I’ve run Gerar several times (and I’ve even started a little “collection” of medals), but I still like talking about it as if it were my first. Because honestly, this format manages something rare: it pulls you out of your personal movie and drops you into a “we” that isn’t just printed on the poster.
1) The rule that changes everything
At Gerar, the idea of a “team” isn’t poetry. It’s a rule: there are three of you, and you have to stay together, within a short distance, the whole way. The motto “We run as one” isn’t there to look good—it’s there to warn you: there’s no “see you at the finish” option here.
And the best part is that this rule wrecks your usual reflexes. You can’t play the hero for two minutes, because someone will immediately bring you back down to earth. You also can’t pretend you’re fine when you’re not, because you can see it instantly in the “elastic band” between you. If one of you snaps, the whole thing snaps.
I also have my own “traditional” team that’s been going for years: Inglourious Basterds, with Gabi and Bogdan. The name is more dangerous than we are, but that’s the joke. One year we put it simply: the pace was “gossip pace,” because all three of us were recovering and we weren’t in the mood for heroics.
2) The pace isn’t yours. And that’s a lesson, not a punishment
This is the subtle difference from point 1: at Gerar you don’t just stay close—you learn to negotiate your ego. The pace isn’t “what I can do today,” it’s “what we can do without paying interest later.”
In 2025 I made the classic mistake: sleep the length of a coffee break and a stupid amount of trust in the start-line euphoria. The first minutes went fine, then I slipped into “I’m not fainting, but I hate this” mode, with my breathing wrecked. The good moment wasn’t feeling bad—it was getting my head back on and saying we should ease off. It doesn’t look spectacular on Strava, but it saves the race.
3) It’s a race, but it’s also a running “therapy session”
There are races where you stay quiet and count the kilometers like days until payday. At Gerar I often get the opposite: the kilometers pass without me noticing, because the run becomes the perfect excuse to see people and actually talk.
In 2023 we chatted almost non-stop, like we were at a long coffee… except the “coffee” was 21 km. And that’s one of the rare things about it: it lets you be both athlete and human. You can push if you feel like it, but you can also enjoy the race like a meet-up with your community, without feeling like you’re “losing” anything.
4) You can show up with no goal and it still feels complete
This is one of the coolest things about this format: you don’t need a target for the day to make sense. Normally, at a race without a goal you either get bored or you get annoyed that “you have no reason to be there.” At Gerar, if you don’t have a target, you find something else: the vibe, the stories, the team rhythm, the fact that you don’t have to prove anything.
And it’s a good lesson, especially at the start of the year: sometimes the healthiest goal is to leave with enthusiasm, not with an Excel sheet in your head.
5) The weather is just scenery. Each edition is a different movie
I’ve caught “dream” snowfall at Gerar (the kind that makes everything prettier, including the suffering, if it comes to that). I’ve also caught editions with almost spring-like temperatures, where you look at the name and wonder if it’s a joke: “Gerar”… and you’re sweating like it’s April.
And the great part is that, no matter what it’s like outside, the race still grabs you exactly the way it should. Cold, heat, snow, no snow… that’s background. The real movie is how you manage each other: when it starts to hurt, when it’s too comfortable and you get carried away, when one of you is having a tougher day.
6) The organization is too good to be the main story
At some races, half your memories are about queues, intersections, nerves, “where’s the route?” At Gerar, the organization is so solid you end up with nothing to complain about. There are volunteers where they need to be, people directing you, encouragement, photographers, atmosphere. You run and mind your business.
And it matters a lot that it all happens at Politehnica. It’s that feeling that you’re being welcomed into an event, not just thrown onto a course and that’s it. Sure, in 2020 the kit pickup annoyed me, but that’s the kind of complaint you only have when everything else runs like clockwork.
7) The medal isn’t a medal. It’s a multi-year project
At Gerar, the medal isn’t that object you toss into a drawer and call it done. In 2020 I found out that that year’s medal, together with the ones from the previous two years, could be assembled into a pyramid, complete with a stand. I laughed, but I loved it: instead of “just another one,” it was a piece of a puzzle.
In 2024, again: the medal was the second in a series of 10 that will form one big snowflake. And that’s exactly the trick: it pulls you into the game without cheap plastic motivation. You simply want to collect them all—like a serious kid with a very unserious collection.
8) Gerar is also about the people who remain landmarks
In 2024 there was also that moment when the race stops being just a race. Nea Ilie Roșu was the kind of person who moved through our community like a locomotive: lots of marathons, the Romanian flag, and that simple encouragement that hit you right when you started negotiating with yourself. People like that stay with you not because of results, but because of presence.
And there’s something else: at Gerar you also see those “role models” who, without saying anything, give you that clean thought: “when I grow up, that’s how I want to be.” It’s not a speech, not cardboard inspiration. It’s just reality, placed next to you at the finish.
9) It’s a start-of-year tradition, not just a kickoff
For me, Gerar is the kind of race that gets your season back on track. It feels like a tradition: you see your people, you start the year, you remember what race-day atmosphere is like, and you put your head back in the right place.
And I like that it’s Bucharest, “home” in its own way: the campus, the simple logistics, the people who already know what Gerar is and how it’s lived. It’s not just a start. It’s a ritual.
10) It’s not for everyone. That’s exactly why it stays authentic
The three-person team format isn’t “cute.” It’s a filter. If you came only for “me, my time, my watch,” this rule will drive you crazy. If you come for the idea of a team, the race becomes one of the best of the year.
And I think that’s the essence: at Gerar, the real criterion isn’t performance—it’s the person. Someone fun to be around, who can handle 21 km, and who understands that “we run as one” means more than a result. It’s about understanding, support, and friendship.
That’s why, after so many editions—more precisely 7 (2016, 2018, 2019, 2020, 2023, 2024, and 2025)—I can say it simply: Gerar isn’t the kind of race you “tick off.” It’s the kind of race you come back to. And I can’t wait to take part on January 31, 2026.
Bonus, so no one thinks Gerar means only a 21 km team race: the event has other distances too—for normal people, for the brave, for “today I want to see what it’s like,” for kids, for anyone. There’s a 10 km race and a 3 km race, so it’s not the kind of event you can only enter if you have a marathon plan and three friends bundled together.
And there’s one more rare detail I really appreciate: the start time, 17:00. You don’t wake up at 4 a.m., you don’t head out in the dead of night, you don’t chew through your nerves on the road. You can come calmly the same day, run, get your race fix, and if you want, you can even be back home that same evening—like a responsible adult (or at least someone trying).
And yes, it’s worth saying: Gerar is organized by the Faculty of Energy Engineering and Yolo Events, and behind it you can feel the work of a team that knows how to do things properly. With support from SportGuru and other partners.
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