Costa Women
I finished last in the Magaluf Half Marathon – here’s why I’m still proud
First places… and EWN writer Lottie in last place!
When I say last… I mean last last. Not “oh I was near the back” last. I mean THE final person across the finish line. There were a couple of us legends hovering at the rear, subtly competing for the honour, but in the end – I clinched it.
The Magaluf Half Marathon official entry requirements do politely suggest you should be able to finish in 2 hours 30 minutes due to road closures. And look, I had been training for that… but things didn’t quite go to plan. It turns out I’m no Paula Radcliffe.
Lined up at the start, the nerves kicked in. My friend asked what high-tempo hits I’d put together to get me through, and was genuinely concerned when I said I was depending on a completely random playlist. Fingers crossed for some accidental bangers – Running Hype 3, don’t let me down.
There were lots of serious-looking running clubs around me – matching outfits, proper stretches, the kind of people who say things like “negative splits” – and I started to get butterflies. The race began, adrenaline pumping, but a big smile on my face as we set off.
My smug “I’ve got this” energy lasted approximately 90 seconds. My body creaked into motion like an old IKEA wardrobe as I mentally whispered: “Only 20K to go.” What had I done??
The sun was blazing hot, and I immediately regretted doing all my training in cool early morning conditions. What a rookie move.
About halfway through, I realised I was… noticeably behind. Like, visibly detached from the rest of the runners. I spotted a stray chicken on the side of the road – waddling about, pecking furiously – which felt both surreal and deeply on brand for my situation. Although at that stage, it could also have been a hallucination. I’ll never know.
By now, the elite runners were already looping back past me, casually gliding by throwing me encouraging thumbs-ups and compassionate winks. It was heartwarming… and deeply humbling.
I’d slowed right down, repeating my friend’s wise words in my head: “Just keep running.” (Or, in my case, keep making a strong commitment to forward-adjacent movement.)
The crowds in Magaluf lined the streets, cheering enthusiastically – some more sober than others. Fair enough. It is Magaluf, after all.
At one point, a man joined in wearing nothing but Y-fronts… and notably, no official race number. Again, when in Magaluf.
There were three of us firmly at the back now, exchanging supportive thumbs-ups like we were in our own exclusive club. No pace goals. No pressure. Just survival. We GOT this. Sort of.
By 18K, things were getting… real. I spotted my husband and kids cheering me on from the side of the road. My son was holding a drawing that could either have been me sprinting heroically, or lying down having a cup of tea. Honestly, both are accurate representations of my journey.
Later, my husband told me my son had asked, “Is mummy going to win?” – just as the ambulance and mopeds were tailing behind me, reopening the roads as I became the official embodiment of the end of the race.
“Ummm… probably not” he replied. A very truthful answer.
At this point, I was essentially being escorted by emergency services. Like a VIP, I thought, in my dehydrated and delusional state. “When the party’s over” by Billie Eilish comes through my headphones – my friend was right, I should have made a playlist. I frantically click to change songs and manage to switch up the momentum.
On I went, towards the finish line.
After all, running is about much more than where you place. It’s about the invisible stories everyone carries to the start line: My friend running in memory of her dad, for instance, his name written carefully across her hand. It’s the person who never thought they could get off the couch, let alone make it around the race track. The one carrying the quiet ache of a sick friend. The one running through heartbreak, through grief, through the kind of exhaustion that isn’t just physical. And in those final moments, when your legs feel heavy and your breath catches, it’s never really about the finish line. It’s about who you’re carrying with you as you cross it.
At the 20K mark, a group of girls outside a bar give me a cheer worthy of a Glastonbury headliner – arms in the air, full hype, the works. Who doesn’t love Magaluf, I thought?! Even the ambulance crew were clapping! Truly, the community spirit was alive and well.
And then… finally… the finish line.
Hats off to the running clubs, the machines, and the absolute elites – you had the front covered: flying, gliding, breaking records… But don’t worry, I had your back! Literally.
So yes – I came last. But I crossed the finish line, medal in hand, ready to show my son.