Giselle Moor sent us this story about completing the Sydney Marathon in her wheelchair. As soon as we read it, we knew we had to share it.
The marathon is an incredible but incredibly challenging thing to accomplish and none of us make it to the end alone. Somewhere along those 26.2 miles we discover a lot about ourselves and other people, and many of us find somewhere that we can belong among strangers. Giselle’s story is a brilliant example of that.
ABOUT GISELLE MOOR
Giselle is a keynote speaker and disability inclusion advocate who found her freedom in marathons. She’s completed three in three years, with the 2026 London Marathon next on her list. You can find out more at gisellemoor.com and follow her on Instagram @zellymoor
Support Of Strangers: 42k On Four Wheels
On Sunday 31 August, I ran the Sydney Marathon for the second time, in my wheelchair. This is the four-wheel kind, not those slick three-wheel racing machines built for speed.
My wheels are the beautiful, bog-standard kind. A seven-year-old day chair that’s taken me backpacking across 18 countries and still, somehow, functioned enough to carry me 26 more miles around the city I call home. But first, back to 2024 when my entire experience with the marathon left me unravelled and traumatised.
My wheelchair quite literally broke on the way to the start line, underground at Gadigal station, and simply would not move. By some miracle, we got me upstairs in a medical wheelchair and — just before the elite chairs started — back to Bondi to fix my chair. There, we replaced parts and made it back to Crow’s Nest five minutes before the final corral cut-off. I started scatty, emotional, and already drained.
The other front wheel broke somewhere around Hyde Park on the way out, and I managed to race 5k on just three wheels. The whole experience chewed me up and spat me out, and looking back, it all feels like a blur. But it meant this year I had something to prove, no memory of the pain, and I was chasing my second star.
I entered marathon week excited but braced for chaos. A hot mess of tension, convinced my chair was in self-destruct mode yet again. Although we had new parts, I couldn’t shake the fear that things could go wrong.
My Whoop stress levels were reading six hours a day, proof that everything in me expected disaster for a second time. I’d overplanned for every eventuality — almost packing a hammer before talking myself out of it.
I meditated, regulated, ate, and slept. It was with the universe now. The work was done.
But that energy and the nerves. They were never just about a race. They were about the deeper reality of relying on more than a set of trainers to get you across the finish line. About what it’s like moving through the world on four wheels and everything it takes to get you through 42k. And when you do get there, the crowd can see you. Do they ever see you, or just the chair you sit in?
That’s something I’ve learnt about being disabled. Life in a wheelchair often means living with a paradox: people see you, and yet you can still somehow feel invisible. But as I laced up my Dr Martens on the start line, I wasn’t just seen. I was celebrated, and, more importantly, supported. Four hours and 40 minutes of smiles, support, and small conversations with strangers.
At one point, somewhere near The Rocks, I face-planted on the carpet in front of a crowd and found myself thrown out of the chair. Within milliseconds, I had a team of strangers helping me find my feet, my phone, and my medical equipment. The whole experience was probably under 60 seconds. That was the first reminder that when you run marathons, you never run alone.
We kept moving through the city. Adrenaline was high, as was the crowd. Last year, despite training, I hit my wall at 10k, and it lasted until the final sprint. This year, I was prepared for that long stretch out by the stadium. I had my special people in place, I found my groove, and the playlist picked up.
Don’t ask me how it works, but I can say, with 100% confidence, that high-fiving a small child is like collecting a mushroom in Mario Kart. Their little smiles and support carry you to the next K with a pep in your step (or push).
But it’s not just kids. It’s that moment when you lock eyes with a stranger. A silent exchange that says “I need support,” and they say “I got you.” When you go to watch a marathon, you’re never just there for the ones you came out to see. Support from strangers is a beautiful thing, and it kept me going on the hardest of sections.
As we entered Centennial Park we were on my turf. It was flat or fast from here on out, and time to send the speed all the way to the Opera House. The crowds grew, as did the roar, and by the time I was rolling down Macquarie’s Road, carried by the momentum not just of the hill but of thousands of voices, I took a moment. I had done it. All 35,000 of us had.
Later that evening, as the roar faded but the high remained, I was reminded of something else. Marathons are never just about the distance, the achievement, and the medal. They’re about belonging.
Sydney was buzzing. You could feel it at every water stop, every cheer zone, and every random stranger screaming to another. Run clubs, elites, first-timers, and all of us in between. Out there, choosing to do something that less than 1% of people will ever attempt. Because it is a choice.
On that Sunday, I learned that when inclusion is real, it doesn’t feel like a policy or a gesture. It feels like ten strangers lifting you back into your chair, like being cheered not despite your wheels, but because of them. By being seen as more than just my disabled label. As a strong athletic woman who can do hard things, alongside 35,000 others who proved they could too. I felt part of something much bigger than myself. Sydney felt connected, I felt supported, and like I truly belonged.
As I come back down from the high, the world may start to feel a little heavy once again. But on marathon Sunday, rolling through this stunning city, I felt lighter than I ever have. When I showed up for the Sydney Marathon, Sydney showed up for me.
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