. And somehow every time I looked in the mirror, I looked worse. I’m slightly jealous of women whose hair still looks perfect after running marathons. Honestly, quantum physics makes more sense to me.

My lower stomach was screaming for me to curl up somewhere and disappear for an hour. I walked outside, Igor was waiting for me, while I was secretly looking for a suitable tree to hide behind and throw up.

At one point, a marathon official approached me and asked if I wanted an ambulance to take me to the finish. Sometimes one single question is enough to launch an inner rocket. Because at that exact moment, I told the official to step aside and simply give me something stronger for stomach cramps instead.

That was also the moment Igor gave up the idea of running his first marathon nonstop — even though he absolutely could have. Instead, he stayed with me until I at least got some color back in my face. And honestly, what matters more in life than the people we have around us? Friends, family, partners? It truly doesn’t matter where you are — only who you’re with.

What’s the point of medals at the end if somewhere along the way we lose people… or worse, lose ourselves?

Twenty minutes, two or three rounds of throwing up, trying to calm myself down, three failed attempts to drink water without throwing it back up, trying not to freeze… and then we continued. Step by step.

Honestly, German medicine works fast. A few more waves of cramps because… first day problems. Two or three accidental posing moments for official marathon photographers where not even my own mother would probably recognize me anymore. And suddenly, we’re entering the final kilometer.

I turn my MERAK playlist back on Spotify — Haris Džinović starts singing Šta će meni više od toga — and we run into the only indoor marathon finish in Europe feeling like the greatest winners of the day. Because life really is just a couple more steps… and so on.

I see my brother and his friend at the finish line. I hear my name. A couple tears. And my only thought is: “Jovana, that burek from the Albanian bakery is about to taste unbelievable.”