Marathon
In 490 BC, Ancient Greece was riddled with small men in shiny, absolutely above the knee, dresses fighting and stabbing and doing war. There was one war battle in particular that raged on between the Athenians and the Persians in the town of Marathon. The bloodbath continued on for days, the boys shaking their fringed, sparkly skirts like Tina Turner. A Greek messenger was sent to fetch the Spartans, in hopes they could donate some dancers - soldiers - to the show - fight. The path which the dear messenger took from Marathon to the Spartans, was approximately 26 miles, and upon completing it, the messenger dropped dead. And that is the cliff notes history lesson on the origin of the word “marathon.”
A marathon is a dividing line that separates joggers from runners. It is a goal that people choose to strive for. They choose to train for months, to better their chances at completing a 26.2-mile race in one day and not drop dead, like our dear messenger. Months of forgoing raucous nights and getting your ass up and dressed before the sun. Weeks of consuming electrolyte and hydration powders, so many that your ass that you got up so early, in fact burns when you gotta go. Days of assessing your body with every step you take, “Was that a knot in my foot? Or just a piece of cracker in my sock?” This is the experience I so willingly signed up for when I registered for the New York City Marathon.
At the start of the summer, I crafted a gorgeous color-coded training schedule, with my official training beginning in the hot temperatures of July. Slowly, my weekend long-run distances grew from 10 to 12 to 14, and by fall to 22. I had purchased two pieces too many of running accouterments, which meant I needed race day to come. My girlfriend and I laid out our outfits the night before, our bibs attached to our little tank tops, ready to be carried across the 26.2 mile course. I was feeling strong, I was feeling prepared, I was feeling confident. At 4:03 am on November 6, our alarm shocked us awake. The day was here!
The morning began with some coffee, light stretching, a little peanut butter toast, and some delirious dancing while we waited for our driver to fetch us and take us to the New York Public Library. Papa, our driver arrived and off we went. The library was lined with rows of charter buses and thousands of groggy runners. We hopped out of our Mercedes minivan and started towards the crowd. But oh - hup - oh no - my phone! I chased Papa down the street, shouting, feeling much like Barbra Streisand in Yentl, “Papa can you hear me??” No luck. Well, a problem for another time. I had a marathon to run.
The bus ride to Staten Island was smooth and after hearing ferry horror stories from friends, was absolutely the move. We arrived in what felt like Marathon Village. There were runners from all over the world, jogging little laps and taping gelled fuels to their pants. All of this in the shadow of the great Verrazano Bridge. Also known as, mile one. My speedy, girlfriend kindly brought me coffee from her fancy, local elite corral area and then kissed me good luck. Spirits were high. I repeat, we had trained. We were ready. I found a spot on the grass and listened as the waves before me went off. Or rather, jumped as the way-too-loud cannon blew off, signaling the runners to begin.
Eventually, it was time for Orange Wave 2 to begin their marathon journey. I jockeyed my way into the crowd and ascended the beginning of the great bridge. The national anthem was sung by a very talented, but self-indulgent Broadway star, and what felt like ten minutes later, it was go time. The cannon shot us all up the start of the bridge and we were off! The bridge was sprinkled with construction workers, cheering from the beds of their trucks, and blasting Alicia Keys. The New York City skyline was looking as inspiring as ever, and carried me through my first mile quickly. Maybe a little too quickly.
After the bridge, we arrived in Brooklyn. I had never been to this particular corner of Brooklyn before, except maybe once on accident when I was new to the subway system. Sidewalks were lined with fans cheering and a local band was set up playing Bruce Springsteen relatively well. I was feeling good, things were going well. Miles two and three flew by, and we got to mile four. Okay, sweaty. I was sweating much more than I had been in my recent training runs. This was most likely due to the 75-degree, 90% humidity weather we were gifted for this momentous event. The unseasonably warm weather was rearing its ugly head. “Whatever, I trained through the summer. I got this,” I so confidently murmured to myself as I grabbed a handful of water cups from a volunteer.
This can-do, ignorant attitude of mine did allow me to hold my so-called goal pace up through the ninth mile. It was in dear old, gorgeous Fort Greene where I decided to downshift a gear. I was looking at the happy people drinking mimosas on their front stoops, cheering on their friends and thought to myself, “What am I racing this for, huh? Look how happy these people are. Let’s just have fun!” With this decision made, I clicked into a comfy pace that I had successfully held during my training for even my longest of runs, “Oh, we got this!”
The crowd of runners grew tight as we glided up, and I do mean up, Bedford Ave. in Williamsburg. The tight streets smelled strongly of brunch, which I found less charming than the faint, tasteful whiff of breakfast cocktails in the earlier neighborhoods. Uh-oh, more sweat. Down my back, beads were rolling, and I was feeling darn thirsty. At the mile twelve water station, I grabbed two cups of water to drink and one to throw on my head. This became the ritual I looked forward to for every mile marker to come. I began to feel uneasy about the remaining fourteen miles. Mainly because, fourteen miles is objectively far. Just say it out loud, “I have to run fourteen miles.” How did that feel? It was on the Pulaski Bridge, with the gorgeous, temptress of a skyline to my left that my uneasiness turned to fear. I had a half marathon to go, and I was gassed. Oops!
The race grew darker emotionally, but also physically, as the saturated sky transformed into looming rainclouds. The 59th Street Bridge, the infamous pathway that brings you into Manhattan, was silent. The fans can’t see you in there - which for some was an instant relief, as runners broke down into a walk. My girlfriend and I have this mentally-healthy joke where we tease about throwing ourselves off of the 59th St. Bridge whenever we are reacting dramatically to something gone wrong. This silly, throw away line was suddenly materializing before my eyes. Into Manhattan we trodded and up First Avenue we went.
The worst part about the First Avenue haul is that you can see the street numbers, so you know exactly how many you have before you cross into the fifth burrow of the race. At mile 17, I gave into the ball of tears that had worked its way up in my throat. I pulled off of the road, bent over and let a few sobs out. The pace I had set for the first part of the race was ancient history, the let’s-have-fun-pace was no longer feeling so carefree. And I had nine miles to go. A nice man, clinging to a stroller, casually looked over and said, “The same thing happened to me in Berlin.” In true New York fashion, he didn’t smother me with, “Are you okay??” He simply implied that I am not special in this frustration, and that feeling of anonymity was enough to pull me back into the sea of sad runners.
I finally made my way into the Bronx, grabbing bananas from some strangers and demanding un-offered orange slices from others. A stone-faced woman holding a sign that said, “Welcome to the last damn bridge,” let me know the end was nigh. But, really not even because there was still five miles to go. Five became four and then finally three as my group turned right into Central Park. She was looking gorgeous, dressed in your famous fall foliage. One of my very best friends and her boyfriend shot me with a real life energy boost when I saw the incredibly large fathead they were holding. She shouted, “I love you Megan. I love you!” If I hadn’t been completely drained of all fluid I would have cried.
Central Park South hosted more personal cheers, jeering me towards the last half mile of the race. Runners were dropping like flies, paying proper homage to the Greecian messenger who got us into this whole mess. I stepped across that finish line and stoically collected my medal. Fellow finishers were laid out cramping, others being carted off to medical, truly a call back to a battlefield. A very kind volunteer draped my big blue poncho around me and I drunkenly bumbled along the bridal path with the rest of the jello-legged runners.
We had done the darn thing! The months and weeks and days of preparation at times didn’t seem to matter in the slightest. I had blisters on my feet. I was soaked through with sweat, tears, and rain. Oh and I was also phoneless, which was now beginning to matter. Somehow, mere hours later, I had forgotten how challenging the entire thing had been, as I proudly wore my shiny medal around town, collecting free beers. Running a marathon is a silly arbitrary accomplishment, but there’s something so rewarding about pushing your body to the point of looking really bad, in front of thousands of spectators. I intend to run another marathon and maybe even another after that. Anyone know who won that war?