Running NYC

After (a few) months of (haphazard) training, plus three weeks of kill-me-now-I'm-stir-crazy-and-paranoid tapering, I finally got to run the New York marathon yesterday! I thought I'd give the full report. Or as full as I can make it before staggering to the bathroom for more Advil.

OK, it wasn't—and isn't—so bad (though I'm limping around today)! But that's what always seems to happen with these long races. You build up some miles in training, you dread the torture of 26.2, you sometimes wonder why you're doing the whole endeavor, you get worn down, you pound the pavement on the course on race day—swearing that it SUCKS and you'll never do it again—and somehow make it to the finish line, after which you start swearing it was AWESOME and wonder how long you'll wait until you try again.

I think I might wait a while, though!

But here's how everything went down:
My mom took the bus from Boston on Saturday, and I cooked up some pasta and laid out my gear (old sweats to toss right before the start, power gels, safety pins, a magazine to read, hat, gloves, garbage bag to wear at the start, barrettes, socks, watch, etc etc!) and we spent way too long debating whether my cell phone (and alarm) would switch to EST so I could get up in time. We finally decided it would. Turns out it didn't matter—it was one of those nights when I woke up about every 20 minutes, wondering if it was morning yet, feeling so relieved it wasn't. All I could think about was: I can't believe what I'm doing tomorrow. I tried not to make this marathon a big deal (hence the few months of haphazard training) but, in the end, it's still a f-ing long way to run, and there's no way to get around how tough it can be!

I finally just decided to get out of bed and get ready. It was a chilly morning—probably not even 40—and windy when I walked out the door in darkness. I took the Q train to downtown and jumped on the Staten Island Ferry, where all the runners got to catch a view of both the sunrise over Manhattan and the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, where we'd start the race. Inspiring, and frightening: the bridge looked enormous. After the ferry, it was on to a shuttle bus to the start village. Yes, a village, since almost 40,000 people ran NYC this year, and those 40,000 people need porta-potties, water, coffee, bagels, first aid, trucks to take their bags to the end, tents, maps, information people, real estate to lie on while killing time, and loudspeakers—which made race announcements in a half-dozen languages. This marathon is known to be very international, and I noticed people from all over: Italy, France, Netherlands, China, Russia, Spain, Canada, Brazil, Britain, and Australia. I sat/paced/read/stared/paced for well over two hours before getting the call to line up. Again, thinking: WTF?? What am I about to do? But the energy was amazing. People were so excited. It helped me get excited.

Wearing my haute-couture garbage bag—it was now about 45 degrees, and still windy—I jostled with the masses toward the start, then tossed the bag. As we ran up the bridge ("up" is right!), they blasted "New York, New York" and you could see Brooklyn and Manhattan and everyone was yelling and taking photos of each other and singing along. It was one of those moments! Cheesy, but true: I even started singing at these lines. Couldn't help myself: "These little town blues/are melting away/I'll make a brand new start of it/in old New York/If I can make it there, I'll make it anywhere/It's up to you, New York, New York!"

Then it was down to business, sort of. The business of trying not to trip on the other thousands of people all around me, including some dressed as lighthouses and some dressed as Borat (yes, in the flourescent green banana hammock). The first two miles went up and over the Verrazano, then dropped into the southernmost part of Brooklyn: Dyker Heights and Bay Ridge. Huge crowds met us there, and for a while I just took in everything, especially since I'd never been to this part of town before. I was feeling great, the kind of great you feel when you've just jogged a couple miles fueled by adrenaline and fondness. Great enough that I knew I was going out too fast, but being a dum-dum, thought maybe I could sustain it. (More on that later!)

The race goes for miles up 4th Avenue in Brooklyn, through Bay Ridge and Sunset Park and then into Park Slope, my 'hood. I looked for my mom, but the crowds were four-deep and the road was six lanes wide—and still packed with people. Along the sides, bands played for us—the requisite theme from "Rocky", along with big-band jazz, rap, cheesy hip-hop, good hip-hop, kazoos, drums, house music. It helped. Even when spectators were cheering for other people ("Go, Ian!"), it helped me.

Still feeling great, we turned onto Lafayette and ran through Clinton Hill, then turned again onto Bedford into Williamsburg. Around here, mile 11 or 12, I started to feel tired. Crap, still a long way to go. My right knee was hurting in a totally new spot (it's hurt in all kinds of spots before), so I chowed some Tylenol (taped to the inside of my race number) and ate a gu (gross but necessary for survival) and tried not to think about the Queensboro Bridge. Everyone says it's one of the toughest stretches—a big hill up, and a big hill down.

You'd think the course would be flat, but noooo....

We went through Greenpoint, then over a small bridge into Queens, where the crowds picked up again. I was starting to feel it ("it" being ouch-knee, oww-ass, etc) even more, just over the halfway point. Wasn't sure how the rest of this thing would go! Moments of slight, dull panic. Up the Q-boro Bridge, it was eerily quiet (they don't allow spectators on it) as we climbed for almost a mile. I kept reminding myself of another thing everyone says: Coming off this bridge, into Manhattan, and looping down the off-ramp onto 1st Avenue, is incredible: the crowds are enormous. This would be worth it, right?

So down we went. Down proved to hurt the ol' quads, but gravity felt SO nice. And then we were in Manhattan! It was almost like it was almost over, like I'd arrived, but it was barely past halfway. (Did I say crap?) We circled onto 1st and went through an underpass, where all the runners screamed and the crowds screamed and everything echoed off the walls. Up 1st, the spectators were waving signs and standing on ladders and yelling and playing music out of their apartments. At this point, I was hoping it would give me a little extra oomph. I was still on a decent pace—I didn't really have a plan for the race (again, minimize those hopes!), other than maybe to try and stay at a 4-hour-marathon speed. And I was a good bit under that. Would it last? (I'm sure the suspense is killing you.)

Being faster than your pace is great and all, until you realize there are still TEN miles to go. Miles you're not sure your training plan has prepped you for.

I tried to tell myself that it was "only" ten miles to go. And I think it worked, because I just plodded along. Only now I was staring at the ground more than taking in all the sights and sounds. 1st Ave goes straight for four miles, so you can see way up ahead: a sea of runners. I took a glance back at one point: a sea of runners. Somehow, even this can be energizing—you're all in this together, you're all hurting at least a little bit, you're all afraid of what your body might or might not do in the miles ahead. I've never hit The Wall, but there's always a first time, right?

Around Mile 20, we went up and over another bridge into the Bronx, covered about a mile, then turned back down into Manhattan. I kept thinking HOMESTRETCH, as in, I'VE HIT IT! but from here to the finish line, it's still 5 miles. Look at the ground, look at the ground. Is this The Wall? No, it's just good old exhaustion. At this point I knew I'd make it, though I know I was paying for my pace at the beginning of the race. Yes, it's yet another thing everyone says: don't go out to fast. And I said, Yeah, yeah, of course I won't, I know that. Duh. Yet I did. Fortunately, I didn't hit any sort of Wall—I just pooped out a little bit, which I figured was perfectly understandable.

Mile 23-24: Suckage. Climbing 5th Ave for almost a mile. Not that steep, but steep enough to feel like my legs were cement. From about the Bronx on, I was following some guy in an orange-and-blue-checkered singlet with his nickname, "Bags," written on the back in black Sharpie. I hung with Bags, who was steadily thudding up the hill. Must. Stay. With. Bags. When we turned into Central Park through the Engineers' Gate, the route was flat for a little while, then rolled up and down for a mile or so. I went on ahead of Bags (thanks, man). Suddenly I heard a shrieking: Evelyn! Evelyn!! My mom had somehow spotted me in the madhouse. She'd wedged herself between a potra-potty and a metal barrier, and I managed to give her an enthusiastic smile. If nothing else, I knew she knew I'd make it (because I also know she thinks marathons are kind of stupid)!

OK, so at mile 25, you know it's all gonna be fine. My legs were pretty much killing me and it felt like things (my form, my facial expressions, my mental state) were getting ugly, but right then my friends Jon and Steph spotted me. Another little boost. Along Central Park South, the skyscrapers cast everything in shadow, and it smelled like the horses who pull carriages through the park. Ominous. And stinky. I don't know if it was uphill, but it sure felt like it. That's what 26 miles will do to you, I guess.

Then we made a final turn back into the park, and they had a countdown: 400 meters to go. 300. 200. Of course, whoever designed this route decided to put a steep, short, and insulting hill right before the finish at Tavern on the Green—but, at least for me, adrenaline and desperation carried me up it.

And then it was over! I hate to say "before I knew it," because while I was running, it seemed like it was an eternity, an eternity filled thousands and thousands of monotonous steps. But suddenly, according to my original plan, it didn't seem like a big deal. (Yeah, finishes will do that to you—suffering is forgotten quickly.) My time ended up being a 3:48, which was a lot quicker than I thought, but it turns out my strategy worked out almost perfectly: Train *just* enough, scare yourself that you haven't trained enough, set low expectations, and then exceed them. Yes! Other than the pain part.

A guy next to me kept saying, "Holy shit! Holy shit! I can't believe I just did that! Do you believe you just did that? Holy shit!" I agreed with him. I scarfed a bagel, ate some salt that a medic handed to me so I wouldn't cramp up (yes, nasty), and then met my mom near the Museum of Natural History. She brought me flowers. We were both so happy and relieved to see each other!


Looking mighty tired, but a hell of a lot warmer:


Putting on a dry shirt, for the cause (it says "Obamathoner." Thanks, Veronica!):


My biggest fan! Thanks, mom.


What a load off my mind and body! Now I can truly relax and enjoy New York—knowing that I've run all the way through it. I'll never look at the city the same way again.