Marathoner Fauja Singh: An Icon of Fitness

Fauja Singh, nicknamed, Turbaned Tornado, started running marathon (42 km run) at the age of 89. He ran ten marathons, the last one at the age of 100. He passed away at 114 years in an accident while walking down the highway near his village in Punjab. Prime Minister Narendra Modi called him an inspiration for youths and an exceptional athlete with incredible determination.

Fauja Singh’s story began not with applause, but with doubts. 

Born on April 1, 1911, in the village of Beas Pind in Jalandhar, Punjab, he came into the world frail and silent. His legs were so thin that he was nicknamed Danda—stick. Doctors weren’t hopeful, and neighbours whispered that he wouldn’t live long. 

Fauja didn’t learn to walk until five. But beneath the weakness, something was stirring. Something gentle but unshakable. He grew up working the fields, his days shaped by the rhythm of the land and the prayers of his faith. His body may have been slow to grow, but his spirit had already begun to run.

Fauja lived most of his life far from stadiums and headlines. A quiet farmer, he later migrated to England to be closer to his children. He had known struggle since his childhood—but nothing prepared him for the sorrow that came in his later years. 

In 1992, Fauja lost his wife. Two years later, his son Kuldip died in a horrific road accident in Punjab—a trauma that would haunt him. For a long time, grief pinned him down. He lost interest in the world. Until one day, from the stillness of mourning, he saw something on television: a marathon race. Something about it stirred the soil of his sorrow.

At 89, when most people slow down, Fauja decided to lace up. He didn’t know how long a marathon was. He only knew he needed to move.

Fauja’s first race was in the year 2000 in London. He showed up in a suit, unaware he’d be running 42 kilometers. His coach, Harmander Singh, gently helped him prepare—better shoes, better clothes, better pacing. Fauja finished the race in just under seven hours. From there, he didn’t stop.

Nine marathons followed: London, Toronto, New York. At 92, he set a personal best. And in 2011, at the age of 100, he crossed the finish line in Toronto and clocked 8 hours and 11 minutes to become the first centenarian to complete a full marathon. Guinness World Records didn’t recognize the record due to a missing birth certificate. But the world didn’t need documentation to witness what he had achieved. His run wasn’t measured in time—it was measured in grace.

Fauja didn’t run for medals. He ran for meaning. He ran to raise money for those devastated by earthquakes and tsunamis. He ran for cancer research, for sick children, for his culture.

The world began to notice. Adidas made him the face of a campaign – Impossible is Nothing. Fauja appeared alongside legends like David Beckham and Muhammad Ali. But he never let the spotlight blind him. He spoke softly, in broken English and earthy Punjabi. Fauja lived simply, eating roti and lentils, homemade yogurt and milk. His faith anchored him. His humility defined him. He called himself a man of the soil. Others called him the “Turbaned Tornado.”

On July 14, 2025, Fauja Singh died near where his story had begun. He was walking, not running, down the Jalandhar-Pathankot highway—just a few steps from home—when a speeding SUV struck him. The man who had outrun age, who had carried the hopes of millions across continents, was felled by the reckless pace of modern life. He was 114. The driver fled, later arrested, while a country mourned not just a man, but a symbol. A symbol of what endurance looks like when it’s built not on ego, but on quiet courage. A symbol of what the human spirit can still achieve, no matter how late it begins.

His funeral on July 20 was marked with full state honours. Punjab wept as he was given a ceremonial gun salute. The local school will now bear his name. Plans are underway for statues in his village and at Jalandhar’s sports college. His running group in London, Sikhs in the City, launched a global campaign in his memory—asking 8,999 people to donate £114 each to build a clubhouse. The numbers weren’t random. They marked the age he began running and the age at which he died.

 But Fauja’s legacy is larger than any statue, larger even than his astonishing age. It lives in the hearts of those who feel too old to start again, too broken to move forward, too tired to hope. He showed us that the human soul is not measured by years, but by its will to rise.

Fauja Singh didn’t run to prove anything. He ran because it was the only way to carry his pain. He ran for his son, for his wife, for the boy he once was, ridiculed and frail. Through every footfall, he told the world: grief does not get the last word.

As his ashes merged with the land he once tilled, and chants echoed under the grey Punjab sky, there was a sense that something eternal had passed among us. Somewhere beyond that horizon, you can almost hear it again—the resolute sound of one man’s quiet rebellion against time. Not racing for glory. Just running.