Stayed in Kuala Lumpur, right near Stadium Merdeka, tucked in at a cozy hotel around Petaling Street — food paradise, hidden gems, and city treasures all around. The perfect spot to soak in KL’s heartbeat before race day.
Race day ritual kicked off at 2:00 AM — the calm before the storm. A hot latte to wake the senses, a peanut butter sandwich for fuel, and a Milo for the “sole”mate — our little pre-race bonding ritual that never fails.
By 3:15 AM, we took a slow walk to Jalan Raja Laut, about 2.1 km away — the starting line that always gives butterflies. Along the way, the city was alive in its own quiet magic — runners from every corner, all walking with one mission, one goal. The smiles, nods, and quiet “good mornings” said it all: we’re in this together.
They called this race “Hari Raya” Standard Chartered KL Marathon 2025 — a celebration of spirit, madness, and joy that only runners truly understand. The pre-dawn air was electric, the city lights shimmering like confetti, and every heartbeat whispered one thing — this is why we run.
At the starting point, the hype, vibes, and energy hit like a wave. The air buzzed with excitement — that unique blend of adrenaline and nerves that only runners know. It was barely 4 AM, but it felt like daylight with all the lights, laughter, and music bouncing through the streets.
Everywhere I looked, there were runners stretching, chatting, taking photos, adjusting their bibs, or silently zoning in. The atmosphere was alive, contagious, and full of stories — some chasing personal bests, some chasing peace, and some just running for the love of it.
The emcee’s voice boomed through the speakers, music thumped in the background, and you could feel the pulse of the city sync with the beat of thousands of hearts. Strangers smiled at each other like old friends. Someone shouted, “Let’s go, runners!” and a cheer erupted, echoing through Jalan Raja Laut.
There’s something sacred about those few minutes before the flag-off — when time stands still and you realize you’re part of something bigger than yourself. A sea of runners, different backgrounds, different goals, but one heartbeat, one rhythm. Hubby gave me a kissed, good luck and off to our own pen.
The countdown began — 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 — and just like that, the streets of Kuala Lumpur came alive. Feet hit the ground, cheers filled the air, and we were off — chasing the road, the sunrise, and the reason we run.
The flag-off was smooth — no chaos, no jostling, just a steady surge of runners moving as one. The energy from the start carried us forward, and so far, so good. The route looked nice and flat, winding through the heart of the city still dressed in its Deepavali decoration lights.
Everyone seemed to be running at the same pace — a quiet rhythm that felt almost meditative. Shoes striking the asphalt, breathing in sync, thousands of footsteps echoing through the streets of KL.
But the humidity hit early. The air was thick, heavy — no breeze, no relief, just sweat rolling down our faces as we pounded the streets. Still, the crowd around me kept the momentum alive. There’s comfort in moving together — strangers sharing the same struggle, the same determination.
At 4 km, the first water station appeared like a small oasis. It was crowded but well-manned, volunteers cheering us on while handing out cups of cold water and isotonic drinks. The clinking of cups, splashes of water, and the laughter of runners brought a small burst of joy before we pushed on.
By 10 km, the body was warming up, and so was the spirit. Halfway through, and happiness kicked in — that sweet spot where the legs find rhythm, the mind settles, and the city feels like it’s running with you. The horizon slowly brightened, the early light kissing the skyline, and the sound of shoes hitting the pavement became music — the kind that fuels your soul.
Every step forward felt like a reminder of why we do this — for the discipline, the release, the connection, and the quiet moments of triumph hidden within every mile.
The second half — that’s where the real story began. We turned onto Akleh Highway, and suddenly, the flat comfort of the early miles was gone. The hills came alive — long, rolling climbs that tested not just the legs, but the mind.
This was where it got technical — not about pace, but about mental running. Every incline demanded focus, patience, and the kind of quiet strength that only comes from hours of training and a deep “why.” The crowd thinned, breathing got heavier, and you could see it in everyone’s faces — that mix of pain, determination, and stubbornness to keep moving.
The rolling hills kept coming, one after another. Muscles started to tighten; cramps became the unwelcome companions of many. Still, no one gave up. Runners stretched on the sidelines, some limping, some walking, but every single one of them kept inching forward.
That’s when we noticed something truly special this year — the “Medics on the Run.” They were actual runners, moving among us with first aid kits and spray bottles, always ready, always running. They were the unsung heroes — jogging beside struggling runners, offering muscle sprays, hydration, and encouragement. 24/7 on duty, all the way until the finish line. It was humanity in motion — kindness on the run.
As we neared the final kilometers, the battle became personal. Every runner was in their own silent war — fighting fatigue, cramps, heat, and doubt. And then came the supporters, shouting from the sidelines, “Only 500 meters to go!”
But boy oh boy — that was a delusion! It felt like the longest 500 meters in history. Legs were screaming, lungs were burning, but the heart refused to quit. The sound of the crowd grew louder, and then — the moment we’d been dreaming of — the entrance into the stadium.
As my feet hit the track, everything else faded. The pain, the hills, the humidity — gone. All that was left was pure joy. We ran, we smiled, we danced our way to the finish line — the dance of joy, the rhythm of relief, pride, and gratitude.
Because that’s what running is — a dance between struggle and triumph, between pain and purpose. And on that finish line, in the heart of Kuala Lumpur, surrounded by thousands of kindred spirits, we all found our rhythm again.
And as always, when the clock struck 10:45 AM sharp, the familiar sound of the announcer echoed through the stadium — C.O.T. — Cut-Off Time for the 42km full marathon. Just like that, the gates were closed and shut.
For some, it marked the end of triumph — medals around necks, smiles of victory, relief in every breath. But for others, it was a different story. A separate entrance opened for the DNF — “Did Not Finish” runners. They were not entitled for a finisher medal or T-shirt, they came in quietly, shoulders heavy, faces etched with exhaustion and disappointment.
It’s a sight that always tugs at the heart — the pain of giving everything and still falling short. The struggle, the cramps, the heat, the hills — sometimes, no matter how strong your will, the body just can’t push anymore. But even then, there’s courage in showing up, in daring to try, in stepping onto that starting line knowing the battle ahead.
Because behind every DNF is not failure — it’s a story of effort, of resilience, of refusing to stay comfortable. Every runner who crossed that separate gate carried the same warrior spirit as those who finished — just on a different timeline. And in the end, we all shared the same thing: respect for the road, for each other, and for the journey that running always brings.
Reflections — More Than a Race
Every race tells a story, but this one — ASICS Standard Chartered KL Marathon 2025 — felt different. Maybe it was the festive lights, the laughter of strangers, or the warmth of running through a city that never truly sleeps. Maybe it was the unity — thousands of hearts beating for the same purpose.
Running isn’t just about chasing medals or finishing times. It’s about the moments in between — the quiet walk to the start line at 3 AM, the shared Milo, the nod from a stranger, the medic’s helping hand, the hills that test your will, and that one voice shouting “You’ve got this!” when your legs want to quit.
It’s about community — about celebrating the strong and honoring the broken. The ones who danced into the stadium with arms raised, and the ones who walked through the DNF gate with heavy hearts but unbroken spirit. Because every single one showed courage — the courage to start, to endure, to fight, and to believe.
As the city returned to its usual rhythm, one truth lingered:
Running mirrors life.
It’s not always smooth or easy. The road will rise, the body will ache, the mind will waver. But the heart — the heart always knows how to keep going.
And when we crossed that finish line — tired, drenched, but smiling — we weren’t just finishing 21 kilometers. We were celebrating the joy of being alive, the bond we share as runners, and the unspoken promise that no matter how hard it gets — we’ll lace up, show up, and run again.
chrisywong.com 