The Brandenburg Gate appeared at the end of the street as I passed kilometer 41, and for a moment (a very short moment) I forgot how much my legs hurt.
I'd spent the morning running through Berlin, following the backs of strangers, listening to cheers sneak through my headphones between songs. Now the gate was right there. I could see the finish beyond it, but I still had to get there. I put my head down and kept moving.
Why does a marathon feel so special? I thought about that a lot, especially in the miles when everything hurt and 26 miles started to sound like a ridiculous idea.
I think it's because every person on that road has brought something with them. Someone is coming back from an injury. Someone is ticking off a bucket-list goal. Someone is running a time they've trained years for. Someone is simply trying to prove to themselves that they can finish. You can't tell which story belongs to the runner beside you, but you know they're carrying one.
And people show up for those stories without ever hearing them. Strangers shout your name from your bib. Runners encourage each other through the hard miles. For a few hours, a whole city seems to care whether you make it. There are few other moments in life that feel so human.
I wasn't on pace to hit my race time anymore. At that point, I was just trying to finish. I turned off my headphones and heard someone call, "Let's go, Kyle!" I'd been looking out for my friend Yatish, who had come all the way from New York to watch, but I couldn't find him in the sea of people. This was a stranger, cheering for a name they'd spotted on a bib.
It was enough. I found a little more in my legs, ran through the gate and crossed the line. My final split wasn't even my slowest of the day.
The medal felt good around my neck. Sitting down felt even better.
And damn, did that first beer taste good.