Exclusive report: I am no longer running Melbourne Marathon as the head of a pantomime horse
Behind the curtain of elite athletic performance.
I suppose I was in the right place at the right time. By this I mean I was at my desk during work hours, wasting time on the internet, and in the kind of bleak, corporate-induced headspace that meant the following Facebook post – in a local running group – spoke to me on a spiritual level:
Have you always wanted to run a marathon as the front half of a two-person pantomime horse costume? Look no further. I’m seeking a partner for my Guinness world record attempt.
Requirements:
Registered for the 2025 Melbourne Marathon
Able to run sub-3:50 marathon
Willing to run in a horse head for 4 hours
I messaged David immediately. He asked if I'd be able to run a sub-four-hour marathon in a horse’s head and, of course, I lied. Sure, I said. How hard could it be?
I told David I’d run several ultramarathons at a not dissimilar pace. I told him I was training – or considering training – for a 3:30 marathon but would sacrifice time for a shot at glory. And David, to his credit, believed me. He must’ve seen in me a kindred spirit, an elite performer willing to push themselves to the limit. The position of “horse head” was mine if I wanted it.
Did I want it?
Yes.
I mean, I did at that moment.
A day later?
Not so much.
See, I’d continued tracking David’s original Facebook post. This was a mistake. I read comment after comment suggesting how difficult this would be, written by people who appeared to be much fitter than I. Further research revealed David to be an accomplished long-distance runner; for his last half-marathon, he’d pushed two kids in a pram faster than I could run on my own. In a moment of panic I texted two friends to validate my decision. They said: sub 3:50 in a horse costume? I replied: the record is 4:31, so there’s leeway. They said: are you joking? I said: no.
A week later, I met David at his house in Brunswick. He introduced me to his wife and kids and unveiled a stunning equine costume complete with plastic hooves and fluffy brown legs. He’d cut a hole in the horse’s hindquarters, which would allow him to stand upright, and assured me the hooves were not required for the record. Phew.
Carrying the costume to a nearby park, we discussed David’s race-day clothing options. Would he adorn his upper body in jockey silks? Dress as a cowboy or medieval knight? He wasn’t sure, but he had made an executive decision to carry a speaker so a clip-clop sound could be broadcasted for the duration of the race.
It was an utterly depressing morning; cold to the bone, a biting wind. I half-expected a waif-like hipster to come tumbling through the desolate streetscape, their baggy jorts a denim kite caught in a violent gust.
‘That’s my son’s school,’ David explained, once we reached the park. Three tradies worked on a nearby roof while kids played in the yard of an adjoining kindergarten. David attached his GoPro to a goal post and we suited up. We trotted past the school fence and a kid waved.
‘Hey!’ said David. I assumed he was waving but I couldn’t see backwards, given I was wearing a horse’s head. The kid asked what we were doing. ‘We're pretending to be a horse!’ said David. There would be no further questions.
One of the tradies had climbed down from the roof and relocated to the park fence. I could see his high-vis gear in my limited field of vision, could see him laughing and filming, shaking his head. We ignored him; focused on our breathing, our cadence, on costume alterations that might be required. I was concerned with the way the head flopped around and couldn’t imagine dealing with it for hours on end. David promised to fix it.
Though we struggled to find our rhythm, we did hit what was technically a world-record pace: 6:25min/km. Maintaining this for over four hours – including toilet breaks – would be a mighty challenge, albeit one I agreed I’d be up for.
David and I said our goodbyes. Now that I’d experienced life as a horse’s head, I needed time to reflect on the race-day variables that might impact our record attempt. The way the wind buffeted the horse’s body worried me. I knew we’d be in for battle should marathon day be blustery. Or warm, for that matter. Or wet. Come to think of it, anything other than a cool, clear and perfectly calm day would spell disaster.
Having properly considered – for the first time – the intricacies of running for four-and-a-half-hours in a pantomime horse costume, I lost all confidence in my ability to hold up my end of both the animal and the bargain.
I texted David, dropping hints I may not be the best person for the job. I flagged prior injuries and upcoming periods in which I wouldn’t be able to train, but David assured me that he’d be the liability. He was time poor, he said. He had three kids and a full-time job. I'm time poor too, I argued. I have a part-time job and a dog.
Alas, my protestations fell on deaf ears. David got to work improving the mechanics of our steed and emailed me his ideas. To combat the floppy head, he suggested stitching a hat to the costume’s pillowy interior. Instead of floating, foetus-like, in the horse’s neck, I would strap the hat to my head and become one with the beast. I had to admit it was an inspired solution.
Still, my commitment wavered. I pictured medal-clad friends enjoying a cold beer after the race and heading home before I’d even finished. I pictured my swollen face – temple veins a-throbbin' – on the six o'clock news.
Horseshit, reads the headline.
Heatstroke, reads the obituary.
But then I started having recurring nightmares in which David ghosted me. In these dreams, I’d be running the marathon solo and have the Melbourne Cricket Ground – the finish line – in sight. I’d turn a corner and see David in our horse costume, bickering with whomever he’d recruited to replace me. I’d pass them, naturally, but this would bring me no satisfaction. Instead there was a sadness, a sense of having had something special only to have lost it.
I consulted ChatGPT. Apparently my subconscious was telling me something. It wanted a shot at the title. A fire burned within. I understood I had to run in the hoofsteps of those who’d run before me. What would Phar Lap do? Black Caviar? Perhaps I, too, could become a champion horse. Perhaps I, too, would be rewarded with retirement, by being put out to stud and eventually bred to death.
And so I trained.
O, how I trained.
I ran up and down the river. I ran around the lake. I hugged Port Phillip Bay for fifteen kilometres south, then turned around and hugged it all the way home. I guzzled gels. Replenished electrolytes. I paid an exorbitant amount to a physio with the sole intention of ignoring his advice, then developed a painful lump between my shin and patella. I named it Progress.
As the kilometres increased, so too did my confidence. I shared my plans with family and friends. Mentioned it to people at the gym. Four weeks out from the marathon, David and I met for a trot around Albert Park Lake to test his alterations. He’d sewn little legs to wear around his waist and the hat-inside-a-horse-head proved to be a stroke of genius.
Passing runners high-fived us, encouraged us, shouted “Giddy up!” and “What a beautiful horse!”. We completed five kilometres at an impressive pace and I felt as if the record was in reach, as if we were on the edge of something profound. The morning hummed with possibility. At this point I couldn’t imagine not breaking the record.
Then, two weeks from race day, David texted me. I have bad news, he wrote. I think the dream is dead. He’d hit his toe on the corner of his bed frame and was in the emergency room. I’m shattered. Several doctors had a go yanking on it for ages and it didn’t go back in properly. He would have to see an orthopaedic surgeon. He would have to pull out of the marathon. And I would have to run alone.
I’m surprised by how disappointed I was. This was hardly a lifelong dream. I doubt we would’ve broken the record, but when we first agreed to do this, David told me there were zero expectations from his side. No tears will be shed if we don’t achieve the world record, he said. The fun is in the attempt. I’m just super glad to have found someone stupid enough to have a crack with me.
I suppose this is the root of my disappointment: the lack of attempt, the fun no longer forthcoming. Because this hasn’t been a fun year. It’s been a year of uncertainty and hard conversations, of holding it together, of typing things like mortality rate and best-case scenario into search bars. This horsing around – this serious pursuit of something so stupid – has been a welcome change of world-record pace.
But it has been a year, too, of miraculous recovery; of second chances and hopefully, come race day, a second wind. It has been a year in which the finish line, in some respects, is not as close as it had once appeared and that is something to be celebrated. It means the attempt – the fun – can continue. I am trying to remember this as I move forward not as a horse, but in my natural human form.
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What a wonderful read — I gasped and got teary!
beautiful and incredible how a dare from someone else can show you what you really want for yourself. Good luck for the run 💪