This was published 2 years ago
How a sunrise run club helped these two friends deal with their demons
By Michael Crooks
Todd Liubinskas, 38, and Trent Knox, 42, meet at a Sydney beach every Saturday at 4.30am to run. While it’s therapy for their bodies, what they hadn’t reckoned on was it being a journey towards their mental rehabilitation, too.
Trent: I met Todd in 2015, at a friend’s gym. We started chatting and found we had a lot in common: our dads were both rugby league players who’d trained to feel fit and strong – and that was us now. We’d bump into each other, have a coffee and a chat.
I was starting a Saturday-morning run club. A few of us would run up and down the hill at Bronte Beach [up Calga Place, then down Bronte Road] 10 times, then go for a dip. The early start was keeping me out of trouble on Friday nights. I was in a dark place. I’d been unhappy in my real-estate job for years, not coping well with the pressure and egos of the profession, and been accumulating anxiety around the turbulent family life I’d had as a kid. I was binge-drinking, going on cocaine- and ecstasy-fuelled benders; I’d lost a long-term relationship and some close friends because of it. I needed help.
In 2016, I set up an Instagram account and invited everyone I knew to join me in the “440 Run Club” [it’s 440 metres from the bottom to the top of the hill]. I started to harass Todd to come down. I hadn’t told him about my struggles. He knew something was going on, but he didn’t push me about it. He just always made himself available to let me air any kind of problem without judging me or telling me what to do.
In 2019, we did the Red Bull Defiance, a 150-kilometre adventure race in Cairns. I’d quit my real-estate job and was running my own personal training business by then, but I was still bingeing.
During a five-kilometre kayak leg of the race with Todd, I began to think about how lucky I was to be alive after all my substance abuse and how much he’d helped me. Exhausted, I broke down and told him everything. I said, “I should be dead, but because you’ve always been there for me, I’m still here. I love you.”
Todd told me how much I’d helped him get through his recent break-up. We’d never opened up like this before – typical men! – but then realised how important we’d been to each other. We were both crying.
In June last year, I went on my last bender. It started with a glass of wine on my own at home on a Saturday night, then I called a cocaine dealer. I didn’t put myself to bed until 2am Monday morning. Todd was calling, looking for me. He left a message saying he was scared, until he heard I was okay. Then he sat me down and said, “I’m always going to be here no matter what. What can I do?”
That’s a powerful question. It struck me that this guy was prepared to do anything for me. He made me want to get to the bottom of why I was doing this to myself. I booked myself into Alcoholics Anonymous the next day and have been sober ever since.
“He sat me down and said, ‘I’m always going to be here no matter what. What can I do?’ That’s a powerful question.”
Every Saturday, Todd and I meet at Bronte for the run. Each month, I say, “That’s another 30 days sober”, and he pats me on the back.
Sometimes you’ve got to be vulnerable. It helped me, and now it’s helping others. We have 200 people running with us: cancer survivors, the overweight, people with addiction issues, Parkinson’s patients. Afterwards, we have a swim and a coffee and share our stories. My catchphrase is, “Find your Toddy.”
When you learn to get up before the sun rises, it’s peaceful. You can think. You build a relationship with your darkness. Then all you have to do is run into the light.
Todd Liubinskas (left), and Trent Knox: “Knoxy kept me sane by just listening – not giving advice, just supporting me.”Credit: Edwina Pickles
Todd: I’ve always been in and out of gyms. I met Knoxy in one and we had an instant connection: we both like to train hard and outdoors, so we started doing it together. The more we trained, the closer we got. Knoxy started pestering me about the 440, wanting me to come down. He said it started at 5am and I was like, “Whaaat?” It took me three weeks to show up. There were only six people there, doing 10 loops of the hill, everyone going at their own pace. It takes about 45 minutes on average. On the fourth lap, I could see the sun peeking over the horizon. I took it all in – the sunrise, the beach – and it gave me goosebumps. It was so beautiful. I was like, “Holy shit! This is why they do it.”
I thought I wasn’t going to be able to finish the last lap. Then Knoxy runs up and says, “No mate, I’m with you.” He and another guy surrounded me as I ran, talking to me, helping me breathe better, getting me to the end. I thought, “This guy gets up early, helps people train and doesn’t want anything back.” I was hooked.
“That was the hardest, most beautiful thing I’ve ever done, and I’m so glad you were there.”
The year 2018 was a tough one for me. My marriage was breaking down and Knoxy kept me sane by just listening – not giving advice, just supporting me. He was like, “Let’s go for a run.” And if I started talking about it, he’d listen. He was always there.
The Cairns race the following year changed our lives. At the finish, I just lost it: I’d been separated from my wife for five months, and so much emotion had built up inside me. It was with Knoxy that I was able to let it all go. I said to him, “That was the hardest, most beautiful thing I’ve ever done, and I’m so glad you were there.” We were inseparable after that.
By the time Knoxy began his sobriety journey, the run club had grown and I encouraged him to share his story. Early last year, he started uploading a daily video message on the 440’s Instagram page and opened up about his struggles. People started messaging their support, sharing their own stories of addiction. I knew they would: the run is all about the healing power of community. About 5000 people across the globe are now running every weekend under the 440 banner; there are clubs in the US, too.
We get to Bronte at 4.30am every Saturday. There are a couple of foxes around, maybe some people coming home from the night before, and a million stars in the sky. It’s a magical time. On average, 200 people come in the summer, up to 150 in the winter. This is our social network. It’s a place to drop your ego, be vulnerable and hear other people’s stories.
During the week, one of us might not turn up for a training session, but we always make the 440. We run it together, but it’s Trent’s baby. It came from his struggle.
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