It starts innocently enough. The sun peeks over the horizon, and a small gathering of determined, albeit somewhat delusional, individuals lace up their running shoes on a chilly Saturday morning. They stretch, shake out their legs, and exchange nervous smiles. No banners. No sponsors. Just a simple 400-meter athletics track, some hastily scribbled participant names, and a single goal: run around that same loop for 24 hours.
Why? No one knows. There’s no prize money, no podium, and no recognition waiting at the end. The finish line holds nothing but a vague sense of personal satisfaction and a hot shower. Yet, here they are—dozens of brave, or perhaps foolish, souls gathered to embark on the most monotonous race in the history of humankind.
As the clock strikes 8:00 a.m., a whistle blows, and the runners set off with surprising enthusiasm. The first few laps feel exhilarating, like the start of any race. The crisp morning air fills their lungs, and their legs spring beneath them with the vigor of runners who haven’t yet contemplated the impending madness.
“It’s just running,” they think. “How hard could it be?”
Spoiler alert: It’s going to be really, really hard.
Hour 1: The Enthusiastic Sprint
The first hour is a breeze. The runners feel invincible, maintaining a comfortable pace. The track feels new and inviting, and some even try to pretend it’s scenic. They wave at the imaginary crowd (one lone guy holding a coffee and occasionally clapping), and pass their water bottles with a light-hearted, “How’s it going?” banter.
Everyone’s upbeat. This isn’t so bad! A few seasoned veterans are already planning their podcast schedules in their heads, thinking about how they’ll casually mention they “ran a 24-hour race over the weekend” to their impressed friends at the next brunch.
Then, the excitement fades as reality sets in: this is going to be their view for the next 23 hours—just a flat, lifeless, endless circle of doom.
Hour 3: The First Complaints
By hour three, things start to change. The sun is rising higher, and the friendly chatter begins to dissipate. What was once light banter turns into distant grunts. People are now grimly circling the track, the smiles wiped off their faces.
The first signs of discomfort appear. A blister here, a cramp there. One runner is already using the “walk-limp-walk” method, clutching his hamstring like he’s auditioning for a soap opera. The grand arc of suffering has only just begun.
Some runners have started developing weird mental tricks to pass the time. One guy’s counting the steps it takes to complete a lap. Another has named the different lane markings. He’s calling the third lane “Jeff” for some reason, and muttering to it as if it’s a trusted companion. His fellow runners aren’t sure if they should be worried or impressed.
Hour 6: Snack Attack
By now, the track feels like a cruel joke. Running in circles was charming at first, but it’s becoming something akin to a torture device invented in ancient times. The first casualties of enthusiasm have retreated to the snack table, pretending to be “strategically refueling,” but they’re really just hiding from the monotony.
Energy bars are consumed at an alarming rate. Someone brought a tub of peanut butter and a spoon, while another competitor downs an entire bottle of pickle juice in one go, swearing it prevents cramps. It tastes like death, but the brain convinces them it’s fine. They’ve got 18 more hours to go, after all.
A few runners have now given their thighs motivational pep talks. A couple of them have stopped to rethink all of their life choices while watching the same corner of the track they’ve passed 146 times.
Hour 10: Hallucinations and Questionable Choices
Ten hours in, and things get weird. A few runners swear they’re hearing music, but it’s just the relentless sound of their sneakers smacking the track. Conversations turn increasingly bizarre.
“I’m pretty sure I just saw a camel,” one runner mutters.
“You’re losing it, man. There’s no camel. That was a cone.”
Another runner has started imagining that the track itself is judging him. “Stop staring at me, track. I get it, okay? I’m slow!”
One brave soul attempts a few yoga stretches mid-run and falls over spectacularly. They laugh it off, but we all know it’s the first sign of mental disintegration. Meanwhile, Jeff (the lane) has officially been promoted to the role of Best Friend for the delirious guy.
Hour 15: The Night Shift
As dusk settles, the temperature drops. The runners who started strong are now moving like zombies, hobbling around the track as if they’re part of some apocalyptic scenario. The banter has completely dried up, and any trace of enthusiasm vanished somewhere around Hour 12.
Some have adopted strange running techniques—side-stepping, running backward, or doing a shuffle that’s somewhere between a jog and a collapse. They look like wounded animals, limping in slow motion, their faces twisted in a combination of pain and confusion.
The only solace now is that they’ve made it through more than half of this torturous affair. Sleep-deprivation adds to the fun as a few runners start seriously considering napping on the grass. “If I just close my eyes for 5 minutes…” one murmurs before snapping back to the brutal reality of the track.
A couple of the runners swear they’re seeing a finish line that isn’t there. They’re having full-blown conversations with imaginary race officials who are assuring them this will all be over soon. It won’t.
Hour 20: Absolute Despair
By Hour 20, any illusion of this being a fun challenge has evaporated. The runners have reached a new level of suffering—one that transcends physical pain and enters the existential realm. Every step feels like an assault on their souls.
“Why am I doing this?” one runner wonders aloud, staring vacantly at the ground. No one answers. There’s no answer to that question.
Blisters have blisters. Knees are held together with duct tape. No one’s quite sure what’s happening anymore. Someone is still trying to explain the benefits of pickle juice, but no one’s listening.
There’s a collective agreement to never speak of this day again. When it’s over, no one will post about it on social media. No one will bring it up at work on Monday. This day will be buried deep, along with the memories of circling this infernal track for what feels like an eternity.
Hour 24: The Finish—If You Can Call It That
And then, after what feels like a lifetime, it’s over. The clock strikes 8:00 a.m., and the whistle blows. No cheers, no confetti, no medal ceremony—just silence. The runners stumble to a halt, confused as to why they ever started moving in the first place.
A few collapse onto the grass, staring blankly at the sky, wondering if they’ll ever walk normally again. Someone breaks into hysterical laughter, though it might be sobs—it’s hard to tell at this point.
The runners wander off, limping toward their cars, barely acknowledging one another. It’s done. They’ve survived the 24-hour loop of lunacy. There’s no prize, no glory—just the knowledge that they’ve voluntarily subjected themselves to this craziness for reasons none of them can fully explain.
The track, mercifully, is silent once more. Until next year. Because, for some inexplicable reason, they’ll all be back.
