For many runners in Singapore, the Standard Chartered Singapore Marathon is more than a race. It is a ritual, a yearly benchmark, a test of grit that arrives each December like a final exam no one can cram for. For me, the 2025 edition carried even more meaning, because it came layered with injury scares, illness, and the quiet hope that I might still cross the line on my own terms.
Six weeks before the marathon, I pulled my metatarsal tendon and the orthopaedic surgeon suspected a fracture. He eventually cleared me to run, but not without a warning: “Please don’t aim for a new personal best.”
Then influenza A arrived like an uninvited guest determined to overstay. Two full weeks of fever and coughing erased my peak training block. Even on race morning, I could still feel remnants of phlegm in my lungs. By any reasonable standard, the preparation was far from ideal.
Yet the marathon has a way of surprising you when you least expect it.
CLOSING IN: ANDERSON BRIDGE AND THE LAST PUSH
One of the most striking moments of my race happened near the very end. The photograph captures me running across Anderson Bridge, framed by its iconic white steel arches. This is the symbolic gateway into the finishing stretch, the point where the mind takes over as the body begins to protest.
By this stage my legs were screaming, but the bridge itself seemed to lift me forward. It is narrow, energetic, and filled with spectators whose encouragement carries you through those final, painful strides.
This year’s route helped as well. With the Benjamin Sheares Bridge and Keppel Viaduct removed, the marathon felt more forgiving. Anyone who has climbed those long arches knows how punishing they can be. Their absence allowed many runners, including me, to conserve precious energy for the last push.
And the weather was kinder than usual. The usual tropical glare stayed muted behind a layer of cloud. Without the punishing heat, each kilometre felt slightly more manageable.
THE LAST 500 METRES
There is another photo taken as I approached the finish chute. My arms rise instinctively in a victorious gesture. My face shows exhaustion, disbelief, and relief all at once.
This is the moment every marathoner dreams about. The crowd noise swells, the blue carpet comes into view, and for a few seconds the pain melts into something almost transcendent.
CROSSING THE LINE
A final photograph on the Padang grounds shows me holding that medal high. I am surrounded by other runners, volunteers, and the hum of post-race celebration. My vest is drenched, but my smile is unmistakably earned.
A PERSONAL BEST IN SPITE OF EVERYTHING
Against all expectations, I finished with a new personal best. It felt like rewriting the ending of a story that many assumed was already set in stone.
People often ask what it feels like to run 42 kilometres at the age of 42. I am still figuring that out. My legs have launched a formal protest. My feet have stopped speaking to me. My muscles are negotiating early retirement.
But beneath the soreness sits something steady and proud.
Right now, the clearest answer remains the same. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.