Date: November 6, 2016
Location: New York, NY
It’s surreal to think… just one year after running my first
Major, there I stood, about to run another one. I’ve watched this race on TV so
many times… the mass of colorful runners making their way across the
Verrazano-Narrows Bridge… winding through each of the five boroughs… crossing
the finish line in Central Park. Now I was about to be one of those runners,
living and breathing the experience instead of watching through a screen.
I’d heard all the warnings. Don’t expect a PR in New York. I knew it would be a tough course but I’m tougher, I thought. I’ve already
persevered through the worst of it at some point, right? Hills, crowds, heat,
injury… what else could NYC throw at me that I couldn’t handle? I’d gotten in
the best shape of my life and every single race I’d run so far in 2016 had been
a personal best (including reaching my goal of a 1:45 half marathon!) NYC would
be the perfect race to end the year. I couldn’t wait to get out there and
attack it.
And if that wasn’t enough motivation, I would be running the
race as a member of Team Fight, to benefit the Ulman Cancer Fund. I’d seen
firsthand the great work that Ulman does for young adults battling cancer when
I pedaled across the US on the 4K for Cancer. I was proud to be representing
Team Fight and to be running in honor of all of my donors’ loved ones as I
battled the 26.2 miles.
Jin and I drove down to NYC on Friday. After a fun night out
with our friends – and gracious hosts – Michelle and David, I went to bed
thinking, in just over 24 hours I’ll be
waking up to run 26.2 miles. Because even though the race on Sunday didn’t
start until 9:30am – and my corral didn’t start until 10:30 – we’d have to wake
up at 4:30 (!) to get on a bus to Staten Island.
Saturday was a low-key but busy day of meeting up with
friends in the city, biking across Manhattan to the (very crowded) race expo,
and fueling up with my new favorite pre-race meal: ramen (salty + carby). Even though
I felt ready for what lay ahead of me, I couldn’t shake those butterflies all
day. And even as I went through my night-before-marathon ritual of foam
rolling, stretching, and nail painting, the jitters stayed with me all night,
penetrating my dreams-turned-nightmares of missing the bus, falling off the
bridge, and running an extra 12 miles after missing a turn. Of course all of
those were impossible – well, except missing the bus. Which is why I woke with
a start half an hour early. Only to have a minor heart attack when I saw the clock
on the wall saying I’d woken up half an hour late. Oh right, it’s daylight savings. I’m good. Breathe. Breathe.
By 5:30 am, Jin and I were lined up in Times Square to get
on the bus to the start. It was still pitch black outside, but at least it felt
like daytime in the bright square. The line wound around and around the block,
each runner feeding off of the nervous excitement of everyone else. The bus was
comfortable and warm… it wasn’t long before I was sound asleep. I woke to find
we’d stopped in a bright and unfamiliar place…
Staten Island
With my first step off the bus, I was hit with a blast of
icy wind. It took everything I had not to turn right around and get back in my
warm cocoon on the bus and forget this whole thing. But I bowed my head and
kept walking. In the pre-race area, there were massive open areas for each of
the three waves (we were in the orange wave) to hang out before getting in the
corrals. Just as I was starting to wonder if we’d even be able to find my
friend Si, she found us! The three of us staked out a sunny spot on the
concrete to wait the three and a half hours until it was time to start.
The wait was torture. It was just cold and windy enough to
be too uncomfortable. Volunteers handed out hats for us to wear and warm drinks
for which we were grateful. One of the things I was most unsure of was timing
my food intake. I’d never started a marathon so many hours after waking up. I’d
settled on eating a little bit when I woke up, and eating my full breakfast
about two hours before I was supposed to start.
After what felt like an eternity of waiting, stretching,
massaging my calves, and waiting some more, it was finally time for the last
porta-potty stop and to head to our corral. All at once the nerves hit me.
But then we were herded through the long and winding starting
chute, and I saw it: the Verrazano Narrows bridge up ahead. I stripped off my extra
throw-away layer and tossed it to the side. All feelings of nervousness went
with it.
I don’t even fully remember crossing the starting line. I
was so focused on that bridge. I couldn’t look away. Those massive cables and
the looming towers. And then, they were right above me. Runners cheered as we
started the mile-long stretch over The Narrows to Brooklyn. It’s strange how
time can be so warped by memory. Because crossing that bridge didn’t even feel
close to the length of a mile. Even later when I saw the replay of the TV
broadcast, I watched the runners cross it and thought Was I really on the bridge for that long?! Jin describes it as
being long, windy, and miserable. But I don’t remember any of that. In my
memory it was exhilarating and it was over much too soon. I held my Go Pro high
and tried to capture every moment. I was awe-struck by the view of the
glittering water and Manhattan in the distance with its tiny toy buildings. The
wind breathed in unison with me as I floated toward Brooklyn.
Brooklyn
When I stepped off the bridge, the magic bubble was broken.
I looked at my watch. I’d been running the pace of the crowd around me and that
first mile and a half had been much too slow. Another NYC tip I’d heard a few
times: Don’t worry about your pace the
first two miles, your race will start after that when the crowd thins. But
I had a goal to reach! And now I was already behind. I had work to do.
Brooklyn is the longest stretch of the race. I would be
running 12 more miles before reaching Queens. The two things that I remember
most about those miles through Brooklyn are the endless throngs of spectators,
and the constant worry I felt about my pace. I tried to settle into a rhythm
but it was tough with the large number of runners around me and with the
excitement of the crowds. I couldn’t help but high-five every spectator that
offered an outstretched hand, and call out a “thank you!” to every encouraging
shout. It’s really amazing how many people there were on the streets of
Brooklyn that day.
Looking back on my mile splits, it would appear that after
the first mile, I held a fairly steady pace of about 8:30. But in truth, I felt
like I had to constantly make adjustments to maintain it. All my long training
runs had been at that pace, and I’d trained my body to feel comfortable
maintaining it without much thought. It was my home base. Why, then, was it so
hard for me to do that now? It either felt too fast or too slow.
Frustration mounted when I reached the turn at mile 8. This
was a popular spot for spectators who came to watch their loved ones. I knew of
two people who were there: Si’s husband Nate, and my friend Zac (both have made
appearances in this blog before!) I scanned the crowds, but I had no hope of
finding them in the mass of faces. But that wasn’t the main source of my
frustration. With the right turn onto Lafayette Ave, the course narrowed to about
half of its previous width. Suddenly we were packed like sardines and I was
caught in a bottleneck. I stared helplessly at the numbers on my watch as my
average pace decreased and there was nothing I could do about it.
But even if I could have kept going at my chosen pace, I’m
not convinced I would have been able to for much longer. This was the moment
that I first noticed my good old friend: Fatigue. As I mentioned before, the
NYC course is said to be tough for several reasons. The largest of which is the
hills. Remember when I said I thought I could handle hills? I was imagining
rolling hills. But instead of rolling hills, this course was made up of
long-ass inclines. Sometimes up to a mile long. And those tricky bastards were
so subtle that in that first stretch through Brooklyn I didn’t consciously
notice them. It was inevitable that they would catch up to me.
For the next few miles, Fatigue only appeared for short
visits. I panicked when she arrived, and breathed a sigh of relief when she
left. I was still able to maintain fairly even mile splits, making up for any
time lost. But I didn’t know how much longer I’d be able to hold that pattern.
At last, I reached the half-way point and then the Pulaski Bridge
into Queens. I told myself I just had to make it over this bridge and all would
be fine. I’d start anew in borough #3. Queens would be a fresh adventure to
take me out of the rut I’d somehow found myself in in Brooklyn. If only that
were true.
Queens
At first, entering Queens did feel like a breath of fresh
air. The bridge had been hot and lonely, but thankfully as soon as I turned the
corner, I was met with a throng of cheering spectators. It lifted my spirits
for the next half-mile and I thought maybe I’d been right about that second
wind. But over the next couple of miles, Fatigue crept her way back in. And
this time she settled in for a nice long visit. I became increasingly panicked
as I wound through the streets of Queens and my splits were starting to creep
toward 9-minute miles. The spectators were fantastic the whole way through, so
I tried to focus on them alone and not on my watch.
Unfortunately, once I reached the Queensboro bridge, there
were no more spectators to distract me. And so began one of the longest, most
harrowing 0.5 mile journeys of my life. A description of my experience on each of the
bridges so far in one word:
Verrazano-Narrows: Exhilarating
Pulaski: Hopeful
Queensboro: DISASTER
We were running on the lower deck, so the bridge encased us
as we began the long ascent up the first half. After a few minutes, I felt
absolutely drained of energy so I thought, I
MUST be running too fast. I checked my watch and my heart stopped when I
saw my current pace. 11:00. Tears of frustration welled in my eyes. I was
giving this race everything I had, but it wasn’t nearly enough.
Of all the distances we race, I think the marathon can be
the cruelest. Sometimes it really doesn’t matter how well you’d trained.
Fatigue will still appear and laugh in your face. So, you hit all your training splits perfectly for the past 4 months?
Sorry honey, here’s a nice long hill for you. Hope you drank exactly the right
combination of water and Gatorate for the past hour. Or if it’s not Fatigue, her friend Pain will
make an appearance, All those Fartlek
runs you nailed during training? Good for you. Here’s a small twinge for your
left knee. Let’s see how small that feels after 16 more miles ha! The
smallest detail can magnify immensely over the distance.
So while it may be the cruelest race, it’s also the most
humbling. And that’s why while running my tenth marathon, I realized how much I
still respect this distance. There’s nothing you can take for granted. No room
to be sloppy, no matter how experienced you may be.
And that’s why I was able to admit, right there at mile 16,
that this marathon had bested me. I came into it a little too cocky. A little
too confident that I knew exactly what I was doing and what to expect. But the
marathon had other plans in store for me, and I had to accept it.
And with that acceptance it was like a veil had lifted
(picture a Claritin commercial): This is the
New York City Marathon, stupid. You may never get this opportunity again. Soak
it all in! So as I finally crested the peak of that bridge and made my way
across the much more forgiving second half, I wished I hadn’t spent the first
part of the race stressing out about my pace so much. I wished I could start
over with this garden-fresh perspective. But all I could do was get out of my
head and make the most of the miles I had left.
Manhattan – Part 1
I emerged from the encasing of the bridge to be met with
deafening cheers. If I thought the streets of Brooklyn and Queens were packed…
there were layers upon layers of screaming spectators here. And somewhere in
there my friend Michelle was screaming right along with them. For the first
time since the Verrazano-Narrows, I felt nothing but pure joy. I turned onto
First Ave. for the 3.5-mile journey north to the Bronx. Even though I had about
10 miles left, I could picture the course map in my head and it felt like the
part I had left was so small compared to the long, winding path I’d already
completed. The towering buildings overhead were familiar and comforting. This
was the part of New York I knew best.
I settled into a comfortable pace of just over 9 minute
miles. It wasn’t the pace I’d trained for, but I knew if I kept trying to push
it now, I’d crash and burn later. I still felt zapped of energy, but without
the added mental stress of hitting my impossible goal pace, I had a little less
weight to carry. I focused on the crowds and particularly their posters. Since
it was a few days before Election Day, among the usual jokes about beer and
bodily functions (and for some reason, Willem Dafoe?), there were a bunch of amusing
political ones (“At least you run better than our government!” and “Run like
Trump is trying to grab you by the [insert cat picture here]”). I soaked in the
energy of the crowds like a sponge and before I knew it, I’d crossed bridge #4:
the Willis Bridge.
The Bronx
The stretch through the Bronx was just over a mile, and it
flew by. I remember feeling surrounded by a totally different energy than in
Manhattan. The crowds weren’t as thick, but they were just as enthusiastic. We
were met with music and dancing and shouts of “Welcome to the Bronx!”
The sun was vicious overhead and my stride was getting worse
and worse as the foot pain that had plagued me during training resurfaced. Yet,
my pace wasn’t slowing. I passed the 20 Mile marker and smiled inside (I was in
too much pain to actually smile). Passing 20 miles always feels like breaking
through a barrier. It’s the longest distance that I run in training, so the
rest of the race feels… unwritten. Beyond 20 miles is when I get to prove to
myself what I’m made of. Everything from here on out is pure grit.
As I approached the fifth and final bridge (Madison Ave), I
was sad to be leaving the festive music and proud energy of the Bronx behind.
But there was still work to be done in Manhattan, and Central Park was calling
my name.
Manhattan – Part 2
With the turn onto 5th
Ave, this was the first time the course headed south. I tried to use the mental
image of running south to imagine I was running downhill. Even though this
stretch through Manhattan was about five miles long, I could practically taste
the finish line.
But, the struggle
was real. The sun beat down brutally and I could see my shadow running next to me,
looking battered with an unusual gait as my foot pain continued to get worse.
All I wanted was to reach Central Park. Before long, the course took us
along the edge of the park, so it gave the illusion that I was running in two
completely different places, depending on whether I looked to my right or my
left. After what felt like years, the course took a right turn and I found
myself surrounded on all sides by beautiful autumn leaves and blanketed in the
glorious shade they provided.
The crowds were
still just as thick in the park. I kept imagining that the finish line would be
around every bend, but the path just kept on snaking on and on through the colorful
foliage. In my mind I’d been equating reaching Central Park with reaching the
finish line… but in reality the stretch through the park was a full two miles
long. And it felt like an eternity.
Just when I thought
I had nothing left to give, the sounds of cheering grew tenfold. I looked up
and the crowds had grown, along with the skyscrapers overhead. This meant that
I’d reached the southernmost part of the park… and the finish line really would
be around the corner! My muscles were suddenly filled with supernatural
strength that only the prospect of a finish line can bring. I made the final
right turn and headed toward the finisher’s chute.
I’m really here. I’m in the Finisher’s chute! How different it looked from the road than from
my couch, through a screen. Spectators filled the grandstands on either side
and their cheering carried me forward, like the wind on the Verrazano-Narrows
had, 26.2 miles ago. I raised my fist in triumph, holding back a floodgate of
tears as I crossed the line. I just
finished New York City! 
What happened next,
I can only remember in snippets… receiving my medal and holding it close… walking
a mile on tight, useless legs to the bag check area… downing a chocolate
protein shake… meeting up with Jin and inhaling a burger… forcing my legs not
to give way as I stood on the subway... emerging from the subway near our
friends’ apartment to find that the sun had already set. We’d left for the race
in the dark, and now we were returning in the dark. I don’t know what was
harder to believe; that an entire day
had passed since standing in line in Times Square, or that only a day had passed.
Because within that
day, I’d accomplished quite a bit. I may not have gotten a PR, but I finished
my 10th marathon in my second fastest time (3:56:35!) on the hardest
course I’d ever run. I rode a roller coaster of emotions to come out on the
other side with an increased sense of humility and respect for this 26.2-mile beast.
I battled Fatigue – and lost – but I won a much bigger war: the war raging in
my own head. And because of that victory I could finish my journey through the five boroughs with
no regrets.
