My New York City Marathon, Part Two

Part one:  http://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2012/11/my-new-york-city-marathon-part-one.html

The first weekend in November came. The day before the marathon, I drove down to Manhattan with my friend Cindy. I don’t remember much about the two nights we were in Manhattan. I remember waiting in line a lot. We took a cab to the marathon expo and had to wait in line to get my race number and t-shirt. That night we went to the runners’ pasta dinner near Tavern on the Green in Central Park, and we waited in line close to two hours to get in. I remember thinking at one point, “This is ridiculous. Maybe we should leave.” But by then we were near the front of the line. 

We sat at a round table with a white table cloth. We sat with lots of other runners from many different countries. I remember being really tired and being worried that I’d done too much standing. You’re not supposed do much of anything but rest the day before you run a marathon.  

I remember meeting Wendy and Pam the next morning in the lobby of the hotel, then going to the New York Public Library.  I don’t know how we got there. I don’t remember walking, but I don’t remember taking a taxi either. We stood in line forever there, waiting for the marathon buses to take us to the start of the race at Staten Island. 

I remember sitting around for hours in the cold along with thousands of other runners. I remember Linda walking by, and calling out to her. We were giddy and laughed about meeting up. The fact that we actually ran into one another there still astounds me to this day. There were 25,000 people there. The chances of meeting up on purpose were slim. Meeting up by accident was just ridiculous and random. It was wonderful. I haven’t seen her since.  

I remember walking to the starting line, which was not as organized as Boston’s. We had no idea where to stand. Those of us with one bib color were directed to one level of the bridge. Those with the other color went to a different bridge level.  There was a lot of shoving. 

Then we began. I remember feeling panicked and claustrophobic. There were tall men all around me and I remember worrying about getting an elbow in my eye. I remember getting kicked in the knees. I remember running across the bridge and feeling like I wanted to throw up when I saw the gap in the skyline where the World Trade Center towers once stood. I remember entering Brooklyn and seeing the crowds of people and thinking, “These crowds are good, but Boston is better.” 

I remember running on the “feeling groovy” Queensboro Bridge back into Manhattan and it being deathly quiet; the only sounds the slapping of sneakers on cement and Springsteen singing “Born to Run.” Someone had left a boom box off to one side, at the center of the bridge. 

I remember nearing the end of the bridge and hearing grinding like bulldozers, and thinking. “What on earth are road crews doing out here on a marathon course on a Sunday?”

I remember plodding down the curving exit ramp onto First Avenue to discover that the noise wasn’t coming from machinery. It was coming from the screaming hordes lining both sides of the road. I remember the rush of adrenaline and joy and a feeling of immense power as I ran down this wide open stage with so many other runners. I remember thinking, “You still have ten miles to go, you better slow down.” I didn’t slow down.

I remember my quadriceps turning to wood and spears jabbing my knee caps as I crossed a small bridge into the Bronx. I remember the sudden quiet of the Bronx and remember hating that part of the route. I remember the ridges of the road biting into the soles of my feet.

I remember crossing back into Manhattan and the explosion of screams and music that greeted me. There were gospel choirs everywhere. Spectators lined two and three deep.  I remember running toward Central Park and hitting hills and stopping to walk for the first time and thinking, “This isn’t done yet?”  

I remember waving to my friend Cindy, then turning into Central Park and narrower pathways and running past a well-off couple, a stocky man in a fedora and tailored wool coat. The woman wore make up and high heels and a long fur coat. They were holding a sign and looking into every runner’s face. The sign said “Linda we’re proud of you” or something like that, and had my Linda’s race number.  Crazy. What are the odds? 

I remember lots of leaves on the trees and finishing the race and seeing no one I knew and having to ask someone where I could find a space blanket and get my finisher’s medal. I remember having to ask where to go to return my timing chip, and taking it off myself and being told to dump it in a bucket at a street corner. I remember hoping the chip wouldn’t get lost or stolen and hoping I wouldn’t get charged for it.

I remember being cold and looking for my friend Cindy in the family meeting area. I waited a long time. I remember asking many bystanders if I could use their cell phones, and having just one person let me. I tried calling Cindy, but the reception was bad and we couldn’t hear each other. 

I remember starting to walk back to the hotel, which was miles away, past the Empire State Building. I remember stopping in restaurants along the way and asking if I could use the phone and getting refused. I remember feeling cold and alone and resigned.  

I remember meeting up with two soldiers. They wore fatigues and heavy backpacks. They wore bunny ears made of tinfoil and pink paper. Their army boots were covered in salty lacework. I walked back all the way past Times Square with them. They were from England and had run the marathon for a charity. They had run in honor of a little girl who was fighting cancer. They’d arrived from England that morning. They’d done a marathon in England the day before. 

I remember asking them how they were able to do that. “What got you through the race?” I remember one said he’d taken 2,400 mg of Advil. 

I remember laughing with them and feeling not so alone.

I made it back to the hotel, where my friend was freaking out because she had no idea what had happened to me. She said she’d waited for me for hours at the family gathering spot. I didn’t know what to say. Maybe I’d gone to the wrong place? My head was spinning.

We ate out that night with a friend from Jersey City. The next morning, before we left, we stopped to pray at the World Trade Center site. There were still all kinds of photos and letters taped to the fences and buildings around the area. There were notes from people still searching for their loved ones. There were prayers and homemade cards too, from all over the world. 

The next day I showed up at work, limping and stiff, holding a copy of the New York Times. I waved it in the air as I approached a colleague. “Hey, I made the front page of the Times,” I called.

“No kidding?” he said. “Cool. Let’s see.”

I handed him the paper and laughed. He did too. On the front was an aerial view of all 25,000 of us, a long line of colored blobs, as we crossed the bridge from Staten Island into Brooklyn. 

I stayed away from the gym for a week and a half. The first night back, I parked the car next to the entrance, under a bright light. I shoved my pocketbook under my seat, just to be safe.  I spent most of the next two hours talking with my gym friends about my time in New York.  

It was 9 p.m. when I got out to the car. Even though the heat was on, it was cold and breezy inside the car. Something wasn’t right. I turned my head to find the back passenger seat window smashed in. I reached under my seat. My pocketbook was gone. 

I remember going back into the gym and calling the police. I stayed up most of the night canceling credit cards and worrying. The next day I got the window repaired, and visited banks to close my accounts, then opened new ones. I went to the registry for a new driver’s license. 

I wore my marathon shirt from Boston 2002, the one I’d run just seven months before. It’s the gold cotton shirt with the blue BAA insignia over the left breast.  I wore it on purpose. I was worn out and feeling vulnerable. Even though I’d just run my third marathon, I needed a reminder that I was strong. I chose to keep that picture when I renewed my license five years ago.

I’ve spent the last couple of weeks walking around in a daze. I haven’t been sleeping well. I’m writing bad poetry again. I have an ill family member and I am sad. Luckily, I know about being resilient. I know about hard roads. I know about taking things one step at a time. I know about loss. I know about taking the long view. 

I’ve been hitting the gym a lot. I’ve been spending a lot of time with my family. I’ve been spending a lot of time remembering too.  Today I wore my old NYC Marathon shirt all day. On the front is a female runner, holding her arms high and triumphantly. Above that graphic is this: Love it. New York City Marathon. November 3, 2002. I’m glad I ran it. I’m glad I got to write today about running it. I hope I get to run New York again some day.

Winter is coming and chances are good that it’s going to be rough. In a few weeks I have to go for a new license. I’m wondering what I’ll need to wear this time. At least I have this: many many choices.