What It’s Really Like to Run a Marathon in North Korea

full audio video here.

n a rare moment of sporting camaraderie behind the DPRK’s closed borders, long-distance runner Johan Nylander and his teenage son laced up for the 2025 Pyongyang Marathon. The Runner Journal sat down with Nylander to hear about their extraordinary run through the streets of North Korea’s capital – an adventure of digital detox, cultural connection, and personal triumph after near-tragedy.

The Stadium of 50,000 Cheers

Nylander still gets goosebumps describing the scene at the starting line. On an early April morning, he and his son stepped onto the red track of Pyongyang’s Kim Il-Sung Stadium, greeted by a roaring wall of sound. “There were 50,000 people cheering in the stands – I’ve never experienced anything like it,” he says, shaking his head in awe. For a moment, the normally reserved foreign correspondent was simply a runner, basking in the deafening applause of a crowd that had been waiting years for this very day.

A sea of local spectators waves from the stands of Pyongyang’s Kim Il-Sung Stadium, creating an electric pre-race atmosphere. The historic arena can seat around 50,000 people, and on marathon day it was filled to capacity. Foreign runners like Nylander felt the energy reverberate through the stadium, a thunderous support unlike any other race he had run.

It was the first time since the pandemic that foreign amateur athletes were allowed into North Korea’s capital, and the significance wasn’t lost on Nylander. “We were some of the first Westerners they’d seen in years,” he notes, recalling how even the announcer gave an enthusiastic welcome over the loudspeakers. Around him on the field stood runners from nearly forty countries – an eclectic crew of adventure-seekers, charity runners, and curious globetrotters – all warming up under the watchful eyes of officials. In the mix were North Korea’s own elite runners, about 250 of them, poised to compete at the front of the pack. But for most foreigners like Nylander and his son, this marathon wasn’t about winning; it was about the experience of a lifetime.

As the starting gun cracked, The roar of the stadium followed them out through the tunnel and into Pyongyang’s broad avenues. “My heart was pounding,” Nylander says – and not just from the adrenaline of the race. “To have that many people cheering for you in a place so isolated… it was surreal.” He admits he felt a lump in his throat as he left the stadium behind, feet hitting pavement on Korea’s most secretive streets.

Miles Through a Hidden City

Once outside the arena, the marathon route unfolded along streets few outsiders ever see. The morning sky was overcast and the air crisp. Nylander and his son settled into a steady pace amid a stream of fellow runners, with uniformed marshals guiding the way. They crossed under the towering Arch of Triumph, a massive granite monument that dwarfs its Parisian counterpart. “We actually ran through the Arch of Triumph at the start – can you imagine?” Nylander says, eyes widening. The colossal archway loomed above, its carved 1940s liberation imagery a stark backdrop to the brightly clad runners trotting beneath it. “Talk about a surreal backdrop for a marathon. One moment I’m checking my breathing, the next I’m passing under this huge symbol of North Korean pride.”

From there, the course led them into the city’s heart. They passed Kim Il-Sung Square, the vast plaza infamous for military parades and mass rallies. Today, instead of goose-stepping soldiers, it was a pack of panting marathoners traversing the gray paving stones. Nylander couldn’t help but marvel at the contrast. “I remember thinking, this is where they hold those huge parades, and here we are running in shorts and T-shirts across it. It was almost absurd – in a good way,” he laughs. Pyongyang revealed itself in glimpses: sweeping revolutionary monuments, broad Soviet-style boulevards, and even pockets of unexpected modernity. As they ran along the Taedong River embankment, Nylander spotted futuristic high-rises on Mirae Scientists Street across the water – sleek apartments and science towers that shimmered through the morning haze. It was a Pyongyang far removed from the drab propaganda posters of Western imagination. “I was surprised to see new high-rise buildings shooting up,” he says, noting that parts of the skyline looked almost futuristic. North Korea’s capital has been changing, even while its borders were shut.

But if the city’s development impressed him, it was the people on the streets who truly moved him. Along sections of the course, clusters of Pyongyang citizens had gathered to watch the strange spectacle of foreigners running through their city. Entire families stood by the roadside; uniformed students, factory workers on break, elderly couples in Mao-style suits – faces that usually only appear as distant crowds in state media were now just a few feet away. Nylander says their curiosity was palpable. “They stared at first, not sure what to do,” he recalls. But the ice broke quickly. When a few runners waved, the locals waved back. Children began to giggle and chase alongside for a few meters. Nylander’s son was running just ahead of him when a small boy in a puffy green jacket darted out with his hand raised. The young foreigner leaned down to slap the child’s hand in a high-five, and the boy beamed ear to ear.

That set the tone. Soon high-fives became the universal language of the day. “Every time I saw kids, I’d veer over to give them high-fives,” Nylander says. “I must have high-fived dozens of them. And their parents too!” In one neighborhood, a group of women and an older gentleman waved eagerly at passing runners, their smiles genuine and unguarded. Nylander waved back, and in that moment, the barrier between two very different worlds felt just a little thinner.

Curious Pyongyang residents line the route to cheer on the runners. Families with children, office workers and elders alike waved enthusiastically at the foreign athletes, their faces lit with genuine warmth. These brief exchanges – a smile, a wave, a high-five – became moments of real human connection in a city usually closed off to the world.

Nylander treasures a particular memory from around mile 10. The course had looped back near Moranbong Park, and he was beginning to feel the miles in his legs. “I was starting to hit a bit of a wall,” he admits. But just then, he spotted a row of young women in light blue coats waving fervently. They looked so excited to simply see outsiders in their city. “One of them shouted something – I couldn’t understand, but the tone was pure encouragement,” he says. He gave a thumbs-up and got a chorus of laughter and cheers in return. “It lifted me. It really did. I felt a second wind right then.” For a man who has reported from some of the world’s most remote corners, this simple encouragement from strangers in Pyongyang was deeply touching. “It reminded me that people are people, wherever you go. Politics aside, on that day we were just humans together, sharing a moment.”

Running Unplugged and Present

One aspect of running in North Korea that Nylander hadn’t fully anticipated was the enforced digital detox it entailed. A self-described news junkie, he’s used to being constantly connected – live-tweeting events, checking emails, mapping his runs via GPS. But in Pyongyang, the normal rules of connectivity do not apply. Foreigners can bring their phones, but there is no access to international mobile networks or the open internet. “No Google Maps, no Instagram, nothing,” Nylander says. The country operates on its own closed intranet system, and only a privileged few have smartphones with limited online access. For the five days he spent there, Nylander was effectively cut off from the digital world.

Rather than feeling anxiety, he found it refreshing. “Honestly, it was wonderful,” he admits with a grin. Instead of scrolling feeds or worrying about work, he focused entirely on the present – the here and now of his adventure. He and his son would end their days comparing impressions, not TikTok videos. They navigated Pyongyang’s moments the old-fashioned way: by being attentive and engaged. “One night after a training jog around our hotel, we just sat and talked. No distractions. It’s amazing how much you notice when your head isn’t buried in a screen,” Nylander says.

During the race itself, being unplugged helped him soak up every detail. He vividly recalls the sensory impressions: the synchronized clapping of spectators, the echo of footfalls on Pyongyang’s immaculate boulevards, the faint smell of coal smoke mixed with spring blossoms in the air. Had he been worrying about snapping photos for social media, he might have missed those things. “Running unplugged in Pyongyang forced me to be truly present,” he reflects. “It’s something I want to carry back into my everyday life – that presence. Though,” he adds with a chuckle, “the first thing I did when I got out was send a text to my wife that we were okay!” Digital detox or not, he knows family back home was anxious for news.

His teenage son handled the lack of internet surprisingly well, too. “I thought he’d go through withdrawal,” Nylander laughs. “What 19-year-old willingly gives up Snapchat for a week? But he was a champ about it.” In fact, father and son grew closer in that disconnected bubble. Even when not running, they spent their time exploring the city on the guided tour, playing cards in the evening, or simply reflecting on what they’d seen. The absence of outside news made the duo feel like they had truly escaped the world for a moment – stepping into a parallel reality where only the present adventure mattered.

Between Two Worlds: Navigating North Korea’s Reality

Every foreigner visiting Pyongyang is conscious of walking a delicate line, and Nylander was no exception. North Korea is a country of strict rules and ubiquitous surveillance; as a visitor you are kept to a carefully scripted itinerary, always accompanied by government-appointed guides. Running a marathon there didn’t exempt Nylander and the other foreigners from the usual protocols. “We couldn’t just wander off course,” he notes. Along the marathon route, uniformed officials kept watch, and certain streets were cordoned off to keep runners within approved areas. The night before the race, their minders had briefed them on dos and don’ts: no straying from the group, no photography of military personnel or sensitive sites, and absolutely no political commentary within earshot of locals.

Nylander, having visited the North once a decade earlier, was well aware of the constraints. “I knew everything we saw was presumably curated,” he says. “We see what they want us to see.” Indeed, some Western observers argue events like the marathon are propaganda exercises – showcasing a friendly, modern face of the regime to foreign guests. Nylander acknowledges this with a sober nod. “Look, I’m not naïve. It’s a highly oppressive society; military presence is everywhere, even if it’s just on the periphery of your vision. You feel that.” Throughout the trip, enormous portraits of the Kim leaders gazed down at him, and he noticed the subtle choreography behind everyday scenes. There were moments he caught a hint of the iron fist under the veneer – like when their tour bus passed a convoy of soldiers, or when certain questions to the guide were deftly deflected with a practiced smile.

Yet, he is quick to point out that the human interactions he had felt genuine in spite of the regime.

“Those smiles and high-fives were real. The kids weren’t clapping because someone told them to – at least it sure didn’t seem that way. You can’t fake the kind of curiosity I saw in people’s eyes.” During the post-race cool down, Nylander chatted cautiously with one of the North Korean race volunteers through a translator. She congratulated him on finishing; he complimented the event’s organization. It was a brief, polite exchange – nothing overtly political – but meaningful to him nonetheless. “I told her I was thankful to be there, and she replied, ‘Thank you for coming to my country.’ That’s all. Such a simple exchange, but think about it… How often do our two countries’ people get to even say hello to each other?”

He reflects on this often-unseen side of visiting North Korea: the personal, unscripted moments that happen in the margins. In his hotel, after the race, a bellboy asked in halting English how old his son was and smiled when Nylander answered. At a tourist gift shop, his son mimed a silly dance move with their guide, sparking laughter all around. These were tiny cracks in the facade where real human warmth shone through. “Those little moments are where you find truth,” Nylander says softly. At no point did he forget where he was, or the reality that surrounds the people he met. But rather than making him feel manipulated, it made him feel a deeper empathy. “I ran past so many young men in uniform on security duty. They looked about my son’s age. I kept wondering what they were thinking as they watched us.” It’s a question that lingers with him – how do ordinary North Koreans perceive these foreign visitors running carefree through their streets, then vanishing again behind the curtain of international isolation?

Nylander doesn’t pretend to have clear answers. Participating in the marathon, he says, is not an endorsement of the regime by any stretch. “Some folks asked me, ‘Why even go? Aren’t you just being used?’” he recounts, referring to skeptical comments he received. His take is measured: “I went because I believe engagement, even limited, is better than isolation. I went to run, to connect on a human level. Yes, they probably used us for propaganda to some extent – but I also came away with insights I couldn’t have gotten otherwise.” Those insights were both positive and sobering. He witnessed the surprising signs of progress – like solar panels on rooftops and citizens with smartphones – hinting that everyday life in Pyongyang is slowly changing. Yet he also felt the shadow of a system that tightly controls its people. “It’s hard to reconcile the two,” he admits. “North Korea is full of paradoxes. This marathon was a kind of microcosm of that – genuine joy and hospitality on the surface, with an underlying layer of... let’s call it stage management.” As interviewers, we can see Nylander choosing his words carefully, aware of the nuance required. It’s clear that the experience left him reflective, not disillusioned.

A Finish Line to Remember

After winding through 26.2 miles of Pyongyang, the marathon route led the runners back to where it all began: Kim Il-Sung Stadium. By late morning, the clouds had parted and the sun was shining brightly – a dramatic change from the gray start. Nylander was exhausted and exhilarated as he re-entered the stadium through the same tunnel as before. This time, the stands erupted in another wave of cheers specifically for the returning runners. “The noise hit me like a wall,” he says, smiling. “I was running on fumes by then, but that sound just carried me.” He looked to his left and saw his son still alongside him, sweat-soaked and determined. They had managed to stick together through the entire race. “We didn’t plan to necessarily run stride for stride, but it just worked out that way,” Nylander says proudly. In the final stretch on the stadium track, father and son found an extra burst of speed. “I told him, ‘Let’s finish strong!’ and we sprinted that last 100 meters,” he recalls. They crossed the finish line side by side, arms raised triumphantly.

The moment they stopped, Nylander turned and gave his son the biggest hug, both of them panting and laughing with relief. “It’s one thing to finish a marathon. But to finish it together with my son, in freaking Pyongyang… I mean, that’s a memory of a lifetime,” he says, his voice cracking just a touch. You can sense how much it meant to him – not only completing the race, but sharing it with family.

inside the stadium, a festive mood took over. Runners milled about exchanging congratulatory handshakes and selfies. Many draped flags of their home countries around their shoulders. Nylander and his son collapsed onto the grass infield for a few minutes, stretching out and savoring the flood of endorphins. North Korean volunteers handed them each a commemorative medal and an ice-cold bottle of water. The medal was heavy, emblazoned with Korean script and a gold star – a tangible symbol of an incomparable feat they had just accomplished. “I looked at my son and saw tears in his eyes, or maybe it was sweat,” Nylander jokes. “But I knew what he was feeling because I felt it too – this immense sense of achievement and bond.”

Before long, they made their way into the stands to rest. In one section, a group of foreign runners had broken out celebratory beers – local Taedonggang beers, procured from who-knows-where, being passed around like trophies. They waved Nylander and his son over. Soon the two found themselves seated on the pink plastic seats among new friends from around the world, toasting to their success. There was a Frenchman who had run dozens of marathons, a young woman from South Korea (running a race in the North for the first time), a trio of Americans who came on a whim, and a burly British runner proudly wearing a tracksuit in North Korean flag colors. Despite coming from such different backgrounds, in that moment they were all simply jubilant finishers swapping stories. Nylander’s son clinked his beer bottle with the others and grinned – language barriers melted away by shared accomplishment and a bit of alcohol. “This is what I love about the running community,” Nylander says, raising an imaginary toast. “We didn’t know each other at all a day before, and now it’s like we’ve been friends for years. Running does that – it bonds people.”

Foreign runners relax in the stadium stands after finishing the Pyongyang Marathon, sharing in post-race camaraderie. Still wearing their race bibs, they toast with well-earned beers – a spontaneous celebration of endurance and international friendship. In a place as isolated as North Korea, this simple gathering of diverse runners felt especially momentous.

As they sat in the sun-soaked stadium seats, Nylander took a moment to soak in the scene. Down on the track, the final finishers were still coming in, each greeted by applause. Up in the stands, tens of thousands of North Korean spectators remained, clapping politely for each runner – the event was as much a show for them as it was a race for the participants. There was music playing over the loudspeakers, an upbeat Korean pop song that a few local students were even dancing to in the aisles. It felt festive, almost normal, if not for the giant portraits of Kim Il-Sung and Kim Jong-Il gazing down from one end of the stadium. Nylander gestured for his son to take it all in – the crowd, the athletes draped in flags, the surreal context. “We’ll never forget this,” he murmured. His son nodded in agreement, eyes wide with the kind of pure, unfiltered wonder that no smartphone screen could ever deliver.

Reflections on Recovery and Bonding

Sitting with us after his return, Johan Nylander radiates a quiet pride. It’s clear that the Pyongyang Marathon was not just another travel story for him, but a deeply personal milestone. Just two years earlier, the idea of running 42 kilometers – anywhere, let alone in North Korea – seemed almost impossible. In 2023, Nylander faced a near-death experience that left him physically weakened and mentally shaken. He doesn’t divulge all the details (and we don’t press), but he alludes to a serious health crisis that “knocked me flat on my back.” Doctors had told him he was lucky to be alive. During the long recovery, as he slowly regained strength, Nylander turned to the one activity that had always given him solace: running.

“At first I could barely jog a few hundred meters,” he recalls. “I was so damn happy when I managed my first slow 5K after recovering. It felt like getting a piece of myself back.” Running became his therapy, a way to rebuild his body and confidence after confronting his mortality. Each week, the distances crept up. By the time he was fully healthy, father and son were regularly going on runs together, exploring Hong Kong’s trails or jogging along the waterfront. The marathon idea started as a casual suggestion by his son – an avid runner himself – who teased they should do something “crazy” when Nylander turned 50. When the opportunity arose to run in Pyongyang, it struck them as the perfect adventure to mark not just a milestone birthday, but Nylander’s second lease on life. “For me, this race was a celebration of being alive,” he says, voice earnest. “After coming so close to the other side, crossing that finish line meant more than I can ever express.”

He pauses, then adds with a smile, “And doing it with my son… that was the real gift.” The father-son bond was evident throughout Nylander’s storytelling – the way his eyes light up when mentioning the boy’s name, the proud chuckle when recounting how the younger man kept him motivated in the final miles. During our interview, he scrolls through photos on his phone and lands on one of him and his son later that afternoon in Pyongyang, both wearing their teal race shirts and medals. They’re standing in front of the city’s Arch of Triumph, arms around each other and grinning from ear to ear.

(image) A foreign father-and-son duo proudly display their Pyongyang Marathon finisher medals beneath the city’s towering Arch of Triumph. The iconic monument—larger than Paris’s Arc de Triomphe—looms behind them as crowds of locals in the background disperse after the race. For this pair, the medals symbolize not just a race completed, but a profound shared journey in a most unlikely locale.

In that photo, against the sweeping stone of the Arch, Johan Nylander sees more than just a tourist snapshot. He sees a symbol of triumph over personal adversity and the strengthening of a familial bond. “Every marathon finish is emotional for me,” he says as we wrap up, “but this one… I’ll be processing it for a long time.” He glances down at the medal in his hands – he’s been fiddling with it during our conversation. It catches the light, gleaming bright gold. “It represents so many things: years of training, months of planning, and a week in a place I never thought I’d return to. It represents hope, I think. Hope and human connection.”

As we pack up our notes, Nylander mentions that he and his son have already discussed their next adventure. Perhaps another far-flung marathon, perhaps something entirely different. “Whatever it is, we want to keep that spirit going,” he says. The Pyongyang experience has only whetted their appetite for meaningful travel and running exploits. Before we part, we ask him what he ultimately took away from running a marathon in North Korea. Nylander reflects for a moment, then responds: “That people-to-people connection can cut through even the thickest barriers. That running can be a bridge between worlds. And that I’m damn lucky – lucky to be alive, lucky to run, lucky to share it with my son.” He smiles, a decidedly human smile, the kind that no propaganda machine or AI script could ever fake.

In a world rife with division and tension, Johan Nylander’s journey stands as a testament to the simple, profound power of running. One marathon in a hidden city won’t change the world, but for a father and son – and perhaps for a few North Koreans who got to share a high-five and a moment of joy – it certainly changed something. And sometimes, that’s enough.