Pacers, Pastries, Paris
Miles, mates, and a mystery race—Peckham Pacers hit Paris with Saucony, fueled by carbs and chaos.
Souvenirs & Stories recorded on the run
Intentionally, no
A couple of months after moving to London, my colleague—then and now friend—Alice mentioned she was going to run ‘The Hackney Half’. I had no idea what that was, but it sounded like a good goal to have for the new year and a new way to connect with the city I was now living in, so I signed up.
Despite having participated in races when I was in school, during my early adulthood I was completely hesitant about the following things: signing up for races, running with people, and having Strava. Covered with a persona I’d built on the values of toughness, solitude, and emotional neglect, running was the ultimate form of expression for that character.
Moving to London, though, somehow pushed me to open myself to trying new things and breaking my self-imposed boundaries—and deciding to do a race for the first time in more than a decade was one. I knew that, deep inside, the real reason not to do races was fear. I was very good at going out every morning and challenging my own PBs on a regular day without needing a bib or spectators, but I was indeed scared of putting myself out there, on a start line.
I ran my first Hackney Half in 1h and 35mins. I recorded it using the Nike Run app (because it took a bit longer to break the Strava rule). That experience got me in, and I started signing up for more races, one after another.
This year, having had the chance to run Hackney again—since my friend Luis offered me his bib—I chose to say no.
With running becoming such a massive trend, and London offering all its potential for brands and communities to throw events every single day of the week, I’ve spent the last year trying to take part in as many things as possible and connect with more and more runners. These platforms and events have led me to meet amazing people, make new friends, and spread this project—but they have also increased that FOMO I spoke about in the last post.
I want my running practice to be intentional, not a form of following up—to run with intention is not just about working toward specific races and goals, but about turning every run into a sacrament, not a mere act to accumulate mileage, get some free merch, or appear in someone’s Instagram. To run with intention is to ask yourself ‘why’ before you leave the house. To run with intention is to sometimes saying ‘no’ to running.
Finisterre
Up in the north of Spain, there’s a small village named “Finisterre”. The name means ‘The end of earth’ (Finis – end, Terre – earth). I remember Mum telling us about that every time we would travel around there.
We were taught in school about America being discovered by Christopher Columbus—one of the narratives that perfectly exemplifies white supremacy in history and in culture. As I’m about to cross the Atlantic on my way to Boston, and Amanda messaged me saying “will be supporting you from across the pond”, this came to my head.
I’ve been to America three times already, and this will be my third marathon, but crossing the Atlantic this time feels more than ever like a step into the unknown—a discovery I’ve been picturing in my head over the last six months, that will most likely be something else I don’t yet know.
Although I’ve watched videos of people doing the marathon and documenting it, I’ve tried not to get too familiar with the course on purpose—to instead surrender to it and let it surprise me on the big day.
Discovery has always been one of the values and motivations that have guided my running practice; we run in places, and those places are traces of history, natural catastrophes, and human victories. Those places are layers of soil and time. Those places may already exist, but they only become tangible to our consciousness when we run through and past them. Some have the vanity to conquer them and consider them their own—setting flags and drawing borders—but others, we are just constantly seeking. And in that constant seeking, the horizon continuously expands. In that constant seeking, there is no Finisterre, there is no finish line.
The Hills and the Heel
I left Hilly Fields with a smile, top off, dripping sweat, glowing confidence. That was the best hill session I’ve had since I started doing them for this block. The session is simple – 3km easy to get there, followed by 8x repeats on a 300m hill with a gnarly bend, floating on the way down, and getting back at (supposedly) an easy pace.
On the last kilometer, I started feeling my right calf tighten, like my Achilles had turned into burning iron; I slowed down a bit and continued to get home. After 3 months of a long block with no injuries or niggles at all, I expected this to happen. I wasn’t too worried—I’ve been here before, and I knew this wasn’t particularly serious—but the line between it being a niggle and turning into something else was too fine, and with three weeks left before the race, I couldn’t risk it all just to satisfy my impulse to run.
I may have needed this niggle to pause and slow down. I may have needed this as the arrow that hit Achilles, making him die. Almost invincible, when Achilles was a child, his mum dipped him in the river Styx (one of the Greeks' underworld rivers) to make him immortal, but as she held him by the heel, that would remain as his only vulnerable part—the only one that could lead to his death. It was Paris, guided by Apollo, who ended up taking down the strongest hero of the war.
It just takes a shot, a hill, an extra rep, an oversight to kill the confidence—to end it all.Before it does, pause and look back—strength can become your weakness, but caring for your vulnerabilities can make you real tough.
On Feet — Offline
I’ve barely rested since I got back to Boston; both my body and mind have gotten used to this relentless rhythm that favors impulse and disinhibition—saying yes to every single plan, desperate to fill my time doing things or just seeing people, vicious with FOMO and addicted to being constantly online, to having a say, to being everywhere.
It has reached a point where I’m overwhelmed. I am tired of running, I am tired of the performance, I am tired of proving myself to myself.
With the clouds taking over after a week of sunshine bliss, and having spent the weekend socialising, drinking more than I’m used to, and going to bed late, I needed this last day of the bank holiday fully for myself. I had to get out of the room where I lock myself in front of the screen, writing for hours and hours and wasting time in between.
Out in Kent, behind mansions and golf courses where middle-aged men carry bags full of heavy clubs, there is an entangled network of small trails and paths. They are like ant tunnels under the soil—narrow, hidden amongst trees, with small wooden gates and different types of locks.
The bank holiday has kept the rest of the mortals in bed, I guess. I cross fields of quiet orchards and dark woodland passages where the leaves canopy the sky in a vivid green cloud. The breeze keeps me cool all the way. There are no beeps or buzzes, just birds singing, the tap-tap of my steps on the ground, the silence of the air, the stillness of the present moment.
The time I spent on my feet is the time I spent offline—an ode to quietness, a praise of presence.
This collection honors those runs where grind and strain synchronize with ease and serenity— a tribute to the miles on the road, track, or trails, where peace is found through the battle
The first printed volume of Track&Record unpacks the history and myth of the city of Rome through the lens of the author’s preparation and participation in the race. Each zine comes with a sticker pack and it’s been labeled by hand. Designed and printed in London.
The Setlist
Right after coming back from Spain, having spent the Christmas break there, I booked flights to go back for my dad’s 60th weekend, as my mum was planning to host a surprise party for him on Saturday.
I landed on Thursday night, and on Friday, taking advantage of the time difference with London, I managed to wake up a bit later and go for a fun 10K around Madrid to try my new and first pair of Cliftons, running past some of my favorite places where memories arose as I passed by.
I decided to do my long run on Saturday so I could enjoy my dad’s party without having to think about running the day after. From the moment I woke up, I wasn’t feeling it. I didn’t think about it too much, but at the same time, I didn’t have any excitement to go out and run 24K, as much as I love running at home.
Got a couple of gels, put some bad gym music on, and left the house. It was icy cold, but the sky was beautifully clear. The route I took was the same as last time, and although my legs felt strong, my mind just wasn’t there. I had quitting thoughts I tried to ignore, but I couldn’t stop thinking, ‘Why am I doing this?’
I stopped briefly at km 13, caught my breath, tried to chill, and said to myself, ‘Calm down,’ then kept going. As I progressed, the little demons went away, but by the end of the run, I felt not just tired, but angry and annoyed at my performance and the lack of control over my head… although I didn’t punish myself for too long—I luckily don’t do that anymore.
Later in the evening, during Dad’s party, part of the surprise was that the former members of his rock band brought all their gear so they could play all night long. As in every gig, big or small, there was a written setlist stuck on the floor. Over the course of the evening, I realized they weren’t following it at all—some songs that were supposed to be at the end were played earlier, and vice versa.
That list reminded me of the written splits for a race, and I thought… ‘Well, sometimes you end up blowing the engine right at the end, or those first miles don’t go as slow as you wanted them to.’ And despite having a setlist, a pace plan, sometimes things go off course. What’s most valuable is not your ability to control, but your skill to jam.
Breaking Barriers
As the journey to Boston continues, today, more than ever, we honor the women who opened the doors for future generations to run the course.
After 70 years, in 1966, Bobbi Gibb became the first woman to run the iconic race, finishing in 3 hours and 21 minutes. She had to do it unregistered after the race director claimed that "women were not psychologically ready to run that distance."
A year later, Kathrine Switzer became the first woman to run the race officially, having to battle the ego of a straight white man named Jock Semple, who assaulted her several times along the course.
In 1971, Nina Kuscsik was officially recognized as the first female winner, becoming a crucial figure in enabling women to participate in other marathons.
Today, we celebrate those who, with guts and bravery, stood up for the future of women in the sport—those who broke not just records but the barriers of inequality. Those who fought through performance, showing the world that being a woman means strength, courage, and determination. Those who defied outdated notions of femininity.
Because when women race, we don’t do it against each other, but against something bigger. With each relay, we pass the baton to future generations. With each finish line, we break a wall.
Extended article coming soon in the next printed zine.
In the meantime, pace in peace ✌🏻
Racing against racism
We’ve witnessed many moments at the Paris Olympics this year that will remain iconic in the future. However, it’s sometimes good to travel to the past to remember that some victories have taken longer than four years to achieve.
Mexico City Olympics, October 16, 1968: American athletes John Carlos and Tommie Smith take gold and bronze medals in the men’s 200m track final. As they stand on the podium to receive their medals, they bow their heads and raise their fists, each covered by a black glove, while the National Anthem plays.
But there is even richer symbolism in this moment in history: they removed their shoes and wore black socks to represent poverty, and their jackets were unzipped to show solidarity with blue-collar workers.
Even the Australian Peter Norman, who came in second, was also wearing the Olympic Project for Human Rights badge. Yet, the crowd booed the athletes as they came down from the podium.
The race for inclusion is still ongoing, and despite the promise of unity the Olympic Games may represent, inclusion and equality start at home. It can be through protesting or raising your voice, but symbols and stories also have the power to do so.
