My First Half-Marathon! – The Race Seoul 21K
( Apr.06.2025 )
April 4th, 2024 – a date that has become something like an anniversary for me. It was the day I first decided to start running, to try running 5K every morning. One year later, almost to the day, on April 6th, I found myself standing at the start line of my very first half marathon.
Between Doubt and Dream: The First Step to 21K
At first, it was just about running those daily 5Ks. But as the days stacked up, I reached a point where I could run 10K. I even joined a 10K race. As I found joy in running and kept at it, a new sense of purpose quietly grew in me, a curiosity about going farther. One day, I ran beyond my longest distance so far, 10K, and tried 15K for the first time. To my surprise, I felt like I could probably go a little farther. The following week, I set my sights on 22K. I told myself, “Let’s just see how far I can go today.” And somehow, I kept going until I reached 22K. That became my very first unofficial half marathon.
Somewhere along the way, I came across a phrase saying, “10K is just a running race, but if you want to say you’re running a marathon, it starts from the half marathon.” I couldn't agree more. That simple idea stuck with me, and planted a seed of a dream. Could I really run a half marathon? I wasn’t sure. Maybe 33% doubt, 33% confidence, and 34% hope.
Then one day, I saw an announcement for a half marathon taking place in Seoul. Registration was opening soon.
Since the summer of 2024, running has exploded in popularity in Korea. Demand for races far outpaced supply. To register for any major race in Seoul, you had to be ready the moment registration opened, clicking as fast as you could. Even then, the servers often crashed from the flood of people trying to sign up. You needed a bit of luck to break through that chaos and actually secure a spot. Succeeding in registration felt like winning the lottery.
The race I signed up for, The Race Seoul 21K, was no different. Even though it was the very first edition, it was set to take place in Gwanghwamun, right in the heart of the city, so I knew it would draw a big crowd. I marked the registration date on my calendar and set an alarm for ten minutes before. When the alarm rang, I logged in to the website and waited for the registration to open. Half of me was eager, hoping I could get in. The other half? Terrified. What if I did get in? Then I’d really have to run a half marathon!
And as if answering that fear, the process went too smoothly. No crashes, no errors. Just like that, I was signed up in minutes. I sat there staring at the confirmation screen, half in disbelief.
Is this really happening? Am I really running a half marathon?
Waiting for Spring, Waiting for Myself
This race was originally scheduled for February 23rd. But unexpected political protests surrounding the impeachment of Korea’s president began to unfold, with gatherings centered around Gwanghwamun, the very place where the race was set to take place. For safety reasons, the race date was postponed to April 6th. I remember feeling relieved. Looking back, I don’t think I was ready, physically and mentally, to run a half marathon in February.
The beginning of my 2025 was severe. January and February felt heavier than I could carry. I was emotionally drained, as though all the effort I had put into my life until then was being dismissed. I slipped into a state where everything felt too heavy to face, an exhaustion that drained both body and spirit, leaving me feeling disconnected from everything I cared about. For those two months, I could barely manage what was absolutely necessary. Beyond that, I couldn’t bring myself to do much else. As race day on February 23rd crept closer, the thought crossed my mind more than once – maybe I should cancel, maybe I just shouldn’t go. Each time, I tried to reassure myself. Just show up. Run what you can. Even if I can’t run the whole thing, that’s still worth more than giving up before even trying. I held onto that thought, waiting for time to pass, waiting for this too to pass.
And then I received the news that the race had been postponed. It felt like life had handed me a quiet gift, a much-needed second chance.
Even then, it wasn’t easy to find my footing again. A winter that was too still, almost hollow and piercing, had to pass before I could begin to feel ready. It wasn’t until March 10th, after the stillness of that season had faded, that I finally laced up my running shoes again and stepped out into the sunlight, knowing I couldn’t put it off any longer. It had been nearly seventy days since my last run.
I took my time, warming up carefully, gently waking my muscles before I began to move. When I had been running regularly, my legs often felt heavy from accumulated fatigue. But now, my body felt light, as if my muscles had woken fresh from a long winter’s sleep. Still, it didn’t take long to feel how much stamina I had lost. I slowed my pace even more. Don’t push, don’t expect too much. Just loosen up, like the first time you ever ran. I reminded myself of that and ran slowly for an hour, easing my body back into movement, letting go of the stillness that had caged me through the winter.
The hardest part of running is always just getting out the door, tying my shoes and taking that first step outside. When I finally worked up the courage to head out again, spring greeted me with open arms. As I started to move, I could feel the warmth of the sunlight and the breeze against my skin. Although I wasn’t running as strong or as fast as I used to, I was out there again, and that felt good enough. I realized that spring had been waiting for me all along, quietly waiting for me to step outside again.
I kept going for an hour, feeling the sun on my skin, the wind brushing past, grateful to be moving forward again.
For the rest of March, I did the best I could. Or rather, I held on with everything I had because I didn’t want to let go of the thread of effort I had just barely managed to grab again. I wasn’t running as much as I had during my peak, but I still managed around ten runs that month, covering a total of about 80 kilometers.
About ten days passed with cherry blossoms in full bloom. Then came the rain and wind, scattering the petals everywhere. By the time azaleas began to bloom, April had arrived, and so had the half marathon, something I had never imagined would become part of my life.
This time felt different from when I signed up for my first 10K race. There was a different kind of pressure. So I started reading blogs and watching YouTube videos to learn how to prepare for a half marathon. That’s where I learned about carbohydrate loading, and I decided to try it for the first time in my life.
In the textbook version, you deplete your glycogen stores with a long run about a week before the race, then eat protein-heavy meals for three days to make your body crave carbohydrates. After that, you switch to high-carb meals for the final three days to fully load your muscles with glycogen, which your body will use as energy during the race. I didn’t follow the early steps, but starting three days before race day, I consciously increased my carbohydrate intake by about one and a half times. I also avoided salty or spicy foods and kept my coffee to a minimum.
I also looked into when to take energy gels, how to pace myself during the race, and what to do in case something unexpected happened. I don’t think I’ve ever followed such a systematic strategy for any other kind of workout. Reading through all these thoughtful race plans and tips felt both fun and eye-opening.
Thinking about how to manage myself for those two to three hours, on a course with uphills to push through, curves to navigate, and long stretches to endure, made me reflect on where I was physically and mentally. It also helped me consider what would be the best approach for myself at this stage. Surprisingly, I enjoyed the process of learning, planning, and preparing.
The day before the race, I spent time with a friend I was running with. We chatted about what we’d wear, our goal times, our game plan, and what we’d eat afterward. It was one of the fun parts of the race experience, a lighthearted and exciting day.
We set a shared goal: to finish within the cutoff time of two hours and thirty minutes.
I packed everything carefully including clothes, shoes, energy gels, candy, first-aid items, and a pair of shoes to change into, and went to bed earlier than usual, ready for race day.
Our ready shot for the race!
It was my half-marathon debut, and
my friend’s debut of her pink-everything look.
The Race Day!
At 5:30 a.m., I woke up to my alarm. Although it was earlier than usual, I had gone to bed early the night before, so I felt surprisingly refreshed. After getting ready and changing into the outfit I had laid out last night, I ate my usual breakfast, a Greek yogurt bowl with apple, grapefruit, and granola. I skipped coffee, just in case I needed to use the restroom during the race.
I met my friend at the subway station near the race venue. Even inside the station, you could already feel the energy of the marathon. Some people were warming up in plastic ponchos to keep their bodies warm. Others gathered in small groups, chatting with faces full of nervous excitement. Some were taking photos to capture the moment. Everyone was getting ready in their own way, warming up both body and mind. We did the same, finishing our final bits of preparation in our ponchos before making our way to the race site.
We did a few stretches to loosen up, then found our designated starting group. The announcer’s lively voice, mixed with music and the cheers of the crowd, made the atmosphere feel even more like a celebration. As the earlier groups began to take off, our turn finally came.
Three, two, one – go! We began running slowly and crossed the starting line. I pressed the start button on my Garmin watch. Just like that, the race had begun.
Me asking the trees,
“You okay up there?”
My mom’s mountain charm collection.
Not saying I want them… but I want them.
Mini us in the almost-buried corner mirror.
98% snow, 2% hikers.
Just when I thought I had taken in all of the trail’s beauty, the trail would open up to a completely different winter landscape at every stage of the hike.
After passing through a path lined with snow-laden pine trees, we entered a section where the entire forest was coated in hoarfrost. Every branch, every twig, was covered in white flakes, like sour-flavored jellies dusted with sugar, creating a magical, silvery world. I had seen hoarfrost from a distance before, usually while snowboarding, but seeing it up close like this was something else entirely. The delicate textures, tiny frozen crystals, and the way the frost clung to each branch tip were incredible to look at. Hoarfrost had covered everything in a delicate, shimmering layer, turning every tree into frosty sculptures.
The trees in this area stood in evenly spaced rows, which made me think this part of the forest might be man-made.
I started wondering what the story behind this place might be. Was this area restored after a wildfire, with new trees planted to bring life back to the mountain? Had something happened to the forest that once stood here? Or was there another reason behind this quiet, orderly landscape?
Whatever the reason, I felt a quiet sense of respect. Even if it wasn’t nature’s untouched design, someone had cared enough to plant trees here, to try and bring the forest back. And somehow, the trees seemed to acknowledge that effort in their own quiet way. They had taken root, grown together, and endured through the seasons. It wasn’t just beautiful. It felt meaningful. And I was quietly grateful for all of them.
The symmetry made the scene feel even more surreal. It was a kind of winter beauty I had never experienced before, and a kind of gratitude I had not quite felt in that way. It felt unfamiliar, yet comforting. The feeling stayed with me long after we walked on.