The New York City Marathon

Just three weeks later, we are back. Back and somehow better than before. I knew I set a lofty goal for myself when I signed up for two major races within 21 days of each other. I knew that I would run hard in Chicago, potentially taking away from my chance to feel fresh in New York. But we made it happen, and I’m excited to share the moments it gave me. 

Logistically, New York presents a few more challenges than Chicago. Specifically making your way to the start line. Awake at 4:30am, a quick walk to the subway, a walk back up to Broadway, a 20-minute uber, aboard the Staten Island Ferry, onto a Staten Island public school-bus, and alas, you’ve made it to the runner’s village. The day before the race, I dreaded this journey. The morning of, I embraced it as best I could. There are so many highlights along the way. Everyone pulsed with nervous energy. The crunching of carbon-plated shoes resonating everywhere you walk. Groups of all ages acknowledging the fleet of buses moving past their local bodega waving, smiling, taking another pull of their cigarette, and shooting a thumbs up as your bus passes. Yankee hats everywhere. This race means something to everyone that calls NYC home. It means something to Staten Islanders that it starts in their backyard, on their bridge. 

Arriving at the village, mission one for what seemed like all 55,000 runners was to use a portapotty. Lines of anxious runners spanned for hundreds of yards, waiting for their chance to check that sacred pre-race box. I knew I didn’t want to move too much before my wave went off. I learned from Chicago that staying off my feet was important, so I took my throwaway blanket to a patch of grass covered in pine straw and hunkered down for the next few hours. All throughout the morning I calmed myself down with box-breathing. A simple 4-count breathing pattern to slow your roll. If I felt like my mind was racing or anxious thoughts were starting to creep in, I made an effort to incorporate a few minutes at a time. A quick call to my wife, a few minutes to doze in the sunlight, and a few more trips to the portapotty made the time slip by. All the while, NYPD helicopters hovered overhead, likely broadcasting live the crowds of runners gearing to take the streets of New York’s boroughs.

Around 10am, it was time to make our way to the corral. Peeling off layers of clothes to donate, I was chilly but I knew I was shivering because I was nervous. The PA announced that the third wave was ready to start, and we paraded our way to the start of the Verrazano bridge. Frank Sinatra’s Theme From New York, New York blasted. Phones covered runner’s faces trying to document the moment. ‘On your mark…’ BOOM. A cannon blasted signaling the start of our wave. I had my good friend Megan Goodling alongside me for the day as she attempted her first marathon. The moment had finally arrived, and it meant we started the first climb of the day. 

The bridges of this marathon are surreal, both for the views and the solace they provide runners throughout different parts of the race. The New York City marathon brought an estimated two million people out to cheer on runners. I love support more than the next guy, but the bridges provided me with a chance to collect myself and gauge how I felt in the moment. The Verrazano gives you a view of lower Manhattan to your left. Teasing you with the excitement that is to come later in the day. It spits you out into Brooklyn and allows you to come face-to-face with the first crowds of the day. I kept it gentle through the first five miles. You can’t have a great day unless you have a patient start to your race. I focused on controlling what I could in the start and taking in what the first borough had to offer. Brooklyn was the best borough. Its diversity and energy were unmatched. Neighborhoods had identity. They ebbed and flowed together though they may not have had anything in common. They were ruckus, they were polite, they were generational, they were proud, and they cared about people achieving their dream to run the New York City marathon. Grunge bands popped up on corners to jam out. Children reached their hands out for high fives from runners. The highlight of Brooklyn was mile eight. A right turn onto Lafayette Avenue turned up the volume. It was my first meeting with Maddie and friends and it featured thousands more people who seemed like they wanted to be my friend. Brooklyn took my mind off the fact that I was running a marathon, it just felt like a party featuring Gatorade and water every other mile. 

Everything felt great through Brooklyn. We neared the halfway point climbing the Pulaski bridge into Queens. A brief moment of quiet before we jumped back into the thick of cheering. Queens felt as eclectic as Brooklyn. Though it only lasted a couple miles, Queens brought hospitality and wished us well up to the top of the Queensboro bridge. Arguably the hardest section of the race, mile 15 and 16 span across the East river. You start to hear the wearing of runners around you. Heavy breathing, reluctance to spend any energy cheering on others around them. It’s a chance to perform a sanity check. GPS goes kaput on the bridge. You can’t tell whether you’re about to PR your mile or if you’re barely picking up your feet as you climb to the midpoint of the bridge. We descended onto 1st Avenue to finally get a taste of what Manhattan had to offer. This turn off of the Queensboro bridge is supposed to be one of the loudest moments of the race. The coolest part of this turn is the corridor that 1st Avenue shapes between the buildings of Midtown. You just don’t feel like it will end. Runners trap their mind into counting the perpendicular streets all the way up through Harlem. Anything to distance your thoughts about how you feel at the 18 mile marker. Things are starting to speed up, but paces simultaneously start to dwindle. Harlem felt like everyone’s neighborhood. It just felt like we all belonged in Harlem. I felt loved, not just cheered for. 

There is a dreaded moment that I believe occurs for every marathoner. Whether you’re an elite runner or just happy to be there, mile 20 gives you the willies. Honestly, thank goodness they choose the Bronx for this position. You cross over the Willis Avenue bridge and the ‘I don’t give a f*ck!’ attitude of the Bronx was just what I needed. The Bronx had soul and it propelled you through a volatile moment of your race. Crossing the Madison Avenue bridge, I saw a sign stating ‘Last Fucking Bridge’. I smiled. I knew I was nearing the end. Down the hill onto 5th Avenue began the second-loudest portion of the race. Nobody talks about how 5th Avenue is straight uphill. You’re taking steps between the most expensive real estate in the country, and the greatest park ever created. You need the fans at this point. You need encouragement. You need something to take your mind away from your legs feeling like microwaved chicken wings. You pass the Guggenheim and take a sharp right into Central Park. Downhill, baby. Central Park gives you a big hug. It pats you on the back for making it this far. It wants you to stick around. You realize a mile later that it wanted to kill you the whole time. Sadly, some runners are screeching to a halt with cramps, hoping to stretch things out. From my experience in Chicago, there is something demoralizing about having both of your legs seize in front of random strangers cheering you on. Nobody wants to be there in that moment. The runner wants to crawl into a hole with their medal and die. The fans want to make eye contact with anyone else possible. I skirted by these fateful moments feeling like I had escaped death. Mile 24 and 25 ticked by in the park. Soon I crossed the sign for one mile remaining. At that moment, it felt so bittersweet. I wanted to get off my feet but I never wanted this race to truly end. This marathon felt like such an amazing celebration of all the training the 55,646 strong had completed to be here. Columbus Avenue spit us back into the park for the last 400 meters of the race. Flags with every represented nation lined East Drive to the finish line. I crossed the line at 3:59:43. I finished on ‘empty’. I dawned the medal, draped a poncho over myself, and walked the zombie walk to Central Park West with all of my fellow finishers. No one talked. We just hobbled and processed what we had been able to do that day. 

New York will continue to fascinate me every chance I have to be there. I truly love the city and this race solidifies my feelings. I’m so thankful to have support around me that allows me to do these things. You’re only as good as your team and I have the most amazing spouse, friends and community that lead me to want to do hard things like the New York City marathon. I said it in my Chicago excerpt, but everyone deserves to run these races and I encourage runners and non-runners alike to put their name into the lottery so they can experience that energy, too.

On to CLT :)