Chris noticed something striking the moment he scanned a girl’s Tinder profile. It wasn’t her broad smile, nor the Greek goddess headband, nor the silver bracelet that caught a camera’s flash at a party. No. What stood out was the watch. “Only someone who runs regularly wears a timepiece like this,” he remarked. A man who has finished ten marathons and countless races opened the conversation by asking for the time. They met for a date after a curious exchange of messages. Reyes had run the New York Marathon and loved the rhythm of running through the city. The rest is history. They’ll celebrate their fifth anniversary next month. A sport that united them, one that no one should ever try to pull apart.
Running feels mysterious to someone who only jogs when the subway is about to vanish. Chris says it makes him feel free. It’s a freeing sense—like the world can be traversed on foot. You feel you own every mile. The exertion may sting, but pride lasts forever, and that makes the pain worthwhile.
A few weeks back, the author watched Leyre race in the New York City Marathon, cheering him on. Leyre believes the writer should join one of the Big Apple’s running clubs, but the writer resists, saying there’s already enough on the plate. Match marathons Lucentum offers these days include a tough challenge in Coruña on a Friday night, where a late surge fell short. Then came a midweek stop at Melilla, a game that’s hard to break into but easier to win once engaged. Saturday meant a journey to Valladolid, a track long associated with them, and frequently played well.
Miles upon miles on the field, endless minutes, relentless pressure, little rest. The writer wonders how Chris managed to complete marathons and ultramarathons up to 50 miles. Chris explains that months of preparation are essential, but during the race the trick is taking one step at a time, not fixating on the ultimate destination, just moving forward mile by mile and celebrating small milestones. That same method can be applied to their HLA Alicante in this marathon-style match, where the goal still lies ahead. The surest way to reach it is to move from room to room without peering further. The road proves hard. Reyes speaks of a flood of physical and emotional sensations in the marathon that words barely capture: ups and downs, shifts, pain here, discomfort there, pulls, cramps, nausea, thirst, euphoria, and a tumble from one kilometer to the next. It’s never a straight line. No one pretends it is easy. And perhaps that’s the same feeling Chapela or Steinarsson experienced when they led the team. When Gatell or McDonnell’s legs ached but the game demanded they keep pushing. When Matulionis or Blaylock hunted for any opening after minutes of full effort. When Arcos battled flu week after week yet still had to run and jump to avoid giving up midgame because victory mattered.
Chris notes that after the 22nd mile, the brain goes quiet. The body is heavy, the mind cannot fully process, and speech becomes nearly impossible. The only instruction left from the brain is to keep moving forward. The crowd’s cheers, the music, the banners—they all push him to place one foot in front of the other, mile after mile. The writer can’t help but wonder why anyone would subject their body to such strain, such fatigue. Maybe the answer lies in the sacrifices that come with playing in LEB Oro—the training, the games, the injuries, and the emotional toll of travel, wins, and losses, all poured into competing at the highest level. Pain is temporary. Pride, though, is eternal.
Chris noticed the same clock when he saw that girl’s Tinder profile. It wasn’t in her broad smile, the Greek goddess headband, or the silver bracelet that a photo captured on the way to a party. No. The clock mattered. “Only an athlete who runs regularly wears these kinds of watches,” he said. He, a runner with ten marathons and countless races behind him, started the conversation by asking for the time. They dated after a string of curious messages. Reyes had run the New York Marathon and enjoyed running through the city. The rest, as they say, is history. Their fifth anniversary will be celebrated next month. In this world of sport, there is a bond that cannot be broken.
Running remains a mystery to the writer, someone who only runs when the subway disappears from sight. Chris insists it grants freedom. It’s a powerfully liberating feeling—knowing you can go anywhere on your own terms. You own the road when you run. The effort hurts now, but the pride endures forever.
A few weeks ago, the writer cheered Leyre during the New York City Marathon. Leyre is determined that I join one of New York’s running clubs, though I remark that there is enough on the schedule already. Lucentum’s current marathons include a daunting match in Coruña on a Friday, followed by the rush of a third quarter that did not go as planned. Then an evening with Melilla at her home in the middle of the week; a game that’s tough to enter but easier once you’re in. And this Saturday, a journey to Valladolid, a track with a storied history that has become a regular stopping point for them.
Countless kilometers, endless minutes, endless pressure, little rest. The writer asks how Chris could sustain marathons and ultramarathons up to 50 miles. The answer is simple yet powerful: months of preparation, then a race that focuses on small steps rather than a single distant summit. The same logic fits their HLA Alicante’s marathon-like pursuit, where the end goal remains far away. The only way to reach it is to move forward, room by room, without peering too far ahead. The road is tough. Reyes describes a flood of physical and emotional sensations in the marathon that are hard to summarize: climbs, declines, pain, cramps, nausea, thirst, euphoria, and a steady erosion of pace from kilometer to kilometer. It is never a straight line. No one claims it is easy. And perhaps that’s the very feeling Chapela or Steinarsson carried when they led the team. When Gatell or McDonnell’s legs ached but they kept playing. When Matulionis or Blaylock failed to discover a hole after minutes of exertion. When Arcos had the flu all week yet kept running and jumping, determined to win no matter what.
Chris notes that after the 22nd mile, the brain stops functioning in its usual way. Speech fades. The body weighs heavy, and the sole instruction left is to keep moving forward. The crowd’s applause, the songs, the banners, all drive him onward to the next mile. The writer wonders how anyone would willingly subject their body to such pressure, pain, and fatigue. The answer, perhaps, echoes what Parrado, Borovnjak, Carrillo, or Monclova would say about the sacrifices involved in playing at the highest levels in LEB Oro: the physical pain of training, the games, the injuries, and the emotional investment of travel, wins, and losses. Pain is temporary. Pride endures forever.