Spartan races have always been more than just physical challenges for me. They’re a test of grit, resilience, and heart. But the Spartan Tenerife Super Race on November 24 was unlike anything I had ever experienced.
The day before, I had completed the Spartan Beast race, but my approach was different. I knew Beast would be long and grueling, so I didn’t push myself too hard. My goal was to pass the obstacles, keep a steady pace, and conserve energy. The real challenge, in my mind, was the next day: the Super and Sprint races, where I planned to push my limits and race hard for a fast finish.
But sometimes, things don’t go as planned.
It happened around the 3rd kilometer of the Super race. I was on the balance beam, an obstacle I’ve tackled many times before. But this time, something went wrong. I slipped, and as I fell, my right foot came down hard on a thick nail.
The pain was immediate and overwhelming. For a moment, I thought, That’s it. My foot is broken. My ankle began to swell almost instantly, and I couldn’t imagine how I would continue. The race staff rushed over to check on me, and while I appreciated their support, I couldn’t shake the feeling of disappointment. This wasn’t how I had envisioned my day.
But as I sat there, icing my swollen ankle, I thought: You didn’t come this far to stop now.
I grabbed two ice packs, stuffed them inside my sock, and decided to keep going. My dream of a fast race might have been over, but I wasn’t ready to quit.
Running was no longer an option. Every step sent searing pain through my ankle, but I shuffled forward, determined to finish. Somehow, I managed to pass most of the obstacles without penalties. The key was relying on my left leg for everything—I avoided putting any pressure on my injured right foot.
Physically, the pain was almost unbearable. But what hurt even more was knowing I couldn’t compete the way I had planned. I’d spent months preparing to run this race fast, to challenge myself, and now I was reduced to limping through it.
At times, the frustration brought me to tears. But I kept going, fueled by the incredible support of the spectators and other racers. Their cheers reminded me of the Spartan spirit where they chant for the effort as much as achievement.
The final stretch brought me to the iconic fire jump. Each step leading up to it felt impossible, but I wasn’t about to stop. I gritted my teeth, pushed through the pain, and leapt over the flames.
Crossing the finish line was bittersweet. I felt pride for pushing through, but it wasn’t the finish I had trained for. I was immediately taken to the medical tent, where initial X-rays showed no fractures. For a moment, I felt relief. But deep down, I knew something was wrong.
When I returned to Istanbul, further tests confirmed my suspicions: I had a torn ATFL (anterior talofibular ligament) and a traumatic osteochondral fracture in my talus bone. Surgery was the only option.
I could choose not to have surgery and live a normal life. But that’s not who I am. I’m not just someone who finishes races—I’m someone who chases goals, who pushes limits, and who thrives in the face of challenges.
This injury hasn’t broken me; it’s only made me more determined. My goal now is to recover, rebuild, and come back stronger for 2025. I want to complete the Spartan Trifecta—not just finish, but perform at my best.
Life doesn’t always go as planned. You can prepare, train, and strategize, but sometimes, things still go wrong. I’ve learned to accept that, and to find meaning in the struggle. Maybe this injury saved me from something worse. Maybe it’s teaching me patience and perseverance in ways I hadn’t expected.
Here’s a video I posted on Instagram during the race—yes, after the injury. It’s proof that no matter what happens, you can always keep moving forward:
The fire jump hurt. The finish line hurt. But they reminded me of why I do this. The greatest victories come after the hardest battles.
This is not the end of my Spartan journey. It’s just the beginning of my stronger comeback.
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