I have been making maps for as long as I have been running. This is the place where both of those things finally meet — a tribute to the day you crossed the line, set on paper the way it deserves to be.
It started with tracing paper and a London A–Z. I would come back from a Sunday long run and copy out the streets I had just covered — every junction, every park, every river crossing — until the map was as much mine as the run had been. The abstract grid of a city slowly becoming a record of effort.
A marathon is the same instinct, scaled up. Years of training compress into a single line through a city on a single morning. That line deserves a print of its own — not auto-generated, not pumped out of a template, but composed like a page you actually cared about. That is what this studio makes.
The line is not the point.
I am not selling you a route. I am trying to return the day. The line is the proof — the print is the memory.
Composed, not generated.
Every map starts as raw OpenStreetMap data and is then re-set in the studio. Which roads to show, which to suppress, how thin a stroke reads at print size, where the type sits. The software does not get the last word on any of it.
Made to last.
Gallery-grade giclée on 310 gsm cotton-pulp, with pigment inks rated for a century. You will hang it in your first flat, your fifth flat, and the one after that.
Made for one.
Your name. Your time. Your bib. The date you crossed the line. Every edition exists once, for one person. If it does not feel right when it arrives, we make it again.
Below, you can watch one of them build itself — Frost-palette London, layer by layer, in the order each piece arrives. Scroll on.
Empty page.
We start with a blank Frost canvas — a quiet, icy field. Every layer that follows is added intentionally, one at a time.