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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 Stuff
How many times was I going to say that again?
“Yes, I want to get out of the city and do trail running more often.”
How many times would I end up spending a Sunday doing the same thing again?
A loop around Dulwich or Brockley. Some sticky oats. Throw some Strava Kudos while I clean my coffee cup. Sit in front of my laptop like a puppet, prisoner of my own discipline and control, and re-create the same tasks from last week.
“Maybe I should change the website of Track&Record.”
“Maybe I should have gotten rid of the sofa and gotten an armchair instead.”
“Maybe I should think about where to eat next weekend when I’m seeing my friend.”
How many times would I excuse myself from plans, saying, “Yeah, sorry, I can’t go because I have to do some stuff”? What even is that “stuff”? Isn’t it just a strategy to break the day into bits that don’t really mean a thing? Three hours of the day are now gone, and I haven’t done much apart from writing down to-dos I will end up delaying—just spending time writing more tasks instead.
How many times was I going to say that again?
“Yes, I want to get out of the city and do trail running more often.”
Well, why don’t I just do it today? Why don’t I forget about “the stuff”?
Training has been a bit boring this week, so maybe I just need to switch the scene to find the joy of running again. I knew a week off my marathon training wouldn’t change my performance, but it could change my mind.
Got a train. Got the vest. Got a route. Got there.
And once I slid—one, two, three times—over the mud, the only task in my head was to stay there: mind my feet, not go too fast, embrace with my ears every bird singing, every leaf breaking, fight that nagging voice wondering if this would be enough for my weekly mileage, ignore the frustration of realizing yet again that I’m terrible at following a map.
I stopped a few times and contemplated the vast green forest, feeling helpless trying to capture those colors somewhere. Maybe sometimes I should just stay on the side, observing, recording with my eye and not with my phone. Guess it’s too late now that my gallery is full of pictures of trees, mud, and moss.
Came back reading Joan Didion on the train. Took a Lime Bike home and devoured some pasta. Posted some stuff on Instagram.
Did that trail run change my mind? Well, I was too tired to even process that.
Did I wake up the morning after thinking about one single thing? I did.
And what was that? Well, it was definitely not “the stuff.”
P.S – I really enjoyed listening to Sam Fender’s new album while running this morning. The first time I listened to it I was like “This sounds very similar to The War on Drugs” and then I found that Adam Granduciel has produced it.
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.
Alex Zono
Swung by yesterday to have a look atcollection and had a lovely chat with Alex himself. Lovely to see running projects that bring a fresh perspective into the sport, focusing more on stories and emotions over numbers and performance.
