What Could Go Wrong?
The journey started suspiciously well. A quick stop at Popeye’s Cornwall, a painless check-in at YUL, a comfortable seat by the emergency exit on the overnight flight. The connection through Zurich was tight but fine. Customs: zero line. Gate: plenty of time to spare. Then I thought I’d put my contacts in.
What my hand found instead was my loose razor at the bottom of my carry-on. I’ll spare you the details — but I boarded the connecting flight with my hand above my head, napkins wrapped around two fingers, bleeding through all of them. A window seat. Two classy Swiss passengers to climb over. Ninety minutes with my arm in the air.
Landing in Rome, still bleeding, I ditched the train plan and flagged down a car outside the terminal — which was not a licensed taxi. Nice BMW though. 75 euros cash, 94 by card. Scammed, sure. But I was done. I just needed to get horizontal.
and a Church at the Top of a Hill
Once the finger situation calmed down, Rome did its thing. The expo was efficient — in and out with no lineups, which is genuinely my idea of a great afternoon. A Saturday 5k fun run looped past the Colosseum and finished at Circus Maximus, giving me a preview of the final metres. Cobblestones. Everywhere.
I grabbed a Lime scooter and made my way to Vatican City and St. Peter’s Basilica. The city is extraordinary — ancient and alive at the same time. But exploring solo is a different kind of experience. I really missed Tunie. Having nobody to turn to and say “can you believe this place?” takes something out of it. Early night. Light food, lots of water, and an attempt at sleep that mostly failed.
Then the Right Leg Had Other Plans.
Race morning started at 4AM — partly by choice, partly because Raina’s seizures had spiked overnight and Julia was managing it alone at home. I ran through my routine and made my way to the start. On the walk over I found porta-potties with zero lineup while everyone else queued endlessly. Small wins.
The first 5km were chaotic — narrow cobblestone streets, thousands of runners sorting themselves out. Pure mayhem. But once we hit the river, something clicked. 4:30–4:35 pace. Smooth. Controlled. Through 25km I was on sub-3:15 pace and feeling strong.
Then my right leg blew up. Excruciating, sudden, impossible to ignore. I had 17 kilometres left.
“I was never going to give up. Walk, run, jog, saunter — whatever I was capable of in that moment is what I did. Cold sponges, fluids, electrolytes. Painful until the bitter end. But the end came.”
The finish line came eventually. I crossed it, limped to bag check, got my warm clothes on and scootered back to the room. My stomach held up perfectly — a full race worth of carbs with zero GI issues. My legs, minus the one that staged a revolt, were never truly empty. There was more in the tank. That’s something to build on.
A Church. A Call Home.
Post-race I found a little takeout spot, grabbed a slice of pizza, and sat on what may or may not have been an actual piece of the Colosseum to eat it. Fitting. I wandered aimlessly, eventually following a cobblestone road uphill to a tiny church. People were filing in, so I did too. A nun sat up front. I found a pew and prayed — for Raina, for Julia, for a little divine intervention.
Julia called while I was walking the perimeter of the Colosseum. Raina’s seizures hadn’t stopped. They were moving to Phenobarbital. One of those calls where you want to be in two places at once and can’t properly be in either. One more day, and then home to my girls.
This race — and every race in 2026 — is dedicated to finding answers for Raina and families like ours. CURE GABA A funds research directly into her gene variant. If this story moved you, please consider donating.
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