Should Every Marathon Finisher Be Celebrated Equally?
During a social media doom-scroll episode a couple of days ago, I came across a burning question on Threads that, in an instant, irritated me.
“Do you think it’s impressive if someone finishes a marathon regardless of their time?”, a guy posted — a seemingly harmless question that provoked more emotion in me than I’m willing to admit.
Fresh off a training block that required countless early mornings, sacrificing late-night gatherings, trading alcohol for long runs, and juggling meticulous planning in between, I can’t help but feel less than impressed by those who enter a marathon simply for the sake of it and then claim superiority.
To receive a participation medal with no intention of actually preparing for the race in the name of being ‘impressive’ — or even running it, for that matter — feels disingenuous.
To bask in the acknowledgment of achieving something that less than 5% of the world’s population has ever accomplished without putting in the work undermines the effort of those who genuinely strive for it.
It seems overly pedestrian to me that we have become more obsessed with finishing something because it’s trending and having a participation medal to show for it, rather than working hard enough to truly excel.
And yet, as I scrolled through the comments on the topic, I began to feel that my outrage might be somewhat isolated. People marvelled at the idea that anyone who finishes a marathon should be celebrated, that finishing alone is worthy of praise, and that the accomplishment is nothing short of, well, impressive.
A cause for Introspection
Reflecting on why this topic hits me so hard, I’m reminded of a discussion I had a few years ago with a former boss and friend, soon after I started running.
My boss, a Dutchman with a pragmatic outlook much like mine, shares similar values in life, but we often find ourselves locked in debates over opposing views. Unsurprisingly, one of these debates revolved around the marathon.
On a typical workday, he asked me why I wanted to run marathons so badly when everyone gets a participation medal nowadays. Looking back, it was probably his way of suggesting that I’m just an ordinary runner with no realistic chance of finishing near the top.
Regardless of what he truly meant, one thing was obvious: he didn’t think marathons carried any particular significance if the goal was simply to participate.
Though I carried similar views, my fragile ego at the time couldn’t handle someone not understanding why running — and more specifically, running a marathon — meant so much to me.
Needless to say, it sparked a heated debate. One that spiralled into questions about the history of competitive sports like gymnastics, where only the top three competitors are rewarded, versus marathons, where personal achievement takes centre stage.
Back then, I didn’t have an answer. And honestly, I still don’t fully understand the intricacies of the divide between competitive sports and endurance events, but it led me to do a little bit of homework. (If I hadn’t, I probably would have ended up getting sucked into online controversies and cyberbullying — and that’s simply not my jam.)
A brief background in Competitive Sport
Gymnastics, with its origins tracing back to ancient Greece, has long been known for its precision, discipline, and performance. Since the early days of Olympic competition — with an often unforgiving scoring system — only athletes with the highest level of skill and artistry have been celebrated.
Highlighting only the best of the best, this rigid hierarchy celebrates and discovers the likes of Nadia Comăneci with her “Perfect 10” scores, while those who fall short are often left unnoticed, reinforcing a system of excellence and a culture where success is measured by rank only.
Like swimming, a sport where fractions of a second can mean the difference between gold and obscurity, gymnastics is a discipline where the margin for error is razor-thin, where rankings define success and only the most precise, polished, and near-perfect performances earn a place on the podium.
In stark contrast, marathons have a different ethos. Born from a legend of endurance and human perseverance, the story of Pheidippides running from Marathon to Athens had nothing to do with speed or victory. It was about delivering a message and pushing human limits — a tradition that, over time, has evolved into a sport where personal achievement takes precedence over placement.
The Difference Between “Proud” and “Impressed”
I think part of the confusion today lies in how we use language, particularly on social media.
Before I decided to write about this pretty controversial topic, I raised the conversation with my husband to see what his opinion was. Without going into depth about what we discussed, he asked me a very simple question, yet one that got me thinking.
He merely asked, “My love, if I had run a marathon, and it took me over 8 hours to complete, would you not have been proud of my accomplishment?”
Fantastic question, I thought. In that moment, it made me realise that we’ve somehow managed to blur the lines between being “proud of” someone and being “impressed by” them. Sure, while these sentiments might seem interchangeable, they are fundamentally different.
If a close friend or relative completes a marathon, you can feel proud of them for completing the 26.2-mile distance regardless of how the achievement measures up objectively because they set a goal and achieved it. Whether they walked, ran, or crawled, pride is rooted in understanding their personal journey and challenges.
But being impressed? That’s entirely different. Being impressed means the achievement stands out as extraordinary, requiring exceptional effort, skill, or determination. It’s not about just finishing; it’s about how you finished. Did you overcome incredible odds? Did you train hard and execute a strong performance?
To me, there’s a difference between the person who grinds through months of disciplined training to run a marathon and the person who shows up unprepared, walks most of it, and collects their medal at the end. I can be proud of both, but I’m only impressed by one.
Where Participation Medals Fall Short
Different from gymnastics or swimming, where rankings and technical excellence dominate, marathons are unique because they straddle two worlds: one of personal achievement and one of competitive sport.
The marathon has become a place where the masses and elites share the same course, same distance, and often the same finish line. But as inclusive as the marathon has become, the line between participation and performance has been obscured. Originally, participation medals were intended to acknowledge the exceptional effort it takes to complete 26.2 miles.
But when medals are handed out to everyone — regardless of preparation or pace — the novelty quickly fades, which might explain why my former boss thought marathons were pointless.
It goes without saying that this isn’t about gatekeeping for me; it’s about preserving the integrity of what a marathon medal represents and questioning whether it should still be considered impressive.
A Tiered Approach to Recognition
I firmly believe that anyone who has trained and finished a marathon deserves to walk away with something tangible. Completing the distance, no matter your pace, is an incredible physical and mental accomplishment and deserves to be celebrated.
However, not every finisher’s journey is the same. Someone who spends six months grinding through grueling workouts, hitting personal bests, and crossing the line with everything they have isn’t on the same playing field as someone who shows up undertrained, walks most of the course, and finishes just ahead of the sweep bus.
That’s where I believe a more nuanced approach to marathon recognition could make sense.
What if we had a system where medals were tiered based on run-based performance? Not to shame slower runners, but to elevate those who’ve invested deeply (like myself) in the craft of running.
For example, a specific, more concise and realistic cut-off time could distinguish runners from those who primarily walked the course. The medal for those who trained to run might symbolise their extra effort, while walkers or casual participants could receive a different acknowledgment — perhaps a ribbon, plaque, or commemorative token.
Personally, I believe this approach could encourage greater respect for the diverse motivations of marathoners. It would celebrate every finisher while preserving a sense of distinction, ensuring those who strive for more receive due recognition.
My Evolving Views on Marathons
That post on Threads still lingers in my head, but not for the reasons I initially thought.
It isn’t just the question itself — “Do you think it’s impressive if someone finishes a marathon regardless of their time?” — it is what the question expose about how we perceive other people’s effort and achievements through the lens of social media.
To my mind, marathons are a vexing anomaly in the world of sport because they allow two conflicting ideas to coexist; they are both intensely personal and inherently public.
Crossing the finish line is often a solitary victory, representing months of unseen struggle. Yet, it happens in front of innumerable spectators who cheer, among thousands of other runners, all vying for the same medal. It’s what makes the marathon beautiful — and also where struggle and collective celebration overlap, yet it remains puzzling to those who have never stepped onto the course.
Where other sports like gymnastics or swimming demand precision and rankings, marathons celebrate endurance in its rawest form. But even endurance has levels. Finishing 26.2 miles on sheer willpower and donuts is admirable, but finishing it after months of disciplined training, pushing limits, and leaving it all on the course to prove your efforts, feels —if ever so slightly — more admirable.
This dichotomy isn’t new. We’ve seen it in systems like the Comrades Marathon, where organizers navigate the event with nuance, offering tiered medals that don’t diminish participation but instead amplify achievement for those who excel in the ultra-distance.
While every finisher receives recognition, the distinctions between medals — ranging from gold for the top finishers to bronze for those who finish closer to the cut-off — tell a unique story for each participant. It’s an approach that acknowledges not all finishes are equal while still celebrating everyone’s journey.
A framework that could elevate road marathons while still respecting the personal nature of the sport.
And maybe that’s what bothers me.
It’s not the idea of participation medals that feels off; it’s that we’ve allowed them to flatten the narrative of what it means to finish a marathon, a race originally conceived to be run.
If we continue to celebrate every finish merely for the sake of finishing and regardless of time or whether we walked the distance, we lose sight of the different stories being written on the same course.
Ultimately, I think the problem isn’t about medals — it’s about meaning. The marathon medal, supposed to symbolise both personal victory and shared struggle, now risks becoming just another token. And while I can respect everyone’s journey, I simply cannot be impressed by it all.
