My buddy John Kayser and I planned the NYC Marathon 4 years out. Too slow to qualify, not inclined to hit up friends for charity contributions, we play the long game of lottery entry. A no in 2010, no in 2011, no again in 2012.
Spring 2013 I return for another roll of the dice - this time though, in year 4, it is a guaranteed entry. Logging into the NYC Runners Club redesigned website, it is quickly clear that nothing here is guaranteed. Instructions on how to reset a forgotten password are maddeningly circuitous. It seems the same people who worked on healthcare.gov sharpened their chops on this site. After several weeks I notice a bulging spam folder; inside are a multitude of e-mails, some even with a new password! I get my entry in, and the gratification is immediate; there, finally, is my YES.
Admittedly the YES is anticlimactic. Bit by the marathon bug, I've run 9 marathons in the interim. John, initially so limbered up over the idea that he promptly went out and ran a snowshoe ultra-marathon, found the event unpleasant and hasn't done much running since then.
Yet there we are with the YES; it is time to get in shape. My knees creak and complain over the mileage - glucosamine and chrondrotin seem to exacerbate the pain. Training is haphazard: a good week followed by injury and a bad week. I initiate dietary changes in an effort to shed a few pounds, cutting out my beloved fried snacks like potato chips (success), desserts (partial success), and beer (not so much). I listen to Bruce Springsteen.
Late October rolls in like a cranky old man. I take the red-eye out of San Francisco the day before Halloween and spend a few days with my parents and sister in Albany. Saturday before the marathon, I am on Amtrak traveling down the Hudson River Valley.
Autumnal color of the HRV |
Penn Station in NYC is chaotic; armed with my smart-phone and google maps I make a clean exit through the crowd and out onto the 34th street. A purposeful walk through the garment district towards Hells Kitchen and I arrive at our hotel on 38th street. The room is cramped and expensive, but we're not going to spend much time in it. John texts me that he is a few minutes away: I go down to the street and wait for him to arrive.
I met John in Florida almost 30 years ago. We were both cold-weather refugees right out of college, philosophers untethered and in search of adventure. Countless hours spent hashing over the meaning of life. We made our way to Hawaii and then Australia, two nickels in our backpacks, living by luck and odd jobs like waiting tables in Kauai, picking capsicums in Australia and herding pigs in New Zealand. Only the young idealist can thrive in that lifestyle: after a few years the gravitational pull of convention brought us back to the mainland, back to 'real' jobs, marriage and families.
And all of that is good - but we need a little more, "a little taste of the glory, to see what it taste like." So thus hatched the idea of the NYC marathon.
I meet John right outside the hotel; he looks practically the same as last time I saw him, 7 years ago.
"Son of a gun, I can't believe we're here!"
We walk a block to the Expo; the Jacob Javits Convention Center is a beehive of activity as people scurry across the floor in search of free swag. We pick up complicated bibs at the entrance and try to decipher the meaning of the colors and codes.
Picking up the bibs at the Expo |
I look closely at the code and read FERRY 6:00 AM.
"That means we gotta get up like at 5!", I say. "But our start time is 10:30. We gotta wait around for like 4 hours!"
We are appalled. Sleep is precious before a marathon. Mulling it over, we start to convince ourselves that we should catch a later Ferry.
"What's the worst that could happen? Not let us on? The guidebook says that they guarantee that all runners will get to the start line on time."
John says he got the guidebook a few weeks ago in the mail and has read it thoroughly. I nod my head in agreement and wonder why I didn't get a guidebook in the mail. Armed with guidebook knowledge, the decision is made - catch the 7 am ferry, bib code be damned.
At expo with course map |
After the expo, we walk to the Chelsea District and eat pasta at Don Giovanni's. The restaurant is crowded and the restroom is the size of an airplane's. Back at the hotel, we watch a spot of TV and then decide it is time for lights out.
"Hey Albert, did I tell you about my snoring problem?"
"You too? Rosanna says I sound like a Mack Truck. I have a snoring bed in the corner she makes me use if I get too loud."
"Lisa says I sound like a freight train. You know the basement in my house? I have to go down into the basement because my snores get so loud."
"Well this should be a restful night."
Fortunately the night passes quickly and the snores are not unbearable. Soon my watch reads 5:30 am. I roll out of bed, and ride down the elevator to the early morning breakfast the hotel has been proudly advertising. I find a few fruit flies around their orange and apple tray, some small bagels with cream cheese packets and an urn of hot water. A tall fellow decked in marathon gear is pacing with nervous irritation: the coffee is not made. The manager is summoned and informs us defensively that there is no coffee, only hot water for tea. This ain't no London marathon we complain: we need coffee! He stands his ground: coffee, sir, he informs us pompously, is in your hotel room. You need to make it. Whatever. The tall guy asks how I am getting to the Ferry. I tell him I plan to take the subway, but later than my assigned time. He shakes his head, astounded at my gamble, and goes off to find a taxi. I wonder if we better get going. I hustle back to the room; John is dressed and ready to go. We stride into the dark morning, setting off for Penn Station. Dunkin Donuts blares their wares on a street corner, denizens of the long night gather in the fluorescence, and in their midst we order two big coffees and breakfast bananas. I give the change to a less fortunate soul.
Descending into Penn Station, and a packed train soon pulls up. A muffled voice intones over the speaker something about the first five rail cars, and at the next stop half the passengers evacuate the car in a mad rush to the exits. A ripple of uncertainty rolls through the remaining passengers, an almost uncontrollable urge to rush with the herd to wherever they go.
"What's going on? Why's everybody running? Are we there yet?"
"Whitehall Station is short", we hear a native explain, "and only the first five car doors will open. But we can pass through the connection to the front."
We're sticking with this guy.
A subway employee yells at the next stop: "You cannot pass through the connections to the front. You must exit in the first five cars, these doors will not open. Everyone move to the front!"
A hectic scramble to the front cars. There is no room! Bodies are hanging out the doors, it is like Calcutta. Finally a small space appears in a car; we squeeze in. Bodies smashed together, we endure until Whitehall Station.
Subway car - standing room only |
"Well I made my goal. Some people don't make it, and then they have to make up the difference."
Wow. With the lottery system apparently going away, the only option in the future seems to be this mega-ticket.
We join a line snaking towards the bus stops and in 15 minutes are on a greyhound to the final destination. Getting to the start line is practically a marathon in itself! John and I enter into corral 3, the four hour plus group. Many people are discarding their extra gear. Unlike last year's Mohawk-Hudson marathon, Penn State is not the dominate discard; rather it is a mish-mash of affiliations. Some guy is even stepping out of his bathrobe.
Marching towards the start line and the excitement is running high. America the Beautiful is sung over the PA. "God shed his grace on thee." More apropos than the Star Spangled Banner. A gun pops off to announce the start of our heat and we surge forward to "New York, New York".
New York, New York
The marathon route starts in Staten Island, though the tour of this borough is brief as the course immediately inclines up the Verrazano-Narrows bridge, which leads into Brooklyn. Many people are stopping to snap pictures: the looming bridge structure, the hovering helicopters, the skyline in the distance. One day of the year this bridge is closed to car traffic; today is biped power only, and is a moment to savor.
On the Verrazano Bridge - mile 1 of 26 |
Helicopter with Manhattan in the distance |
The crowd at the foot of the bridge is enormous and deafening. They pack the sides of the course three-four deep. I'm not sure what they are all doing here, but am thankful! Towering apartment buildings interspersed with duplexes and muffler shops line the avenue. People are peeing against buildings, unable or unwilling to wait in the port-a-potty lines. We make our way up 4th avenue and the neighborhood transitions into little Puerto Rico with Spanish signs advertising bodegas and Iglesias. The crowd still packs up against the course, yelling encouragement, dancing and drinking from red solo cups. This is about the party as much as it is about the running. We intersect with Flatbush Avenue; my mom used to shop with me here 40 years ago. I look for memories: Louie the grocer, the Immaculate Heart of Mary. Nothing looks familiar though.
Around mile 8 the crowd thins suddenly; we are in a Hasidic Jewish section of Brooklyn. Solitary men with beards, long black coats and top hats patrol the sidewalks. They remind me of soldiers, positioned on corners, ready to sound the alarm if and when danger appears. I ponder the complex relationship and history of Judaism; their place in the world and their relationship with God. They are immune to the euphoria of the present, perhaps disdainful, with eyes on matters eternal.
Mile 10 transitions back into the celebratory. We are in hipster Williamsburg and the street is narrow and sidewalks close in. I slap hands with the crowd and John is doing some sort of funky chicken dance. No fatigue yet, we are sailing along. Cannabis perfumes the air and roof-top parties are in full swing, the kegs are tapped.
Mile 13 a bridge appears and I'm a little fuzzy on which bridge this is. John's powers of recall are astounding as he pronounces this the Pulaski Bridge leading into Queens. I don't see a sign so take it on faith. I know the course passes through Queens for a few miles, but can't remember how. We are moving along okay, but can feel the toll. There are groups of other runners nearby with whom we've been playing pass-me, pass-you: two men and a women decked out in French gear, two tall guys in Dutch Orange, two American gals. A few runners have "Achilles Guide" emblazoned on their backs, with ropes hanging between them and a blind runner. Mile 15 is on the Queensboro bridge back into Manhattan; the lower city skyline is on our left and is a picture opportunity for many. We run a bit with a guy on his 24th NYC marathon! Keep on moving, you got this: not sure if he is babbling encouragement to himself or those around him. Which is really the great thing about NY - there is freedom in the crowd.
Coming off the bridge, first avenue opens up and all of upper Manhattan is before us. At 115th avenue I look for my college friend Ron Joy; I haven't seen him in almost 30 years! The powers of Facebook connections. But I still don't see him today, and later learn he had to move his camp to 117th avenue.
We cross over Wills Bridge and into the Bronx and mile 20. The hill leading up the bridge feels like a mountain. The Bronx section is just a mile long and we cross the Madison Avenue bridge at mile 21 and into Harlem. The energy level picks up again as boom-boxes blare out beats and girls are dancing in the streets. At mile 22 John and I part company - I try to speed up a bit as I'm estimating my time is going to be slow. The crowd of runners seems to have thickened though and it is hard to weave through them. Besides my feet are on fire!
Mile 23 - just 12 laps of the track to go.
Mile 24 - one two three four
Mile 25 - 4 laps to go
Mile 26 - I wave my hands in the air and promptly knock some lady on the head. She's not too pleased. Finish!
As soon as I am handed the medal, my phone is ringing: "Hey Dad! Congratulations on finishing the marathon!"
It is my son Isaac. How in the world does he know?
"We just saw you on TV! You high-fived some guy!"
Amazingly enough, my wife and kids see me finish, live on the website. And even recorded it!
Crossing the finish - I am the guy giving the high five
Getting out of the marathon finish is a journey - finally I find John outside Central Park. We are wearing long orange ponchos that look ridiculous but better to suffer ridicule than frostbite. The sun has set, it is dark and a cold nasty wind is blowing across the island. We shuffle our way to Soldier McGees to meet my Bend neighbor Jen and John's nephew. The bars are packed and it seems half the people on the sidewalks are wearing cult garb of an orange poncho with a medallion around their neck. Like aliens who've alighted from their starship into the midst of Manhattan, and Manhattan doesn't blink an eye. After a few beers and chicken wings, we say goodbye to Jen and the nephew and hop a bus heading back downtown.
Finally the end |
No wonder I am dog tired!
On the last few blocks to our hotel room, we stop at a little corner grocery and pick up a six pack of beer. Shuffling down the big city sidewalks in our ponchos, we look like homeless men. And there but for the grace of God...
Farewell NYC |
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Time was 4:45
Swag: excellent heavy medal, nice long sleeved t-shirt, refreshingly free of ads.
Not sure I can get into this one again, but will try. Chicago 2014?
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