I don’t run to test my limits. I run because this is my life. For what I feel out there, for people, for every story.
When I look back at this year and see 4 half marathons, 2 marathons, two 100 km runs, and 3 Ironman races, I realize that, without even setting out to, I lived in one year what others run in a lifetime.
It was a full year. Maybe even fuller than I expected. The projects I worked on, the collaborations, everything I built for myself and for others… and, on top of it all, the ultra-endurance races that tore me apart and charged me up at the same time. It was a lot. But it was good.
I know I’ve said this before, but I can’t not say it again: I feel like a privileged person. Not in some pompous way—just simply, like someone looking at his life and seeing more of the glass half full. I have people next to me who love me, not just “support” me. And that keeps my feet on the ground every day. And what I do… I like it, it fuels me, it feeds me. It’s not just a job. And sport… sport is that special piece between me and me, even if I share every feeling with you.
This year, all of that was at maximum. That’s why I’m saying it was a full year. And in all this beautiful chaos, there are a few points that rise above the rest. Not the hardest, not the most spectacular, but the ones that truly moved me.
Carmen’s first marathon was, for me, one of the strongest moments of the year. I lived it almost the way I lived my first marathon—except this time the emotion wasn’t in my legs, it was in hers. There were tears in the last kilometers, just like years ago when I went through it for the first time. And it’s strange how quickly a “first marathon” reminds you what running really means: not the time, not the result, but the person who has the courage to carry it all to the end.
For her it wasn’t easy at all. The blisters showed up early, the wind tore at everything in its path, and the heat in the gorge drained us of energy. I knew her sensitivities, I knew how hard she’d worked and how afraid she’d been before the race, but out there on the course she proved something you can’t train: pure will. She didn’t complain, didn’t play the victim, didn’t dramatize anything. She pulled herself along kilometer by kilometer, without giving in. And that impressed me more than any time ever could.
And the finish… it was like it belonged in a different movie. People on the sidelines were shouting her name, strangers were cheering her on like a champion, and I was running beside her with the same tears I had at my first marathon. And that’s when I felt that some races aren’t run to see how strong you are. You run them to see how strong the person next to you is. It was one of the most personal and most beautiful experiences I’ve ever had.
And if Garda was the moment that touched me personally, the 3h45 project was the moment when I felt most strongly what community means.
One of the coolest things I’ve ever done with this page was the 12-week project for the Bucharest Marathon. I don’t know if it looked that way from the outside, but for me it was a total commitment: two posts a week, plans, advice, explanations, stories—everything written with passion, with care, and with responsibility. Not just as a runner, but as someone who knew there were people there who really followed his lead. I started the 3h45 project on an ordinary day, when the idea hit me out of nowhere, but along the way I felt it becoming something much bigger than I’d intended—a promise I wasn’t allowed to miss.
What came back from people overwhelmed me. Messages, comments, people writing that they run with my posts in their heads, that it helps them not to stop, that they learn, that they find courage. And even now, two months after the marathon, I’m still getting thank-you messages. People still write to me that they set personal bests, that they learned nutrition, that they understood how to run a long run, that they found their rhythm. It’s incredible. And I’m not exaggerating at all when I say those reactions meant just as much (if not more) than the running itself. Because in 12 weeks I felt, again, that I could give something back to the community that raised me for years.
And marathon day closed the circle. I went into the race loaded with emotion, with post-COVID clinging to my breathing and with the fear that I wouldn’t be able to hold the pace, but I had one rule: if I said I’d carry the 3:45 flag, I’d carry it. And I did. Hard, but clean. I crossed the finish holding hands with Vasile and Deea (the other two pacers), exhausted and happy, and in that moment I felt the whole project had reached its goal. It wasn’t about time, it wasn’t about perfect pacing, it was about community, about people’s energy, and about the fact that we finished exactly what we promised. And I think that remains one of my biggest achievements this year—maybe even the biggest.
And because this year seemed to have a gift for bringing emotion from every direction, the race that hit me the hardest arrived too. Emotionally.
Puglia 100k was the race that settled inside me differently than all the others. Not because it was easy—it wasn’t, at all. There was humidity, climbs that pull your soul out, and moments when you feel like chewing the air from thirst. But at the same time, it was the race where I felt most intensely the human in me and the human in others. That hundred didn’t go perfectly, but it went exactly the way it needed to: alive, honest, loaded with everything you can feel on a 100 km journey—joy, quiet, exhaustion, tears, laughter, singing, swearing, and so many moments where I told myself I was privileged to be able to live something like this.
But the biggest thing wasn’t the course, or the pace, or flawless nutrition. It was the community. It was that crazy idea of “adopt a kilometer,” which started as a game and turned into the most emotional support I’ve ever received in a race. People sent me messages for kilometer 1, kilometer 12, 34, 69, 80… and I listened to them out there on the road, when I was shattered, when I hurt, when I couldn’t find the fountain and I was so thirsty I felt like drinking water out of the asphalt. Those messages hit me in the chest like a wave and lifted me in a way I can’t put into words. I think it’s the first hundred of my life where I didn’t run alone for even a second. Even if I was alone on the roads between the olive trees, in my phone there were 21,000 of us.
And then there were friends. Nae, with whom I started the first loop. Delia, Gheo, and Maria, who came by train and appeared exactly at the kilometer dedicated to them. Carmen and Andra, who waited for me in the square at the finish, with chills and energy. It was a hundred where I felt supported from every direction—in messages, in calls, in friends’ shouts, in the quiet of southern Italy, and on that narrow road that felt like it belonged to another world. I closed the hundred in 11 hours and 11 minutes, but the time doesn’t matter. Something else stays: that even when you run with yourself… you’re actually running with everyone who’s given you a good thought. And for me, that was the greatest gift of the year.
But maybe the most beautiful thing this year didn’t come from my races, but from a surprise my mother gave me.
Among all my races and craziness, one of the biggest joys of the year came from Ica, my mother. At 73, this woman reinvented the idea of discipline. She runs, she does challenges, she wakes up at 5 a.m. to run for the Fitness Tribe challenge, she gets her daily steps without missing a day, and if she has to, she’ll go out at midnight so she doesn’t break her promise. She ran 5 km in Sfântu Gheorghe, took 2nd place in her age category, and honestly, she was happier than all of us put together.
This year she proved, once again, that it’s not age that stops you—it’s excuses. That you can start anytime. That you can carry a challenge to the end even if you have a train at 1 a.m., luggage, emotions, and all the chaos in the world. Today she’s on day 38 of her road to 100 days of running at 6 a.m. (5 days a week)—and if you ask me, that’s one of the strongest achievements of this whole year.
And I’m proud of her in a way that’s hard to put into words. Because our big runs tell a story, but her running speaks of character.
And yet, this year wasn’t only about the big moments. It was also about all the small and big races that completed the picture.
Gerar opened the year with the Inglourious Basterds team, my trio every winter—me, Gabi, and Bogdan. It was cold, a bit of recklessness at the start, a pace too fast (as usual), breathing thrown out into the fields, and a final sprint where Bogdan almost detached himself from the rest of humanity. But this race has its charm: you run as three, you argue in your head, you laugh out loud, you save each other, and at the end you forget how hard it was. That’s Gerar for me—the perfect beginning, full of chaos, friendship, and another team story.
In February I escaped to Puglia for my traditional hundred, but this year it had a special charm: my mother came with me to Italy for the first time. It was a long run through olive groves, stone walls, and white villages, with Pluto (the drone) following me from behind, two dogs appearing out of nowhere, and an Antonio offering me Cola and good jokes in the middle of the route. It was one of the most beautiful solo runs of the year—quiet, full of scenery, and with that feeling of freedom that only southern Italy gives you.
Legal Half Marathon was that kind of race with a great vibe, jokes from the sidelines, and cool people you only meet when you’re running at the back. I ran with Carmen at a training pace and we enjoyed every kilometer, exactly what we needed two weeks before Garda. It was more about stories, good energy, and one more confirmation that our road to the marathon was heading in the right direction.
Then, Bucharest Half Marathon was the race where I ran alone—just me with myself—with that hunger for speed I hadn’t felt in a long time. It was pure energy from people, high-fives on Victoriei, jokes with friends, and a pace executed by the book, all the way to a 1:42 finish that broke me and filled me up at the same time. It’s the kind of race that reminds you why you love running when everything goes perfectly.
And then came… DOUBLE GLORY — Hamburg + Xman, two Ironmans in six days.
If I had to label that week, it would be “organized madness with your soul out in the open.” Hamburg was exactly what an Ironman should be: hard, spectacular, full of people, with moments that break you and fix you at the same time. Everything went beautifully, from the swim to the finish, with that energy that makes you feel alive. And, most of all, with Carmen on the sidelines, with her cowbell, with shouts from a hundred meters away, with that smile you see once and it carries you through entire races. Hamburg was a complete story.
And then… Xman Oradea. There it wasn’t a story anymore—it was life, lived raw, live. Heat that melted me, thoughts of quitting, people who lifted me from nothing, an Alex who gave me confidence, a Victor who pulled me along, kids screaming, volunteers cooling me like a Formula 1 pit crew, people in villages with garden hoses, oranges, laughter, and shouts every time I passed… and that moment when my legs started pedaling on their own and I cried on the bike, unable to hide anything anymore. There I wasn’t “the athlete” anymore—I was the human pushed to the edge.
And still, I finished it. With Carmen beside me on every lap, like a good shadow, with that run that ripped me apart and kept me alive at the same time, with the red-carpet finish, hand in hand, after a day that brought me to my knees and lifted me again. And yes, the race ended, but the story didn’t—a miserable bacterium sent me straight to the hospital afterwards, with a fever over 40, heat shock, ambulances, IVs, sleepless nights, and real fear. But even there I understood something: it wasn’t that hard because I couldn’t—it was that hard because I was already sick.
And, strangely maybe, that freed me. Because in the end, this double wasn’t about “how tough you are,” but about people, about support, about vulnerability, about how someone pulls you up from a corner of the course when you can’t see any way out. Hamburg gave me joy, Xman gave me the truth. Together they were the most beautiful and the hardest thing I did this year.
Carpathia Trails was that race where I found myself climbing without poles, hunched under the steep grades and arguing with my shoes the entire route. Hot outside, head down, zero energy, and Mafi and Fate (yes, I named the shoes) were commenting at every step. It was suffering, jokes, dust, obsessive hydration, and more hiking than running, but also great people, a good vibe, and impeccable organization. It’s not my main “movie,” but I felt like I was in a mountain comedy where the only thing that keeps you from dropping is self-irony.
SEPTEMBER GLORY — Transfier + Ironman Emilia Romagna
September came with two completely different stories, but just as intense. Transfier was that race where I felt like I was in a horror-comedy film with bears, motorcyclist guardian angels, and descents that made my organs shake—not my handlebars. I laughed, I swore, I talked to myself, to my shoes, to the bear, to nature, to everyone—and I cried on the steps, under Prometeu, where the whole year tightened in my throat. It was brutal, beautiful, and profoundly human.
And then, without a mental break, Emilia Romagna arrived. An Ironman perfect in organization and brutal in how it felt. A superb swim, a fast bike, and a run that turned into the strangest duel between ambition and pain. And yet, the key moment wasn’t on the course, but at kilometer 32, when I wanted to quit and Carmen simply said: “Come on.” One word. A total reset. The rest was stubbornness, small steps, wet clothes, pain that bent me like a question mark, and a finish lived in her arms.
Transfier gave me adrenaline, fear, and that release only hard races can give you. Emilia gave me the lesson. Together they were “September Glory”: two races that broke me, rebuilt me, and showed me that strength doesn’t come only from muscles, but especially from the people who run beside you even when you can’t anymore.
But none of the races this year would have meant anything without my people.
This year I realized even more clearly that I don’t run alone, no matter how long the road is. Carmen was with me in almost every competition—sometimes on the sidelines with the cowbell, other times in the race, other times in a simple “come on” said exactly in the second my soul was splitting. She was there with me in Hamburg, at Xman, at Garda, at Legal Half, in Puglia, at Transfier, in Emilia Romagna… and, without turning it into poetry, her presence kept more races standing than she imagines. There are moments when you don’t need anything else but your person looking at you and telling you that you can.
Andra, my girl, my soul… she has a special talent for showing up exactly when it matters. At Bucharest Half, at the finish, she changed my state in a single second. In other races, just knowing she was watching me or waiting for me somewhere gave me a kind of energy you can’t invent. It’s that warm calm—child-adult—that you feel behind you like a good pillow.
Then there are my friends. Paul, with whom I’ve shared so many kilometers and stories I can’t even count them anymore. The rare kind of friendship where you don’t explain yourself much—you know the person understands you and supports you even when he isn’t there physically. He’s my constant in running. Nae, one of the people I shared many runs with this year and with whom I understand each other without too many explanations. Oana, with her calm energy and the way she understands running as a lifestyle, not a competition. Alex, with his front-line motivation. Ana and Florin, good people, with their stories, with the way they live sport. Victor, Delia, Gheo and others—the ones who show up out of nowhere, but exactly at the right moment, whether it’s an improvised aid point, a “you’ve got this,” a call, or a smile.
And there are also those I don’t know personally, but I feel them in messages and reactions. People who run with me without being next to me, people who write to me two months after a Bucharest Marathon post, people who adopted kilometers for me in Puglia, people who send me videos, encouragement, lines that hit me straight in the heart. Sometimes a two-line message mattered more than a thousand calories of gels.
This year I understood something I can’t explain too poetically: running makes you meet good people. And good people keep you alive—they lift you, they fix you, and sometimes they completely change your race. Without them, this year wouldn’t have been half as full.
I had people and communities that made running even more enjoyable. With Hoka, things came together nicely—I had good shoes on my feet, tested them in big races, and enjoyed discovering models that truly fit me. No noise, no pretenses—just running.
With SportGuru and Yolo Events, it might have been the nicest surprise. I found open, warm, professional people I clicked with from the start. They supported me in everything I did this year, they let me be myself—with my long texts, my stories, my style. They didn’t rush me, limit me, or ask for anything “their way.” They trusted me and the way I tell running stories—and that, for me, is worth a lot.
For me, all of this wasn’t “collaborations,” but pieces of my year that made it rounder, warmer, and more motivating. People and communities I’m genuinely glad I had beside me.
I’m writing these lines in my second week of a break—a break my body truly needed. Don’t imagine something romantic, like “I sleep 16 hours a day and recover in zen.” The reality is I sleep 4 hours, work more than before, and try to figure out whether the break is physical or psychological. But whatever it is, I do it every year and I know it helps.
For me, this article isn’t just an end-of-year wrap-up. It’s also a kind of bridge to what’s next. A closing and a beginning at the same time. Next week I’m back to training and back in my movie, with the first two big goals: Gerar— the official season opener, in January—and Malaga 100 km, in February, the run I’d planned since last year and have been dreaming about for 2–3 years.
It was a long and beautiful year. Hard, but good. Full, but grounded. That kind of mix that leaves you with tiredness in your legs and calm in your soul. And if I’ve learned anything lately, it’s that running isn’t about limits, but about how you live your life. About the people you share the roads with, about what you feel out there, about the stories that stay.
And if all of this is part of my running, then I’m glad I still have a lot to live. And a lot to run.
#running #runningromania #marathon #halfmarathon #ultrarunning #100km #triathlon #ironman #runningstories #community #sport
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