Berlin Marathon 2023: Where the World Runs in Circles While the Planet Heats Up

BERLIN—On a crisp Sunday when most sane humans were still negotiating the terms of their hangovers, 50,000 certified optimists assembled at the Brandenburg Gate to discover, yet again, that the human body was not designed to travel 42.195 km at speed. The 50th anniversary BMW Berlin Marathon—slogan: “The Fastest Course on Earth, Terms & Conditions Apply”—delivered its annual masterclass in collective self-delusion, this time with extra geopolitical seasoning.

For the uninitiated, Berlin is the pancake-flat, pharmacy-grade course where world records go to die of embarrassment. Eliud Kipchoge’s 2018 benchmark (2:01:39) still loiters here like an unpaid bar tab, taunting every neon-shod amateur who thinks “sub-three” sounds reasonable after four beers. This year the elite fields were Kenyan and Ethiopian, the pacemakers were unemployed physiologists, and the weather was so cooperatively Teutonic it felt like a prank. Perfect, in other words—if you ignore the minor detail that the planet is melting faster than the sports-gel stations could restock.

International significance? Start with the entry list: 156 countries represented, proving that the desire to pay €169 for the privilege of shin splints is one of the few things humanity can still agree on. Diplomats in lycra jogged past Syrian doctors who had literally run from warzones; a Japanese office worker celebrated his 100th marathon by bowing at every kilometre marker, politely reminding the rest of us that obsessive compulsion can be adorable if wrapped in cultural etiquette. Meanwhile, the Russian contingent ran under the ever-meaningless “Authorised Neutral Athlete” flag—sport’s version of a hall pass signed by the headmaster after the school has already burned down.

Climate change hovered like an uninvited sponsor. Organisers trumpeted “paperless race packs” and “recycled mylar blankets,” heroic gestures equivalent to flossing while the Titanic lists. Still, it played well on Instagram, where 750,000 posts tagged #BerlinMarathon competed for eyeballs already glazed by doom-scrolling. Nothing says planetary salvation like a single-use aluminium cape photographed next to a historic gate once appropriated by fascists and now rented out to corporate wellness campaigns.

The economics are deliciously absurd. The marathon pours roughly €200 million into Berlin’s coffers—money desperately needed to repair the airport that opened nine years late and still feels surprised to find airplanes outside. Hotels triple prices, restaurants swap menus for “pasta party” specials, and locals practise the annual sport of pretending the city isn’t overrun by people who consider nipple bandages haute couture. Airbnb hosts greet runners with energy bars and passive-aggressive notes about quiet hours, a combo that deserves its own podium.

Winners crossed the line in times that make ordinary mortons question evolution. Tigst Assefa of Ethiopia demolished the women’s course record by more than two minutes—an improvement so obscene bookmakers immediately blamed carbon-plated shoes, EPO rumours, or possibly a clerical error by Saint Peter. On the men’s side, Guye Adola of Ethiopia rebounded from being dropped by Nike last year, proving that unemployment is the ultimate interval training. Their victories were broadcast live in 190 countries, because nothing unites global television audiences like watching East Africans remind everyone else that genetics remains undefeated.

Yet the true spectacle is the back-of-the-pack carnival: the Brazilian dentist dressed as the Pope, the French pensioner juggling three eco-balls, the American software engineer who paused at km 35 to update his will on Strava. These are the people keeping the marathon industrial complex alive—each paying for the existential assurance that their suffering is quantifiable, shareable, and tax-deductible if they convince HR it was a “team-building off-site.”

As the last finishers limped past the Reichstag, medal clinking like a participation trophy from Sisyphus, Berlin returned to its usual programme of techno clubs and housing protests. The barricades were dismantled, the elite pacers flew business class to the next payday, and the Gate resumed its day job as backdrop for selfie-stick diplomacy. Nothing fundamental had changed—carbon levels, authoritarianism, your 5k personal best—all remained depressingly intact. But for one perfectly engineered morning, the world agreed on a single, beautiful lie: that the finish line is a destination, not just another place to start running from.