Early alarm, petrol-station coffee, and start-line chaos

Races are great and medals are lovely souvenirs, but what we remember and talk about months later isn't only crossing the line. What keeps us together is everything in between — that long, exciting, often chaotic day when the whole crew gets in the car and leaves town.

The day starts before the gun. Often a few days earlier, in the group chat: who drives, who's got a seat in the boot, where we grab the first coffee, who owns the car playlist.

Early alarm and the smell of the first petrol station

The race doesn't begin at the start line — it begins when you leave Kraljevo. Machine coffee, loud music in the car, and a crew that has your back.

The day usually starts at an hour you'd rather be asleep on a weekend — packing, socks and bib in the bag, half-awake glances in the rear-view mirror as we gather. The first stop is always a petrol station, the first group photo as the sun comes up. In the car it's a mix of nerves and good mood. Someone fixes their laces on the back seat, someone checks the course profile and aid stations for the hundredth time, while the club comedians drop a few jokes to bring everyone's pulse down. On the road there are no individuals — we breathe as one team, whether someone's running their first half marathon or chasing a 10K PR.

At the start: chaos and the silence before the surge

When we arrive — Čačak, Belgrade, Kruševac, or somewhere across the border — and step into that river of runners, the adrenaline hits hard. But in all that madness, our club shirt and colourful socks are our lighthouse. We stay together through the warm-up, swap last tips, and take our traditional group photo.

Then comes the moment — into the corral. The PA music booms, hundreds of watches beep at once searching for a GPS signal. You look left, you look right — your crew is there. No more nerves. You just wait for the signal to go. During the race we might split up, since everyone runs their own pace, but that moment when you pass another 36Soma runner, when they throw you a loud "Let's go!" or reach out a hand — that carries you through the next three kilometres, when your legs turn heavy.

The third half: pride and coffee afterwards

The real finish isn't the mat under the arch. The real finish is what we call the third half. Everyone gathered on the grass beside the finish, medals around our necks, the tiredness gone in a second. Then the retelling starts: "Did you see that climb at kilometre five?", "That aid station at seven saved me!", "My heart rate went through the roof, but I didn't stop."

Heavy legs heal best with a good meal and a long coffee somewhere on the way back to Kraljevo. As we drive home through the dusk, the car fills with that beautiful, heavy silence of tiredness and pure satisfaction. You look at the medal in your lap, at the crew dozing beside you, and you're already turning over the question in your head: where are we going next? 36Soma doesn't stop.