History on Repeat 

Rodrigo Freeman takes on ancient gods, modern roads and a can of Mythos to answer the call of Pheidippides.

September 2018. My friend Martin and I had finished Spartathlon the day before. After a long, boozy lunch with the mayor of Sparta, we found ourselves wedged onto a coach, immobile in Athens’ traffic, legs seized into painful knots. Martin twisted sideways in his seat and groaned.

“If we run double Sparta next year,” I said, “we won’t need this bus. We’ll just run back to Athens and find the nearest bar for a Mythos.”

“Fuck off,” came the reply.

The idea, however, refused to die.

The Authentic Phidippides Run is now in its tenth year and follows the legendary journey of Phidippides, the Athenian messenger who, in 490 BC, ran from Athens to Sparta to request military assistance against the invading Persians. King Leonidas and the Spartans were willing, but bound by religious law: their army could not march until the full moon. Phidippides ran all the way back to Athens with the crushing news that help would be delayed. Outnumbered but resolute, the Athenians fought anyway—and won the Battle of Marathon.

Fast-forward to November 2019. Martin and I stood on the Acropolis at the start line of the Authentic Phidippides Run, about to take on the hardest and longest athletic challenge of our lives. Ninety hours later we returned, exhausted but victorious, alongside our new Belgian friend, Ludo. It took only a few celebratory beers for me to decide I wanted to relive the experience.

Martin, me and Ludo

Part of the attraction is the history—although even in Greece there is debate over the exact route Phidippides took. But what truly captured me was the spirit of the race: the volunteers. Despite language barriers, their admiration and respect for the runners is unmistakable and deeply moving.

The pandemic cancelled the 2020 edition, and I had to wait until 2021 to return. With more experience, I finished in 85 hours 40 minutes—a five-hour personal best and sixth place overall. Unsurprisingly, I was back again in 2022. The Phidippides experience is addictive; once you’ve tasted it, you’re rarely satisfied with just one.

The race begins at the foot of the Acropolis and follows the coast to the Corinth Canal before cutting through the Greek countryside to Sparta—and then all the way back again. Along the way, runners climb Mount Artemisio twice and cover 304 relentless miles. It’s a route that blends beauty with brutality.

Day 1 in 2022 with Didier

Late one night in 2022, somewhere near Corinth on the return leg, I had covered roughly 250 miles without a second of sleep. I was still lying third man, but my mind was slipping. I couldn’t remember why I was running—or what I was doing there at all. I desperately needed to shut my eyes. Two twenty-minute naps at indoor checkpoints proved just enough; when the sun rose, the sleep demons vanished.

Power Nap

Eventually, Athens came back into view. At the finish line, then race director Mr Diamantis was waiting. A quick glance at my watch confirmed it: 78 hours and 56 minutes. A staggering personal best. I hugged him, overwhelmed, and thanked him—and his army of volunteers—for yet another unforgettable event.

Over the years, the route has changed very little, mostly due to temporary roadworks. Spartathlon veterans will recognise much of it, though Spartathlon climbs Mount Parthenio while Phidippides takes on Artemisio. Navigation is marked with painted symbols, ribbons, and reflective signs, though most runners now rely on the GPX file provided by the organisers. After so many participations, I could probably run it with my eyes shut.

One unavoidable hazard is stray dogs. If you’re sleepy, they’ll wake you up fast. My preferred technique is to throw my arms in the air, make myself look as big as possible, and shout—like a bear. Trust me, most dogs retreat quickly. Occasionally, you’ll meet a friendly one that decides to run alongside you for a few kilometres.

After my 2022 performance, 2023 started brilliantly with a Brazilian six-day record in Policoro, Italy. Then disaster struck. A freak swimming accident in May left me with two severely herniated discs in my neck, compressing my spinal cord. Surgery was a real possibility. I was forbidden to run and told recovery could take up to two years.

To make matters worse, the organisers announced that the Authentic Phidippides Run would no longer continue due to a lack of volunteers. I remember feeling utterly deflated. It felt like the end of an era—not just the race, but perhaps my ultra-running career altogether.

Months passed. I could only walk. During one hospital visit, I asked the surgeon if I could increase my walking mileage, maybe even try race walking, as long as I stayed on smooth asphalt. He agreed. Nearly a year after my diagnosis, I returned for another MRI. To everyone’s surprise, both discs had healed completely and the surgeon gave me the green light to run again. Then the final piece of great news arrived a few days later: Phidippides was back on, scheduled for November. I hadn’t run a single step in eleven months—but I knew immediately. I would do everything possible to stand on that starting line once again.

I can’t fully describe how happy I was just to make it to the starting line in November. Still, I won’t pretend I wasn’t apprehensive. I hadn’t run that sort of distance for some time, and the question lingered: would it be too much for my spine?

I’ll spare you most of the race details, but by Sunday afternoon I was reaching the Kineta checkpoint, with roughly 58 kilometres left to the finish. Tateno from Japan and I—who had been running together since leaving Sparta nearly 200 kilometres earlier—decided we needed a reset: a twenty-minute nap and something substantial to eat.

When we left the checkpoint, we found a rhythm almost immediately, along with a steadily diminishing desire to walk. I dared to ask Tateno how he felt, though it was obvious we were both riding a wave of endorphins. Walking had become uncomfortable; running felt easier, even on the climbs. My good friend Jean-Louis Vidal describes this sensation as “finding your moped.” And once you find the moped, it’s intoxicating—like a drug.

The final 20 kilometres is usually the section I hate most: a busy motorway, thick with pollution, a dusty hard shoulder littered with rubbish. This time, I reminded myself that I shouldn’t even have been there at all—and that I should savour the moment, whatever the route looked like. Our pace was electric. Suddenly, there were only eight kilometres to go. I suggested a brief stop to buy a can of Mythos beer to drink on the way to the finish.

Reborn as an Ultrarunner with Tateno

Soon enough, we crossed the line together in just over 90 hours, where the new race director, Alkis, handed us more Mythos. I was back from the abyss. I felt reborn as an ultrarunner.

You won’t be surprised to read that in 2025 I made it back to the start line once again — for the fifth time. 2025 had been one of my strongest as an ultrarunner. I’d conquered the iconic JOGLE, not on the road but via a much longer, unsupported trail version, carrying a tent and sleeping bag and sourcing fuel on route through May and June. By late November, I found myself in Athens once more, standing on the start line of my favourite race on the planet and wondering whether I could recapture the form of 2022 — this time with the added pressure of knowing that, for the first time, my wife would be waiting at the finish line.

Trail Jogle - Land's End 2025

Over the years, Greece has thrown everything at me: scorching heat, freezing cold, thunderstorms, light rain, and strong winds — sometimes all in the same race. Day one of 2025 delivered the heat, with temperatures climbing to 29°C. After training through an English winter, it felt particularly cruel. To make matters worse, my calves began cramping badly in the afternoon. I’d raced the 250-mile Lon Las Cymru just five weeks earlier and worried I hadn’t fully recovered. Then I noticed something else — white salt stains all over my shorts. I was clearly losing more salt than I was replacing.

At the next checkpoint, I asked for a bag of salt — and that’s exactly what I was handed. I started pinching it into my mouth and washing it down with water, and bingo. Within an hour the cramps vanished and I was running freely again. That first night passed smoothly: no sleep demons, no urge to walk, and food going down perfectly. Cooler conditions on day two only helped, and I eventually reached the statue of King Leonidas in Sparta in 36 hours and 50 minutes, greeted by the welcome sight of freshly baked pizza.

Still feeling strong and undecided about sleep, I marched out of Sparta and into the long 10km climb back to the motorway for night number two. About 20 miles later, the hallucinations arrived. The white line on the hard shoulder transformed into a kind of fish tank in my exhausted mind, tiny fish swimming along, trapped at my feet. I reached a checkpoint soon after and decided it was time — twenty minutes with my head down. It worked. The imaginary aquarium vanished.

When the sun rose again, I felt properly awake and began running strongly toward Nestani, the point that marks nearly 200 miles of the race and the gateway to the climb over Mount Artemisio.

By the time I started climbing Artemisio, I knew the race had entered a decisive phase. I passed a Japanese runner to move into third place on the men’s podium. There was no appetite for conversation—just a brief hello before I focused back on the climb. With nearly 100 miles still to go, my only job now was simple in theory and brutal in practice: defend that position.

Beautiful Greek countryside

Day three unfolded almost smoothly by ultrarunning standards. I was moving at a respectable pace, eating and drinking well, and even managed a precious 20-minute power nap in Ancient Nemea. There was still no sign of the runner in fourth. The third night began kindly too—no sleep demons, no creeping dread. I even allowed myself a small indulgence on the way to Corinth: a chicken gyros and a can of lager. At the time, it felt perfectly reasonable.

Sometime around two in the morning, the hallucinations returned. Despite another power nap, my mind betrayed me. Giant figures appeared everywhere, looming and distorted, and this time it wasn’t amusing or abstract—it was unpleasant. I longed for daylight, for my circadian rhythm to reset and give me a fighting chance. Relief came with roughly a marathon left to run, when a kind volunteer bought me a black coffee from a petrol station. I washed it down with a piece of Greek patisserie and felt, finally, human again.

Leaving the checkpoint, I made the mistake—or perhaps the necessary move—of checking the tracker on my phone. The Japanese runner was now miles behind, but a Greek athlete had appeared alarmingly close behind me. Two miles. In an ultrarunning race, that’s nothing.

If that guy wants my podium, he’ll have to fight for it, I thought. My wife is waiting for me at the finish. I’ll give everything I have.

I increased the pace. To my surprise, my body responded well, but I knew this effort was unsustainable for a full marathon—or so I told myself. Every twenty minutes I checked the tracker. The gap didn’t change. Frustration built with every glance. I flew through small checkpoints, grabbing bottles of Coke without stopping. When some Greek friends drove past and asked me to stop for a photo, I refused. Instead, I stripped my pack of anything non-essential—power banks, cables, spare jackets—and threw them into their car.

“I’ll see you at the finish,” I said.

At the halfway point of the final marathon, the pace was still absurd. The gap behind remained stubbornly small. Then I noticed something else: I was closing in on second place. Pawel from Poland. Suddenly, everything was in play. I could finish second, hold on to third, or collapse into fourth. The margins were razor thin.

The final half marathon opened with a grim motorway section. By now, I was running almost entirely on emotion. A few miles later came a two-mile climb—one I always walk. Not this time. I calculated quickly: if I ran the climb, I could secure the podium and maybe even reel in Pawel. When I reached the top, the Greek runner felt like history, but Pawel was still close on the tracker.

What followed was a wild descent toward Athens. Red lights blurred past as I ran through intersections at an insane pace, legs carrying nearly 500 kilometres of accumulated punishment. At the final crossing, I saw my wife waiting, holding my flag. We crossed the finish line together.

Third place man. A personal best: 78 hours and 24 minutes—just ten minutes behind Pawel. Exhaustion gave way to something purer. Joy. Later, studying the race data, I discovered I’d run the final marathon faster than anyone else: 4 hours and 33 minutes.

Pure Joy!

No surprises, then, that I’ve already signed up for 2026. My wife is coming back too—no pressure. The tenth edition of the Authentic Pheidippides Run will include a twist: past finishers can extend the challenge by running the Battle of Marathon upon arrival in Athens, pushing the total distance to an extraordinary 525.8 kilometres.

Am I up for it?

Absolutely.