This is evidenced by the proliferation of marathons in the country. There are city marathons, bridge marathons, village marathons, marathons to honour chiefs and all sorts of interesting marathons crafted solely to satiate the race-hungry participants. One thing I like about marathons is that everyone can participate. All you really need is the participation fee, legs and a big heart. Of course, the fee ensures you’re financially limping before you even start physically limping. The legs are non-negotiable — though some runners insist theirs are ‘optional’ after 15 kilometres. And the big heart? That’s less about cardiovascular endurance and more about forgiving yourself for signing up in the first place.
A marathon, we’re told, is about grit, endurance, and the noble pursuit of finishing a long, arduous route. But let’s be honest: it’s also the world’s longest fashion show on asphalt. Participants — or should we just call them ‘marathoners’ — spend weeks curating outfits that scream both ‘athlete’ and ‘Instagram influencer.’ Neon shoes brighter than traffic lights, socks that look like superhero gear and headbands that could double as crown jewels. The race itself? Secondary. The real competition is who can look the most effortlessly sweaty while still camera-ready. Water stations become impromptu photo booths, and finish lines resemble red carpets, complete with medal selfies. By the last kilometre, the glam fades into grimaces, but don’t worry — filters exist. Marathons aren’t just about running; they’re about proving that endurance and eyeliner can, in fact, coexist.
