I've run 14 marathons. Every single one of them alone.

Not alone in the sense that the roads were empty. Marathons are crowded, loud, and chaotic in ways that still surprise me after all these years. But alone in the sense that I never knew the person running next to me. (Once I spent three miles running sub-3 next to a famous running YouTuber who was blogging every step. That counts as alone.)

This past weekend, that changed.

A longtime friend and I signed up for a race I'd always wanted to run. It would be his first marathon. We trained separately since January — different cities, different schedules — flew in, met up, and toed the line together.

I was nervous. Not about the race. About me and him.

What if my training fell apart and I couldn't keep up? What if he had some weird running style that drove me crazy three hours in? What if I drove him crazy? I have this thing where my nose drips constantly during allergy season. Not ideal when you're shoulder to shoulder with someone for 26.2 miles. And then there's the other stuff. A sign a spectator held said it best: "Never trust a fart after mile 8." Enough said.

These are the variables you eliminate when you run alone. Solo is simpler. Cleaner. Nobody to manage but yourself.

But here's what happened instead.

We talked early when the legs were fresh and the mood was good. Later, we locked in and went quiet — the kind of quiet that doesn't need filling. There were miles surrounded by crowds and miles that felt like just the two of us on an empty road. When my stomach started turning, he was right there, keeping my mind off it. When the pace got hard toward the end, we pulled each other forward. No speeches. Just presence.

Three-plus hours. Side by side the entire way.

I've been thinking since then about the handful of people I'd call real friends. Not a long list. One guy I've known since I was ten. Another I met at my first internship over 25 years ago. A few others. What they all have in common isn't proximity or convenience. It's that we've been through things together. Real things. The kind of experiences you don't forget and can't fake.

This race is now one of those things.

There's something about shared suffering — and a marathon is absolutely that — that skips past small talk and goes somewhere deeper. You don't have to explain it afterward. You were both there.

I flew home with something harder to train for and impossible to buy: a friendship that got a little deeper on a Sunday morning in Cincinnati.

Happy running!

P.S. — If this made you think of someone you'd want to run a race with, forward them this email. Then hit reply and let me know. I'll send your future running partner a Peregrune sample kit to help them get started. No catch. Just a good excuse to make the call.