These vagabond shoes

The Beforemath.  Race morning I woke up with a backache, cramps, and a migraine.  It’s fun to be a girl.  Men, stop groaning and start saying thanks to Adam for not biting into that damn apple.  I may be wrong about the garden story, but it sure feels like punishment for something sinful on a biblical scale.  There are many things one never wants to do in a port-a-loo.  One of those things involves a tampon.  I hope those ewwws are ewwws of pity.  Always trying to be an optimist, even though it doesn’t come naturally, I convinced myself that the day could only get better.  A day that began with three blasting alarms going off at 4 am.  Plus a ringing wakeup call.  I tend to overdo it.  The shock from the noise permanently damaged my heart.  Better a threee-alarm heart attack than a re-enactment of that Seinfeld episode.

Michael J Fox joins the Team Fox Cheer Section

By 4.30 am we were out the door for the 1.5 mile walk to the 5 am bus pick-up.  So many numbers so early in the morning.  The streets at 4.30 am were filled with bleary-eyed runners chugging Gatorade and well-hydrated Halloween revelers returning home from a night of debauchery.  Both groups were similar in their disorientation.  Where am I?  How did I get here?  Am I wearing two different shoes?  After a quick pep talk and some words of thanks (the 220 NYCM runners raised almost $700,000 for the Michael J Fox Foundation) the Team Fox bus left for Staten Island.  The ride was speedy (I heard that later buses faced long waits on the bridge to get to the drop off zone) and we were at Fort Wadsworth and cleared through security by 6:30 am.  For a 9.40 am start.  Sigh.  Already awake for two hours I had three more hours to go before my day really began. 

Now for my first complaint (don’t worry, I have but a few).  Although the race area had lots of maps, none had a handy ‘you are here’ dot.  A big map is limited in usefulness if you can’t figure out where you are that map.  It may sound intuitive with the three colour system, but unfamiliar (not to mention sleepy) as I was with the staging area, it took several minutes to orient myself.  At first I thought the green corral, with the lines of loos and green balloons, was the green village.  A sparse little entertainment and bagel free village.  To my relief it was not.  We eventually stumbled upon the fully-stocked and lively village and created a makeshift shelter with our space blankets, sleeping bag, and umbrella (there was light rain in the early hours of the morning).  The pre-7am lineups for coffee, tea, water, bagels, and even the loos were refreshingly short.  The post-8am lineups were longer, but not crazy.  I waited in the loo line twice, once for 30 seconds and once for five minutes.  That may be a pre-race P(ee)B.  With such a long gap before the race, planning food and drink was an (unsuccessful) experiment.  I ate my usual amount, but given the long time frame I don’t think my usual was enough.  Unfortunately I didn’t realize my mistake until around 30K.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.   

We were snug in our shanty town tent and much better off than the shivering masses of runners forcing a single trash bag to shelter their body, serve as a ground sheet, and provide warmth.  No trash bag can live up to all those expectations.  We tucked in for an hour, but it was too noisy to sleep so we eavesdropped on amusing conversations.  One overheard phone call: I’m in the green village.  Keep going.  Keep going.  There you are.  I can see you.  Yeah, wave your hand.  No, the other hand.  Jump up and down.  Higher.  Turn around.  Keep turning.  The other way.  Just kidding.  I can’t see you.  Keep walking.  Later, the same prankster as he answers his phone: over his very loud panting … can’t talk …. huff and puff …. am in the lead … stop calling … puff puff puff … or I’ll never win this race.

At 8 am the loudspeaker’s reminders in 17 languages to bag check and get to the corral became increasingly urgent.  I was like, it’s 8 am, chillax, I have scads of time.  Turns out I did not.  By 8.30 am the loudspeaker started threatening me, warning that I needed to get to my corral before it closed (what?) and forced tardy runners into wave two (what the what?).  I rushed to bag check, tossed my stuff at a poor volunteer with quick reflexes, and tried to find the green corral.  Complaint, The Second.  This was not an easy task.  Runners were moving en mass in 13 different directions.  I didn’t know who to follow.  It was chaos, with everyone asking everyone else where to go and no one answering confidently.  The first wave of runners were outnumbered, swimming upstream against runners still looking for the staging area.   The route to the village was marked, but the route to the corral was Top Secret.  Flustered I rushed about, asked for directions twice, and made it to Green E with three minutes to spare.  Next time I’ll take the loudspeaker more seriously.  Those who lagged behind were locked out of the corral by the unsympathetic volunteers.  I applaud their resolve, especially as runners tried to climb the fence to get in.  It felt a little surreal, like the chosen few were selected to exit through the gates to freedom, but the door is closed on those who didn’t make it in time, left on the other side of the fence with their sad (angry) faces longing to join us.

The Race.  In the corral were thousands of runners in their thrift store best adding and subtracting layers by the minute.  My third complaint.  The clothing collectors were stationed before the corrals - you hand off your clothes then go into the corral to wait.  My corral closed at 9 am.  My race started at 9.40 am.  I needed those warm throwaways for another 40 minutes.  Most people discarded their layers in the corral, at the start line, and in the first 2 miles and those clothes quickly became muddy and trampled.  I worry all those clothes are trash, not donation.  More sensibly stationed donation bins would be a terrific modification to the race.  To all the powerful people from the NYRR reading this race report, take note. 

I should mentioned that Husband abandoned blue corral (and his obvious chance at a professional career) to hang with me in green.  Reportedly he could run with me, but I could not run with him, as I had the higher number.  Our plan was to run the race together.  Ahh, we’re so sweet.  Security at the corral was tight and the bouncer had to call a supervisor over to approve his entry into my section.  He was approved.  This would be our first marathon running side by side.  Stay tuned to see if the marriage survived.  For those concerned with such matters, there were lots of loos in the corral for nervous runners, but the waiting area was squishy and I wasn’t keen on standing still for 40 minutes.   I needed to conserve energy.  Fine, I’m lazy and standing gives me a backache.  Did you read my opening remarks?  Backache is one of the many punishments.  There were few places to sit, except in the middle of the corral, which I did.  Runners have nice legs.  Some are a little hairy for my taste, but for the most part are rather shapely.

We started moving more quickly than anticipated.  First the ropes between the corrals were removed.  Then we were moved ahead of all the corrals so that the wave two runners could start loading in.  For those concerned with such matters, once you leave the corrals you leave the loos.  Not that this stopped anyone of the male gender from unleashing on the unsuspecting plant life.  Finally we shuffled our way to the start line.  Or within five minutes of the start line.  People started jockeying for position and slower corral runners tried to sneak up.  I held back knowing I would be running about 15 minutes slower than my entry time, having just run the Marine Corps Marathon 6 days prior.  I forgot that most people are about 15 minutes optimistic in entering their predicted finish times.  In reality I was probably properly seeded and by hanging back I let a lot of slowing runners charge ahead.  Ah well, I could busy myself chasing them down in the second half.  

An observation – runners are amazingly fast undressers.  I’m not sure what this means, but I thought it worth mentioning.  By 9.38am the clothes were flying.  Literally flying through the air, landing on buses and skittish heads.  Speeches were made, but all I heard was wah wah wah Charlie Brown teacher style.  Around (not promptly, but close) 9.40am the race began with a bang.  And a rousing rendition of New York, New York which many sang at top volume.  Many are not good singers, but that’s part of the charm.

New York Times Marathon of Surprises Slideshow

Running in the green corral means one thing: the lower bridge.  The runners, obviously aware of the possibility of pee shooting over the edge from the upper bridge, stuck to the middle of the lower level.  Complaint IV.  I don’t think our views, from the dark windy tunnel, were nearly as spectacular as those from the upper deck.  All those sweeping vistas and aerial shots of masses of runners on the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge?  The lower class runners experienced none of that magic.  The longest single-span suspension bridge in North America shook beneath my feet from the thundering footsteps of 12,000 excited runners.  Instead of unobstructed views of New York City and a glorious bridge we looked at the backs of the runners ahead.  On the upside, no golden showers rained down on me.  The first mile is uphill and I started at a slow pace to warm up my screaming hamstrings.  They were not pleased to be running again and made their opinion known from step one.  I decided to take it mile by mile, coaxing them (and pleading, bargaining bribing, cursing … ) as needed. 

The route famously runs through five boroughs, but I admit to a total loss of orientation.  I had no idea where I was when.  I think I should have studied the course before starting.  I was busy.  There were like a zillion bridges and people keep saying things like ‘remember the Queensboro Bridge’ and I retort, I remember like a zillion bridges.  I do not know which is which, what, where or any of the other Ws. 

The race was everything I expected and nothing I expected.  With reports of two million spectators I was surprised that significant portions of the route were almost silent.  In the first few miles I think the bulk of the fans lined the blue/orange path, leaving the green path remarkably quiet until mile 7.  The empty streets contrasted sharply with the madness of the official cheer zones.  Along the route the usual suspects were present: high-fiving kids, gospel singers, rockus bands, silent Hasidic Jews, dance troupes, proud community members (Harlem United!).  I enjoyed running by profanity-laden and demanding signs (real examples: hurry the bad-f-word up and I’m not here to watch you walk), urban squalor, cultural enclaves, and city landmarks.  Mostly though I was transfixed by the sheer volume of runners.  The crowd never thinned.  Never.  On every inclined I glanced forward and back and all I could see were runners.  Before the routes merged I could see the orange and blue runners crossing along different paths, with the cool effect of runners moving in sync in multiple directions.  It was overwhelming, motivating, inspiring, and moving (literally and emotionally).  I watched my fellow runners more than I watched the city.  I watched the spectators more than I watched the city.  In a way I missed New York, but I didn’t miss the race. 

What then can I say about my race?  Husband and I stuck together for all 42.2K.  We soaked in the many moments and communicated via knowing looks, smiles, and telepathy, but few words were spoken.  My hamstrings eventually loosened, the lady pains remained, and we kept to a fairly steady pace for the duration of the run.  Neither of us had a bad moment, we just ran side by side, each taking in the craziness of the race in our own way (and occasionally comparing notes).  The runners were all courteous (I’ve read reports about pushing and jostling in the later waves, but I didn’t see or experience any of that), but there was very little chit-chat.  Most were singularly focused on the task of getting to the finish line in the shortest amount of time. Passing and being passed was surprisingly easy given the volume.  This was true before and after the 8-mile merge with the blue/orange.  A few times I found myself boxed in, but usually only when the road narrowed and at aid stations (the overeager volunteers did not stay close to the tables, instead moved way into the street effectively cutting the route width in half).  Dealing with the crowd of runners was easier than anticipated, but I should remind that I was not running for time and thus had none of that paceband anxiety compelling me to dart around trying to pass people.  Coming off that one long bridge (which one? I have no clue), where the rhythmic sounds of feet pounding pavement fade into the wall of screams as you exit the bridge and round the corner is a moment I’ll remember until my memory fades.  That mad cheering propelled me forward for at least a mile. 

I did start to slow as we started up fifth avenue (I think 5th, the end was near … kind of).  I didn’t hit the wall, but the cumulative fatigue and lack of food/drink was catching up with me.  My legs, not yet recovered, tired on the long incline.  Husband was peppy enough for both of us.  Still, I was pleased to run nearly even splits (the second half was 2 minutes slower than the first half, so I slowed down but didn’t crash and burn — a very real possibility in my first back-to-back marathon attempt).  Miles 23 – 25 or so are on a gradual uphill until the blessed turn into Central Park.  The glorious Park of Many Colours was a little rollier than ideal so late in the game, but my legs tend to like grade changes.  At mile 25 ‘like’ is a relative word. 

New York Times Reader Submitted Photos

As the end drew near the sign countdown began in earnest.  The only problem – I have no concept of 100 yards.  A mile I get, I can do miles.  But a yard?  Am I near or am I far?  Do I pick up the pace or hold back?  Silently I yelled, for the love of  Fred Lebow what the hell is a yard?  And there it was.  The finish.  With three chutes.  I became hopelessly confused, actually pausing before the finish trying to figure out where to go.  I was thinking three colours, three chutes, which one is green?  Husband had to guide my addled brain across the finish line.  As it turns out, any chute will do. 

I crossed the finish line about 14 minutes later than the previous week at Marine Corps, but still around a minute faster than my slowest (and first ever) marathon.  So this wasn’t, as expected, a PW (personal worst) and I did meet my goal of running a BQ time.  The difference between the back-to-back marathons – less than 14 minutes.  The difference between my fastest and slowest times ever - less than 15 minutes.  I have a zone.   A very narrow zone.

The Aftermath.  I was warned about the death march that follows the finish line.  Some said it was harder than the race itself.  But knowing and experiencing are not the same.  It starts out okay.  It starts with a medal.  And, meh.  Gold with a giant 40.  I spent the next two days answering the question “what’s the 40 mean”.  No iconic bridge, no race symbolism, just a big ass 40.  Then photos.  Then a space blanket.  Emergency pit stop at the medical port-a-loo.  A bag of post-race fuel (bagel, water, Gatorade, almonds, and an apple).  And then it begins.  My final complaint.  The race with no end.  The walk to the bag check.  The walk to the exit. 

With a low bib number my bag was about 2 miles (okay, maybe 2K — but post marathon 2k=2 miles, it’s the Theory of Running Relativity) past the finish.  Hundreds of trucks, counting down from 60,000.  Shivering and weary bodies shuffle in stony silence as they make their way to the UPS vehicle containing warm clothes and a face wipe.  In my double-layer space sheet (I was given a second space blanket due to the worrisome blue colour of my lips) I marched forward.  No fewer than 17 medical personal came up to me, put a hand on my arm and said “are you okay”, followed immediately by an “are you sure”.  One pulled me off the death trail for a breather.  Seems I was rather pale, except for my blue lips, and the extremely efficient medical team was determined to keep me out of the statistics.  I felt rather lightheaded.  I have an annoying tendency to faint and I know the signs.  Husband was on close watch. 

I finally made it to …. the line-up at my bagcheck truck.  Husband bravely offers to wait in line while I collapse at the side of the road.  As I waited my slow twitch brain came to the realization that upon exit I would need to retrace my steps – all 2 miles of them – to get back to the post-race party.  I started to weep.  Not really.  I was too dehydrated for tears.  Those smart folks who packed a change of clothes– I was not among them.  I fashioned my space sheets into a toga for warmth (I knew my keg party education would come in handy some day) and I soldiered on and on an on.   In every direction road closures forced a detour that added one, two, or three blocks to my journey.  I was resigned to my fate of circling Central Park ’til nightfall.  Total time elapsed from finish line to arrival at party near finish line = 100 minutes.  After the party no cab would stop and so we walked – still in my Jetson toga – the 3K back to the hotel.  Post-race walking distance estimated at 8longK. 

The next day we strutted around with our big gold medals like we’d won the race.  Oh yeah, I’m a finisher.  As we walked through Central Park a teacher flagged us down and said to a group of school children, look kids, those strangers ran the marathon yesterday.  To us they explained that they had just told the kids all about the race.  So we showed off our medals and puffed up our egos.  I bet none of those kids ran 42.2K yesterday.  Strangers on the street offered up high fives, congratulations echoed from every direction, and the sidewalks were filled with runners sporting race t-shirts and shiny medallions.  We gave each other knowing nods of acknowledgement, like we were all members of some secret society.  The New York Times published our names and finish time (gun, not chip), which means I’m published in The New York Times.  That’s going in the CV.  For this non-New Yorker the best part about the NYCM is not the course, the size of the field, the elites paid to run, or the fancy swag.  The best part about the NYCM is the highly contagious New York City marathon spirit that seems to infect everyone. 

Would I do it again?  Probably not, but I’m thrilled with my one time running of the race.

Finally, the end.

Title Reference: Frank Sinatra – New York, New York.  From the album Trilogy: Past Present Future. 1980.