The
New
York City Marathon
November 5, 2000 -- New York, New York.
26.2 Miles through the most famous 5 Boroughs in running.
Sometime
back in late June, I got the world's shortest e-mail from Mr. Eric S. Weiss
(esq.):
"Congratulations!"
That's
all it said.
I
wrote back "Hmm? For
what?"
"Oh! If you don't know, I'm not telling you! Hee hee hee..." Was
the cryptic reply.
Puzzled,
I thought to myself "What am I waiting for, trying to buy, trying to sell,
trying to get in- OH! The
Marathon!" I quickly jumped to
the NYRRC Website, and sure enough under the 'Domestic Lottery Winners', there
was my name with the word 'ACCEPTED' next to it.
Whoohoo! 16 years after my
Dad ran his first marathon (and the entire family headed to 71st and First Ave.
to watch the world run by) I would be given the chance to retrace his steps. Excellent.
I
wrote back to Eric and said "NYC - Here we come!"
He
simply wrote back "Curses. Foiled
again."
In
the 5 months that passed from that afternoon to race day, I ate a bee, finished
an Ironman, froze to death on my bike, finished another Ironman, got married,
got sick (those two are NOT related in anyway - stop that), took three weeks
off, got fat, got out of shape, and started running all over again on September
23rd. I went out in the rain and
ran 6 miles. 6 flat miles in
Bethany Beach, Delaware. Anyone who
says you don't lose fitness in 3 weeks off?
They lie. Not only was my
fitness gone, but I felt like I was in worse shape than I'd been all year.
Pavement cracked. Pants buttons
strained. Small children began to
orbit me when I walked past the Market Street Day Care center.
For 3 days after that nonchalant 10K trot, I was sore like I'd run a
marathon. Sore to the point of
doing stairs backwards, and minimizing trips off the couch to keep my wincing
and creative use of language to a minimum.
I
had 6 weeks to get ready to run a marathon?
From this? "Man - am I
DEAD." I told Lynda I loved
her, and started to figure out the best place for her to pick my body up in New
York City once I'd officially fallen to pieces.
There was no way I could be ready, but this was NYC!
30,000 runners - 5 Boroughs - The Biggest Marathon in the world - and to
pass up a chance that a lottery had given me in my first try?
I had to give it a go.
I
ran 8 miles the next weekend.
I ran 12 miles the weekend after that.
Then
things really started to hurt when I began working with Mike Plumb as my
coach...and I found myself running 14 and 18 miles before I knew it, and well
before my legs could figure out what had hit them.
It was the Cliffs Notes equivalent of Marathon 101 - and I was cramming
the miles as well as I could.
Now,
these were hardly fast runs. Usually
I left my watch at home, and checked the calendar when I stopped:
If I returned to where I started on the same day, I'd had a good run.
Slowly but surely, I started to find some lost form.
I began to believe I'd have a chance to possibly finish, even run most of
the race (if by some chance it were to tilt in a continuous downhill motion for
all 26.2...). Mike had me running
lots of 1 hour runs, longer runs on the weekend (as well as starting to train in
the pool and on the bike), and generally getting better with every day.
On
the other side of the deal was Eric, having become happily engaged to Amy on
September 8th. He suddenly found
himself strapped to the one-way-hang-on-and-help-me-think-express that is
planning a wedding. His weekends
were usually filled with road trips to New York and New Jersey to check out
places, a feeling that I was very familiar with from my Spring adventures with
Lynda. As a result, he would be coming into the marathon with a
single long run of only 2:40...so he kept warning me that "anything beyond
three hours? I think it'll be a
walking tour of NYC..." However,
I wasn't buying any of that crap. He'd
sung the "I'm so undertrained" song to me at IM-USA, GCBS, Tupper
Lake, and IMC...all locations where he'd proceeded to kick my butt with such
authority, rumor has it that the International Space Station may try and recover
it if they can get close enough.
All
the sub-plots and worrying aside, the calendar flipped to November before I
could even question if I was ready, so it would quickly be time to just shut up
and run.
After
a casual train ride up to Penn Station, Lynda and I met up with Eric and Amy at
her apartment on Saturday morning. It
was hard to believe I was running another marathon (#3 this year, #5 counting
IM's), but the application card said that tomorrow was to be the day.
Eric continued to try and convince me that he was in no shape to run, but
I knew I was in the same boat: No
time to build, too far removed from IMC to really count on that base - we were
both in no-mans land for sure.
We
headed down to the expo, located at Pier 94 on the West Side of Manhattan.
Now you might wonder how the New York Road Runners Club can handle the
last-minute deluge of registrants - some 30,000 coming through on the day before
the race. I've seen triathlon
check-ins with a mere 1500 athletes grind to a halt, usually taking an hour or
so to move through...so I was curious to see how it would play out.
The
US Navy.
The
US Army.
Navy
SEALs
The
NYRRC.
They
all move swiftly, quietly, and with deadly efficiency.
We were hustled through the door, and swooshed down a chute that split
the runners up based on number. At
every intersection there was a person with a headset, directing traffic.
You whipped out your acceptance card ("NO CARD. NO RACE. NO
EXCEPTIONS.") and were pointed at the next check-in person available.
From there *swoosh* off to number pick up; *swoosh* here's your goody bag
*woosh* here's your shirt *swoosh* EXIT
TO THE RIGHT.
9
minutes, start to finish. I didn't
even have time to get tired.
"BOBBY!"
I heard yelled, and I spun around to see none other than "Iron"
Mikey Lanos! Right time, right
place. He was down from Toronto to
run and pace a friend of his, and went on to explain that he was going to have a
fine race, since he'd suffered his traditional, 3-days-out ankle twist on his
last training run. After perusing the expo and eating every freebie I could get
my hands on (graze with me - moo), grabbing every marathon application that
could be seen ("Dublin? You
want me to race in Dublin?") we took a little cruise on the Staten Island
Ferry to give Lynda a little bit of tourist-time, and to keep Eric and I off our
feet. As the sun was setting much
faster than it seemed that it should, the air was cooling quickly.
With no chance of rain forecast on Sunday, temps were looking to be in
the mid-50's at the highest. I
wasn't worried too much about the weather, mainly since my mother, the newly
dubbed "Weather Goddess" from IM-USA had once again assured Eric and I
that everything would be fine...as she would be spectating with Amy and Lynda on
First Avenue for the first time since my Dad had run there 16 years ago.
That
night we all ate dinner at a perfectly small Italian Bistro down the block from
Amy's, watched "Man on the Moon" back at her place, and then it was
time to go to bed. According to
statements from nearby witnesses (Lynda, Amy, Eric, her fish, their across the
street neighbors) I was pretty nervous by then, and was having several
"Bitchy" moments. Yep.
Totally true. I was scared,
tired, nervous, and upset that for whatever reason - my legs were sore already.
Mike hadn't tapered me much for this run (that would be not at all) since
this was supposed to be a long run before my 'A' attempt at the Philadelphia
Marathon in 2 weeks time. Still, a
marathon is a marathon, and I found that my worries of falling apart in front of
everyone once again made for a very hard pillow that night.
My
mom would be there, My dad would be there, my sister would be there, and of
course, St. Lynda would be there...and I did not want them to be there to watch
me come unglued again, the way I had in every single race so far in the 2000
season. Sure, the pressure on me
was certainly from me and only me, but if you'd eaten a bee, been hailed on,
gotten seasick while swimming, blown your first tire on the day you felt your
best, overheated, overtrained, crashed, bonked, and waddled your way through
every single race of a year...you might start worrying about what new and
unusual disaster was waiting for you as well.
:)
I
tossed, turned, got up to pee, tossed, turned, got up to pee, and as always is
the case when you desperately need sleep - wake up time.
I
woke up angry and nervous all at once - a wreck looking for a place to happen.
I felt like I had no business being there, and I just wanted to hide
under the covers and wait for the day to end.
Lynda just sat back and watched, knowing that I was in that tense,
nervous state that sometimes (okay, every time) takes me over before a big race.
it's such a tough moment, as she probably wonders "If he feels this
miserable every time, why does he keep doing this to himself?"
Maybe someday I'll have the confidence to believe that I can and will
succeed at something *before* I actually walk out the door in the morning, but
I'm yet to figure out how to get my esteem to unlock that puzzle.
Until I get near the finish line of the day...I am always the last one to
believe I can do it.
Hell
- forget weights and low gears; Now THAT'S something I need to work on in the
off-season.
The
opposite of my implosive demeanor is where Eric goes pre-race.
Calm, cool, collected, and usually laughing at me for being such a wreck
(which has the desired effect of winding me up like a watch that's been wound
too tight for too long). I wish I
had his outlook on racing - NOTHING bugs the guy.
"It's raining? I can's
make it stop. It's hilly?
I can't make it flat. I'm
out of shape? I can't go buy a can of UnSuck to use on the run."
Sunday morning, he was the same. I
was running up the walls, trying to figure out how long it would take us to walk
to the buses so we wouldn't miss the start (they were 4 blocks away and we had 2
hours to get there), and Eric is there, eating a banana going "Relax.
There's time. They won't
leave."
WindwindwindwindwindwindwindPING.
I
kissed Lynda goodbye, Eric kissed Amy goodbye, and we were off.
They could sleep for a few hours before meeting my mother at Penn Station
and heading for a brunch that one of Amy's friends hosts on Marathon Day (an
unpublished but very official holiday in New York), but we had a short bus ride
ahead of us, followed by three hours of watching the grass grow beneath the
shadow of the Verranzano Narrows Bridge.
Sure
enough we did not miss the bus. One
of the sights I'll long remember from this race was turning the corner across
from the New York Public Library, and seeing Academy Tour Buses double-parked
all the way up 5th Avenue, as far as my eyes could see.
They would be responsible for moving all 30,000 of us to the start, 47
runners at a time. Without standing
around for even one second Eric and I lined up and were *swooshed* onto the next
bus in line. In under 25 minutes
were were across the Verranzano Narrows Bridge and in Staten Island, knowing
that we'd be responsible for getting ourselves back to Manhattan.
When
you unload at Fort Wadsworth (the staging area for the entire event) like
everything else about this race, the scale is simply staggering.
There are live bands playing, a breakfast tent 150 yards long serving
PowerBars, Fruit, Milk, and yogurt, a performance stage with stand-up comedians
from Comedy Central, and almost 100 UPS Trucks for baggage claim.
The start area itself is split into three areas (Red, Blue, Green) based
on your number. Each area has it's
own baggage check, balloon-color-coded line-up area, and tents set up for
athletes to use to stay out of the wind until it's time to go...as well as 300
port-o-potties...and as the race directors are strangely proud to point out, the
world's longest urinal (at just under 100 yards).
I
had enough time to nap, grab some coffee, nap, get in line for a potty stop,
nap, and then line up for the start. While
the late 10:50am start is a bit hard on the nerves, it gave me a chance to ease
into the day and unwind eeevvveerrr soooo sslliiiiggghhhtttlllyyy before we
headed up to the bridge. By chance
Eric and I managed to meet up with Stephen Dragoni, the never-ever-tired Lisa
Miller, and once again (with feeling) Mikey Lanos.
Neil Cook and many other Deads were out there...but there just wasn't
time to meet them all before the start. I
figured the long day might give us many more chances...and with over 2 million
spectators en route...who knew who you might meet along the way.
With
the same precision I'd seen all weekend, we were corralled in our Blue Start at
precisely 10:40, on the bridge at 10:47, and at 10:50...
**
WABOOM **
"YEAH!
WHOOHOOO!"
Stand.
Stand.
Stand.
Stand.
Stand.
Stand.
Stand.
Stand.
Stand.
Stand.
(Repeat
for 3 minutes and 17 seconds).
With
so many runners, there's nothing you can do about traffic on the bridge. As we made our way up the first uphill mile on the span, the
best pace that we could set was a slow jog (or a racewalk if you have 17 foot
legs like Eric). Lisa Miller took
off (resplendent in a yellow PowerBar leaf bag) and Stephen said (in his usual
British lilt) "Gentoomen? I
fink I'll head off after Leesa. Cheers!"
and away he went. Eric and I
tried to just make sure we wouldn't trip...or get blown over.
The
run up the bridge is the Kodak moment of the New York City Marathon.
Both lanes above (and one below) filled with runners from all nations,
the fireboats of the NYC Fire Department below blowing their air horns and
spraying red, white, and blue streams of mist hundreds of feet in the air with
no fewer than 4 helicopters dancing around each other above to get the best shot
of the day...it's very easy to become completely enamored and enraptured with
this race in only a few strides - and to understand why so many people love it
the way they do. However, while I
was amazed to be a part of such a scene...it was harder for me to hold a
straight line - the winds at the high point of the bridge were gusting at over
40mph, and hats, gloves, and hefty bags were getting blown straight off
into space. Some men stopped
to heed the call of nature, as others yelled out "You'll be able to pee to
Jersey with that wind!"
Coming
off the 2 mile climb and descent into Brooklyn, I found myself with a very low
HR...and that feeling of 'dead' legs. It
was early yet, so I figured it was the traffic, the inability to run fast enough
to get warm, and just the nerves of the moment that were making me feel bad.
As the road flattened out and we headed into the heart of Brooklyn...I
waited for my body to warm to the task.
And
I waited...
And
I waited...
Mile
3 in 10:20, with my HR still stuck at 114.
Mile
4 in 10:23, HR up to 123 now.
After
training at 145+ for most of the Fall, panic began to set in.
I felt exhausted - wasted - spent already.
I'd barely been running for 43 minutes...and my body wanted nothing to do
with it. It was Pittsburgh all over
again - a day that started bad and only got worse with every mile I ran.
My mood plummeted, and I got very quiet.
I looked down at the ground, and couldn't bring myself to look up - it
just took too much effort.
I
could feel the crowds around me - I could hear the music, but I didn't care.
I ran through mile 5 with my hat pulled down, my eyes looking at the
pavement, and my mind racing with negative waves: "How can this happen
again? When will I ever have a GOOD
marathon again? What can I do to
fix this?" Eric could tell I
was in a bad way, and offered me his cell phone:
"Want to call your sweetie? She
might cheer you up!" "NO!"
I roared. "Don't call
her. Don't tell her how I feel.
I don't have the energy to talk to her, and I don't want her to worry for
the next 3 hours until we get there. Please
- don't talk about me." Now I
was really upset - my worst day imagined was coming to fruition, and Eric had
enough energy to wave, cheer, sing, dance, and frickin' CALL HOME?
I just wanted to slip into a storm drain and wash away down the East
River...then Eric turned to me and
said "I'm surprised - I feel pretty good." and I just wanted to go home.
I snarled back "I know. And
if you keep dancing, I'm going to use my last breath at the finish line to beat
the ever-living (bleep) out of you."
It
was the worst moment of my day. I
felt terrible for being so negative...and now I'd rained on Eric, too.
As we crossed mile 5, I popped a GU in my mouth and Eric said "It's
early yet. Just keep running and
you might surprise yourself. Do you
need to pee?" To my left was
one of the few places in the early miles one could do so without breaking the
law....so I dove for the alley with about 4 other runners.
Eric pulled over next to me...and lets just say that I was there for a
*long* time...prompting Eric to say "DAMN! No matter you were Mr. Cranky Pants; You were all full!"
As I trotted away feeling much lighter...I could only hope so.
Mile
6 and 7 went by, and I started to notice that the sky was a little brighter.
My shoulders relaxed a bit, and I could finally lift my head.
Maybe it was the GU kicking in, maybe it was the break, or on this day I
just needed a long, long warmup...but I was starting to rise up to the task:
I was improving as the miles wore on - a first in my running career.
Mile
8 was a 9:06 - my best of the day, with my Heart Rate now a stable and
maintainable 145 - right on Coach Mike's target.
As Eric and I ran past a group of "Phil Lazio for Senate"
supporters, I looked over, smiled at Eric, and started chanting "HILL-A-RY!
HILL-A-RY! HILL-A-RY! HILL-A-RY! HILL-A-RY!"
Eric looked over at me and said "Well, someone's feeling
better!" I couldn't help it - I had some energy in store now, and I
settled in to a pace that made sure I could hang onto it.
I had no idea how long this 'good patch' would last, so I didn't waste
it.
Mile
9 was a 9:37, followed up by a quiet 10 in 9:39 as Eric and I ran through the
Williamsburg section of Brooklyn - home of the Hasidic Jewish population of New
York. From the bedlam of lower Brooklyn, it suddenly sounded like
we had run into a museum. Whole
families stood on the sidewalks, simply watching us run past in total silence.
A small girl held her hand out, and instinctively I went to high-five her
- and she recoiled in complete horror with a gasp that made me jump back a step.
I guess either I scared her, or as a Catholic my touch would curse her to
eternal damnation - I'm not sure. (Anyone
seriously know why? I'm curious).
Eric stopped to take a picture of a group of them, and then came running
back up to me, somehow, with a handful of Munchkins.
"Donut?" he offered, and I grabbed that sucker and popped it in
my mouth as we both enjoyed a Homer Simpson moment in Williamsburg:
"Ahhh, is there anything donuts can't do?"
As
Brooklyn came to a close, we started climbing uphill to miles 12-15 and the 59th
street bridge (The Williamsburg Bridge). Here
we ran 2 10" miles, and then a 9:14 as we started to climb the long, long,
eternal false-flat to the bridge. I
had known from my father's description that this bridge is truly evil as it
seems to just go on and on and on, with the slope of the ceiling beams above
giving you the illusion that you'll be going down in a matter of yards...when
actually you're still going up, just not as steeply.
Holding a steady tempo Eric and I picked off runner after runner the
entire climb...catching those that had started too quickly, or misjudged the
climb completely.
I
was starting to feel better to the point where I was daring myself to raise the
tempo on the hills. The
transformation in how the race felt to me as the miles wore on was the most
surreal I'd felt in a marathon, ever. As
we descended (steeply) down to the 180 degree turn at the base of the bridge, we
were approaching mile 16.5 - and I was feeling the best I had felt all day.
With 10 miles to go, I was thinking about keeping a lid on my effort
until mile 20, and then following Coach Mike's plan to "Go based on how you
feel, ignoring the HRM." Eric
had started to become a little more conservative in his play with the
crowds...and I sensed that we were on very different paths as we turned the
corner to the best part of the New York City Marathon - First Avenue.
What
is First Avenue? 6 lanes wide. 4 miles long. The crowds is 5-8 deep on BOTH sides of the
road. Music. Horns. Balloons.
People hanging our of buildings on all sides.
The sun at your back. First
Avenue is dead straight before you, and all you can see are the colorful backs
of runners converging to infinity before you.
The leaders have passed through here 2 hours previously, but nobody has
left. They are still cheering - they are still waving.
If you hold your hand out as you run, 500 people will high--five you in 2
blocks. Children yell.
Bands play. For those 40
minutes as you run on mortal feet towards the Bronx - you are the leader, the
Olympic Champion, a world record holder, and beloved like the lanterne rouge of
the Tour. It is as powerfully
intoxicating, and your legs just take off on their own...how you felt before
First Avenue rendered moot now that you're here.
At
71st and First, a slight redhead started bouncing up and down, waving like mad -
her white gloves leaving streaks in the sunlight.
My little sister Karen had been the first to spot Eric and I, and
immediately my dad stepped out to greet us.
As we plowed to a halt, I literally crashed into him at speed having
completely misjudged my arrival by a good 2 feet.
I looked at him and said "This is your fault - I hurt!" with a grin...and there was a brief "Cat's in the
Cradle" moment as the father that had been on this avenue before, now
looked at the son that had taken his place on the other side of the fence.
I could tell he was proud - and after hugs to Karen, her husband Michael,
and to Dad, Eric and I headed off
to 91st and First - the women were waiting for us!
Eric
and I surfed up First Avenue - the shortness of the blocks adding to any sense
of speed we were having. Within
only 5 minutes, we were on the shady side of First Ave, and there they were -
Amy crouched low in the street, and my Mom balancing on an NYPD blue sawhorse to
get a view. We pulled over, and Lynda leaned over the barricade to say
"Hi! You want a brownie?"
as she handed me a paper towel full of chocolate good stuff.
I'd been using GU every 5 miles since I'd started to feel better, and I
wasn't going to mess with that now..."Sorry, love.
I don't think my stomach would like that much sugar now..."
"That's alright! I'll
share 'em with your mom!" She
smiled. I ran back 10 feet to say
hi to Mom, and I asked her "Are you having fun?" "Oh - yeah! I've
been to brunch, I've had tea, I've watched the race...get going!"
she yelled, beaming. Once
again Eric and I headed off...the next time we'd see them would be in Central
Park with less than 2 miles to go.
As
we headed to the Northern-most point in the race, the crowds slowly thinned out,
and soon you could hear your footsteps once again...as the constant din of the
crowd faded to the South...and was replaced by a strong wind that I hadn't
really noticed at all. Past mile 19
in 10:10...we were now running on concrete - and it hurt.
I usually don't notice little things like that, but this time it felt
like the pavement was coming up to meet me, and my quads were getting hammered.
I asked Eric about it, and he noticed it too - the fatigue was creeping
in on both of us now as we approached the 20 mile mark.
Crossing
the bridge into the Bronx, I was still feeling in control of my efforts, even
though we'd been going for nearly 3 1/2 hours...but Eric was really starting to
suffer. The cell phone didn't come
out much anymore...the sing-alongs and waving had stopped, and my friend was on
the edge of getting his ticket punched. I
asked him how he was feeling, and as he'd been aware of he told me
"Anything over three hours...I just don't have the miles in me to keep it
up. I need to stretch some..."
The tables had completely turned from the first hour of the day, and now
it was my turn to try and help. We
stopped just after an aid station, and off to one side Eric worked on his tight
hamstrings while I braced his foot with mine.
I'd never seen him in such tough shape on a long run, and I felt bad -
especially considering how the day had started.
I now had a tough choice to make...
"If
Mike wanted you to go at 20 miles, don't wait for me.." Eric said, beating
me to my internal debate. "No
way." I countered. "You helped me in the beginning - now I'll get you
home." It was a noble intent
on my part...but it wasn't to last.
On
the next climb in less than a mile as we headed back into Manhattan at mile 21,
I lost him. I looked back and held
my hand up as I started walking backwards to stretch and wait, and he waved both
arms immediately forward in a "Shoo!" gesture, yelling "GO!"
loudly enough for me to hear...and for people behind me to turn around and see
who it was telling all of them to go. As
much as I thought it was rude to do it - I spun on my heels, took a breath, and
took off. I had 5 miles to go...and
- for the first time in my life - the surprising strength to actually RUN to the
end of a marathon.
Mile
22 went by quietly in 9:24, HR now up to 161.
My father had warned me how desolate this section could be, but I can't
say I even noticed a thing. I was
focusing on taking long breaths, keeping my hands open, my shoulders back, and
bringing my knees up the best that I could.
I was moving faster than everyone around me now, and I used each person
as a carrot before me saying "Next, Next, Next..." under my breath as
they went by. Soon, trees
before me marked the edge of Central Park - only 5K to go now...but the toughest
5K of the race.
Turning
right just before Mile 23 is a 400m long climb.
It hit me like a dropped sack of cement.
My breathing picked up, I had to fight to keep from slouching, and my
legs suddenly felt like they were filled with Oatmeal.
On either side of the road, though...the crowd from First Avenue had
moved 4 blocks over to watch the survivors try and bring it home, and I just
tried to let their noise lift my unwilling body up the grade. 10:25 with the hill, HR at 163.
After
a brief downhill...another long grinder, and this one - while not as steep -
felt worse than the first one. As I
focused and fought to keep my form solid and together, there was a tap at my
shoulder - Eric was back from the dead. "How
the hell did you do that?" I blurted - impressed and disappointed all at
once: I had been running as hard as
I could, and I had gained no ground at all.
Clearly, despite his early appraisal, this boy had some fight left in
him. He pulled out his cell phone,
and I said "No - no calls - save your strength!" He turned to me and gasped "I just want it out of my
pocket - it hurts!" It had
been banging into his stomach all race, and after 24 miles - EVERYTHING hurts,
so I grabbed it...and stuffed it in the back pocket of my TRI-DRS singlet.
Suddenly,
I felt like I'd put a 5-pound paving brick back here...but I couldn't give it
back, now.
We
passed 91st street again, and Amy, Lynda, and my Mom were there on the left
side...cheering us all the way in. We
didn't (couldn't) stop this time - we might not have been able to start up
again...so we waved and rolled on...past mile 24 in 10:24, HR at 153 on the
false flat. Soon, the road tilted
up again, and the yelling from all sides became quiet...for something in my head
simply said "Go."
I
listened.
I
don't know why I surged just then. Maybe
I just wanted to get this stupid race over.
Maybe I just hated the hill...or maybe I was mad that Eric had chased me
down for the 14th time this year...and in front of Lynda no less!
On the worst climb in the park, I started to open my stride...and bury
myself in the last push. I would
run away, or I would blow myself to bits trying.
It had never worked...I have a long history of trying this with
Eric...with no success. Without
even trying he was pushing me to someplace I wouldn't be able to go on my own -
I was attacking the last 2 miles like they were the only 2 I would run all day.
As
I crested the hill, violently swerving past people walking, my sister saw me
first and yelled "BOB!" - I had forgotten they'd all be there!
I waved back at my Dad, but was in no position to do much more than that
as I needed every last bit of strength now.
At the top of the hill, I came across a figure in red having a rough go
up the last big hill - Lisa Miller! I
patted her on the back and yelled "C'mon Miller!" as I went by.
I wondered if Stephen was nearby...as we ran the long downhill out of the
park onto Central Park South.
From
watching this race as a child on TV, I knew this was a short stretch - less than
a minute. Sure - less than a minute
for an elite! Not for me.
I waited, and waited, and waited for that Goddamn right turn to
appear...where is it? Where is it?
Christmas will be here before I make this turn... aughaughaughaughaugh!
AH! At Columbus circle, the
road peeled right, and I dove for a gap between a woman walking and the
barricade. In the haze of effort,
my mind managed to warn me "Bob - there's no way you'll fit in that
gap...you might want to LEAN RIGHT NOW!!!!" and like Franz Klammer on a
downhill, I leaned hard right with my torso skimming the metal on the barricade,
and thundered past her inside into the park.
Mile
26 was a beautiful blue banner across the road...and I got there in 9:38, HR now
at 165...with only 385 yards to go. The
winner had come through here more than 2 hours before me, but the crowds were
still there - screaming, clapping, and yelling...and I was flying.
For the first time in a marathon, I was passing people left and right in
the closing yards. I had to make an
effort to pick my spaces and steer...the last thing I want to do is run over
someone when they're so close to home now...
Over
the final rise...my entire face, my arms, and my legs are tingling.
Before me it came into view all at
once - from one curb to the other, and
surrounded by grandstands that reach into the trees...the finish line of The New
York City Marathon. 16 years ago I
was here as just a fat kid, watching my dad do something that made him a
superhero for a day in my eyes...and now...it was my turn.
I remembered his last bit of advice on Friday:
"Make sure at the finish you're in the middle of the road - get the
clock over you on the line!" I
steered right on the blue line in the center of the road, and let out a whoop as
the banner closed in, closed in, and finally passed over my head.
I
crossed the line in 4:23:39...having covered the last mile in 9:34...HR at 175
at the finish.
I
waited for Eric for just over a minute and a half...and it gave me enough time
to breathe, see straight, and stand upright again. At the finish, he looked as
haggard as I've seen in all our years of beating each other senseless on the
weekends. I handed him his phone
back...and he muttered something like "It was supposed to explode when you
took it..."
He
had survived his toughest marathon to date - undertrained for sure.
With a PR of 3:24...for him to go 4:25 must have felt like days near the
end. I felt bad...especially for
heading up the road when I did, but he dismissed it: "I knew you were going to drop me. I had hung behind you all the way...and every time I got
close, you took off again." I
felt a bit of pride...but I knew damn well that when he was really trained and
as ready as he had been in the summer, I'd have no chance at beating him unless
he tied a sandbag to his ankle. This
was just one hiccup in the universe...and I wasn't going to let it go to my
head.
After
all - this was just one of the biggest, most amazing, dizzying, spectacular
training runs of my career.
He'll
have his shot at me in Philadelphia...
...in
precisely 11 days.
(Hey Coach Mike - can I start tapering yet?)