The New York City Marathon

26.2 Miles through the most famous 5 Boroughs in running.

http://www.nyrrc.org/

"Where are they?" was all my brain kept asking, as if somehow it might make it a little more real. They used to be there. They've been there since I was a little kid. Now, they were gone. I said I wasn't going to look when we passed within 4 blocks on the buses that morning, and I wasn't looking - sort of. I was trying to focus on the day to come - the 26.2 miles that lay ahead, and then the trucks came by. 3 Dump-Trucks carrying smaller pieces, and then the flatbeds carrying the long, twisted beams...just like they have been since September 11th.

It occurred to me just how silly it all was: To think of running a marathon as 'pain' when now it seemed like nothing but a weekend recreation for those with the luxury of life and time and choice. To call anything today outside of Ground Zero "Painful" was to do it a disservice. There were supposed to be two million people on the race route today - 2,000,000 irrepressible New Yorkers who would scream, cheer, clap, and give love to perfect strangers for 6 hours...because for just a little while, it would give them something else to think about.

I had to look up. The pieces were still there - 40 stories up. The dust was still covering the beams of the bridge we passed under as we headed for the tunnel. There were hundreds of men and women working as they had and as they would until the job was done. They wouldn't even know what was going on outside the downtown lunar-landscape as we would ride our warm buses on a cloudless, crisp, perfect Fall day, with the sun rising to welcome us all to the 32nd New York City Marathon.

I felt like I had no business being there, yet every reason to get out there and run. We had to run, and we would run. We would run scared, we would run proud, we would run for those who could no longer. I know I wasn't alone in my swirl of thoughts - I watched as other pairs of eyes on my bus sheepishly looked up, stared, then darted away as if they'd seen something they didn't want to. Eric was across the aisle from me, but he was a veteran of all the ugliness. Since he worked less than 2 blocks from the horror, he'd been given more chances (than anyone might actually want) to see it all up close - too close. "You have no idea..." he said as I gaped up at the beams dangling above the ground in the AT&T Building, and I knew he was right: I had no idea, and I wanted to have no idea. This was too close and too real now.

New York had announced virtually from Day One that this marathon would go on like any other, under the slogan "United We Run." At the expo all the runners were given purple ribbons with the slogan, and the folks from Breathe Right had given out Red, White, and Blue colored strips. The race numbers were all Red, White, and Blue, and the clear bags from UPS (for easy inspection) had a giant American Flag on them. It was impossible to not feel the sense of patriotism and duty in the air as we all stepped off the buses in Fort Wadsworth, along with just the right dose of nerves.

Two miles isn't really a long way to run, unless you're 274 feet above the Harbor on a roadbed held up by a few hundred steel cables. Then, like it or not, it's a very long way...especially with 30,000 other runners. I had tried not to think about it in the days leading up to the race, but I couldn't hide from it: In this new reality we live in, one of the biggest bridges in the world with 30,000 targets on it? If I was a terrorist looking to strike and already wounded city, it's hard to beat the start of the New York City Marathon as a prime target. How worried was I? Real enough to make sure that when I said my goodbye to Lynda at 6:01am that morning, I looked right into her eyes and said "If anything should happen to me, I promise I'll watch over you." Granted, I could almost feel her staring at the ceiling wondering "Why did he have to say THAT?" as I walked to the elevator with Eric, but I figured if I was around later in the day to have her be mad at me for being so worried, it was fine with me.

Thankfully, the race directors thought and planned with the same worries I had, and I must say my nervousness dropped quite a bit when I found out that New York Harbor was closed to shipping traffic for the morning; The bridge was closed to traffic the day before; There would be a 'No Fly Zone' over the bridge and the rest of the Marathon course; All of the bridges along the route (5 in total) would be closed for the first time in the race's history.

All that, plus the two Coast Guard Cutters, the 5 helicopters constantly buzzing overhead, and the armed guards everywhere I looked all added up to make this Bob feel much better about his chances of not becoming a Guardian Angel to Clydesdale's (and one St. Lynda) anytime soon.

Eric had been smart enough to buy a copy of the Sunday New York Times before we loaded up at the New York Library, so once we'd found a sunny place to rest before heading for the start we split the paper (using the classified section to make two fairly comfy paper futons on the grass) and got ready to...wait.

The start was at 10:50, we were there at 8:05am. Ahh, if only all races could be so casual! We had time to meet up with Stephen Dragoni, as well as Neil and Julie Cook. I ate a few bits of Power Bar, drank some water, and kept myself from thinking negative thoughts by looking at the helicopters overhead being piloted by some VERY proud members of the NYPD. I had the feeling that if anything went down, these guys would not only be there BEFORE it happened, but they'd run across the clear blue sky Wile E. Coyote style - oblivious to being 400 feet above the ground - just so they could beat the stuffing out of someone that dared mess with THEIR city again.

As we walked towards the start corrals, Eric and Stephen lined up with me (as the slowest guy in the bunch). We were in the Green start, lined up in the left lanes of the Verrazano Narrows. We socked right up against the median, and I jumped up to grab some pictures before everyone else got the same idea. Sure enough no sooner had I clicked off 2 pics then I heard a member of the Blue Line on a megaphone: "Good Morning. Could yous guys please remove yoorselves from de' median? Hey! You! Yeah. Down, please. Tank' you so very much, sir."

God, how I love New York.

With the 3-lane lineup, we were staggered well ahead of the elite-men's start, so I was able to get positioned for a snap of all 452 pounds of them as the field of 80 or so rockets rolled by, already moving faster uphill then I could if I were on a bike chasing them. Rudy Giuliani, having just red-eyed a flight all the way from Arizona to make the start (he would start the race, ride in the lead vehicle, then fly BACK to Phoenix in time for Game 7) gave a speech about being proud and running as a tribute to the City. Doves were released, "GO YANKEES!" was screamed by hizzoner, and at precisely 10:50 and 4 seconds....BOOM! We were off.

Well, not really 'off' yet. We in the Green Corral weren't moving at all, but we leaned with a purpose. I was able to turn around, take a clear shot of the men's field setting off after $80,000 and a car, and then we started to dance forward as Sinatra blared from the speakers. Dance? You bet: As a New York Native, when someone plays "New York, New York" - you sing, and you dance! I can say that I kicked over the starting mats, more than happy to allow bad choreography to be the main thing I was thinking about as I headed up the bridge.

As we all jogged uphill (up to the highest point in the race), I was surprised that I really wasn't scared. I just felt safe. I could see the security everywhere I looked, and that meant there were even MORE guys I couldn't see watching...so despite a week of nerves leading up to the moment, I was able to soak in the magic of that bridge start for all it was worth - and I even managed to head for the rail and get a pic of the traditional Fireboats below us, streaming Red, White, and Blue water into the sky...forming a rainbow as we ran North towards Brooklyn.

In just over 20 minutes, we were off the bridge and safe. I just announced "Hey guys - we're over land! Welcome to Brooklyn!" As we came down, I said a quick prayer of thanks. From here, the fact that I had 24.2 miles to go seemed rather simple, despite the controlled chaos before my eyes. Coming off the Narrows produces one of the more memorable visuals of the race, as the other side of the road has to loop around and cross under us. This happens as the Lower Level (women's start) is running out from underneath and running *back* the way we were headed. For about 100 tumultuous yards everywhere you look, there's someone running in a totally different direction. It resembles a Rube Goldberg Device in sneakers, but somehow everyone ends up pointing the right way, heading North on 4th Avenue in Brooklyn.

Here I noticed that we were running with a tailwind - a slight one - but enough to make the air around us still. I had chosen to wear long-sleeves for the race, and I knew right away I'd goofed. No problem - I figured I'd just cook a few more bastard fat cells along the way, and no matter how warm I was - it wouldn't be the 90 degrees of Ironman Canada all over again. Eric, Stephen, and I just ticked off the miles, amazed at how much bigger and louder the crowd was this year compared to 2000. Between the events of 9/11 and the perfect weather, the estimate of two-million didn't seem like enough. Mexicans waved flags and sang; So did the Italians, the Spanish, the Russian, the Ukrainian, the Japanese...hell, it looked like the UN out there. Eric suggested that next year we all get those Rot-o-signs that buses use to show what route they're on so we could dial in the right flag as we passed.

As we passed mile 6, I wasn't feeling too great: My legs were sore. Sore? Sore. Sore! How the #(*! was that happening? Well, I'd run a pretty hefty build cycle (for me) leading up to NYC, and my taper was really short. Like, one week. I was supposed to run an easy 8 miles on the Tuesday before, but instead I went to track. Why? Well, I'm trying to get to know names and faces with the Valley Forge Striders, so I went to the Tuesday track workout. I thought I'd run an interval or two, then ease up and go home.

Of course, testosterone, ego, and the desire to improve my running RIGHT FREAKIN' NOW took over, and I ended up running 5 x 1200 at 10K pace; 9 miles total. Realizing the errors of my ways so close to a marathon, I scheduled an emergency massage with Troy, my close friend and massage therapist since January. Sure, I hadn't seen him since before IMC...what, that's like only 11 weeks. So? It's not like your muscles forget how to react to a massage, right? Oh, wait: They can? They do? Oh F*ck. Why didn't I know that? Why do I always find this stuff out AFTER I screw them up, and not before? Huh? (I know, you're all saying "That's why you're Bob, you doofus." Right. Back to the story.)

So Troy worked on me. He went deep, he hit trigger points. He made me see stars. I talked to Elvis (He says "Hey.") I finally hit the high "C." I hobbled out of Troy's apartment, sure that I had flushed all the toxins from my body, sure that I'd be ready for Sunday.

If you're scoring at home, why the hell are you scoring a Race Report? Are you that Jones-ed out since the World Series is over? Anyway, score that one "E-Bob", and make sure you write a really BIG "E", okay? Right - back to the race.

So there I am in Brooklyn, 7 miles into the race. I'm sore. I'm headed downhill, and Eric looks strong. He's bouncing up and down in every stride, his legs leaning against the restraint of his (oddly) sensible mind like two puppies on a leash: "Can we go? Can we go? Can we go? Can we go? Can we go? Can we go? Can we go? Can we go?" He's being good, but as we clock a 9:05 mile I scold him: "Heeeyyy...someone's pulling here!" He tells me he doesn't want to get stuck in a rut of endless 9:40 miles - and I know he's right. Actually, 9:05's are what I was hoping to run all the way, but since that 9:05 felt like we'd done an 8:05...I moved my fitness monitor to "Defcon 3" and got ready for a long day.

Of course, I could have not seen the NBC Camera ahead of us. I could have been happy to run the same pace as Eric was setting, and after my little complaint...you think I would? Nope. No chance. That same ego that had me at track five days before a marathon now saw a chance to get my bald (but tastefully decorated with a Red, White, and Blue bandana) pate on TV. It was NBC-4, the local coverage running all day: They were interviewing a Fireman on the move! That's really cool. Thus, I inserted myself in a Rockette-esque line of runners who had somehow appeared shoulder-to-shoulder in the background. Why? Well, my Mom said she'd tape it! My Nana might see me! Why not?

Hi. My name is Bob Mina, and I...am...am...a...a...poser.

I also ran what would turn out to be my last good mile of the day, burning what might have been 3 medium miles in one foolish, Icarus-like mile of effort for what? What? Yes - most-likely-out-of-focus BACKGROUND FILLER. How stupid is that? For the benefit of those of you somehow scoring this report: About as stupid as running track 5 days before a marathon, but not quite as stupid as getting a deep massage 3 days before. The best part didn't happen until after the race:

"Mom, did you tape the marathon?" I beamed. Mom would bat her eyes at me, look up, and shake her head resoundingly yet apologetically in a "No" like motion. That was the end of that.

(As I recall, Eric laughed so deeply he successfully managed to simultaneously cramp his lateral-obliques in opposite directions, somehow twisting himself like a DNA molecule on Central Park West...but that's later on. C'mon, we need to get back to Brooklyn.)

So back in the group, both Eric and Stephen scolded me for my little surge. "Oh, you can't run with us, but you see a camera and you're GONE. Right." I had no defense - I'd gotten comfortable with the fact that I was Gump-ing my way through this marathon: Stupid is as stupid does. It was still New York, and it was still amazing.

We passed Fire Company after Fire Company, each with their ladders out over the race, usually holding some guys waving and cheering for us as we passed underneath. I took pictures, I drank at every aid station, and I just drank in all that I could with my eyes as well. We cruised through Williamsburg, passing the Hasidic community in relative silence. It's always a strange transition - you run from the bedlam of Brooklyn into Williamsburg...and the silence is shocking. They watch in what I would call respectful confusion: They know what we do is very difficult, yet they cannot comprehend why someone would ever want to do such a thing.

(For those of you who remember my faux pas last year, this time I didn't try and high-five anyone.)

As we neared the half-way point at the Pulaski Avenue Bridge, Eric's puppies began to win the war. Headed up the long climb near Manhattan, he was clearly surging ahead on anything remotely uphill. I snapped a quick picture of the crowd headed up the bridge, and began to come to terms with the fact that my long day was nearly half over, but pretty much finished at the same time. With Eric getting stronger at the same time my legs were trying to break off and walk home quite by themselves, it was time to start thinking about letting Eric go so I didn't hurt myself trying to stay with him - or hurt him by making him run too slowly.

It was here that Neil Cook caught Stephen and I as Eric headed up the road on another 'test' surge. Neil was ebullient - clearly soaking in everything about the race and the people in it, just like you might imagine a native New Yorker would. He was in HIS race in HIS home, and you got the feeling that if someone told Neil he could single-handedly return NYC to normalcy by carrying it on his back, he'd show up 4 minutes later with his trail shoes, change for all the bridge tolls, and a plank of plywood to put across his shoulders. It was easy to perk up talking to him, even if it only lasted 2 minutes.

Eric stopped to stretch, and Stephen and I plodded by as he waved "Go ahead - I'll catch up."

Next we saw Lisa Miller walking through the aid station at mile 14 - hands above head, clearly having a day you could say was NOT pegging the Fun-O-Meter. Eric (as predicted) caught up with us, amazingly only using his right leg. He told us she'd come down with a cold 3 days ago, and was just trying to gut it out. Determined to beat her fears, the insolence of her immune system, and 26.2 miles all at once, she was well on her way - just Manhattan and The Bronx to go.

As the three of us hit the 59th Street bridge, Eric turned to Stephen and I and said "I'm going to surge this mile - I'll wait for you guys at the bottom of the bridge, okay?" I was fine with that - I knew I couldn't stay with him, and neither could Stephen. Having finished the Great Floridian Ironman Triathlon only 2 weeks prior, Stephen was in the same place I was, so we kept each other moving the best that we could as Eric quickly disappeared into the throng ahead, floating and weaving like Muhammad Ali up the climb. Stephen and I plodded along up the endless rise, waiting for the entry to Manhattan and First Avenue - the signature stretch of the New York City Marathon.

When we came down off the bridge, it was exactly as I'd remembered it: The crowds 4 and 5 people deep, pressed up against the crowd control barricades...waving signs, clanging cowbells. and screaming like we were the focus of a ticker-tape parade in the Canyon of Heroes. As Steve Smith described so well in his race report - it sounded like a stadium from the outside, but as you get closer and pass through the tunnel...the roar simply enters your body, passes through it, picks you up, and carries you like no other place on Earth. As Stephen and I exited out from under the shadow of the 59th Street bridge...the panorama of colors stretched out before us for the next 4 miles towards The Bronx: The sea of runners headed uptown, sun-splashed in screaming colors that LeRoy Neimann would have used had he painted the City, was just incredible.

Of course, in the midst of this Technicolor roundabout - we nonchalantly missed Eric completely. He was somewhere out there, ahead of us? Behind us? We had no idea where, but since Eric was running so well, I figured he'd run ahead and wait for us when we met up with Amy, Lynda, my mom, and everyone else at their Marathon Party at...at...at...uh-oh. I think it was 80th and First, but Eric knew for sure. I think they'll be on the left - that's where they were last year. Was it 80th? Was it 90th? Was it somewhere in-between? 16 miles of running on wasted legs had done little to keep my brain fresh, so even the simplest of details were now muddled in a haze of confusion.

I'd have to guess, and hope for the best.

One thing I knew - my father would be at 71st and First, on the right. He's always there on Marathon day, handing out bananas. Not just a few - He buys about 80 pounds of bananas (4 crates), sets up his little station, and does his part in circulating marathon karma. Of course, the edict from the NYPD was to make sure that nobody outside of the race stations handed anything to the runners, per-rih-uhd. So as my Dad went to hand out his first banana of the day, a member of the NYPD was there before he even extended his arm, and that was the end of that. When Stephen and I spotted him, he ran along to greet us...and followed us for a bit.

"How's your race going?" he asked.

"Well, I suck. I'm toast." I replied.

"That's too bad. Want a banana?" He offered one from under his jacket, and told me the parable of Officer Krupke and the Banana Bust. Since I can't eat bananas and run (you really don't need to know the details why) I could do little to offset the sudden fruit surplus of 71st Avenue. I suggested donating them to a food bank, or perhaps baking the World's Largest Loaf of Banana Bread, but I really couldn't come up with anything better than that. Before he dropped off, he asked "You want to run next year? I'll be back - I love this race." I said I'd put my name in the lottery, and we'd see. I'd been lucky enough to go two-for-two in lottery applications here, and it was too early to think about a third...considering that I was still 10 miles from finishing #2.

Stephen and I trudged along, passing the blocks quickly - 74th, 75th, 76th...soon, we were at 80th and we slowed to a mere shuffle to find the ladies. I scanned the faces in the crowd, looking for a sign - listening for the cowbells Lynda had brought...but they weren't there. They weren't where I thought they would be. I was at 81st, then 82nd, then maybe I thought it was 90th...so we headed down the road. By now, I began to think the worst: Did we miss them? In all my years of racing, I've never missed anyone that came to spectate...but if it was going to happen, NYC was certainly a place capable of un-doing even the best of plans.

As I would find out later, Eric was about a minute ahead of Stephen and I, and while he was looking on the left for Amy and Co., Lynda spotted him (the advantage of being 6' 3" - he looks like Big Bird in a pack) and caught his attention right as he was just about past them. They were on the RIGHT side this year - the hostess of the party had moved since last year, to an apartment on the other side of First Ave. It was one of those details that had just slipped through when we planned meeting, and that was that.

As Eric talked to Amy and everyone, Lynda and my Mom kept scanning the masses of runners flowing by - hundreds by the minute. Amidst the sea of color, they never would have seen the back of my head, 6 lanes away, scanning the wrong side of the road with equal desperation. I would run right by, and head up the road.

By 100th, I turned to Stephen and admitted defeat: "We missed them. We must have missed them." Eric was split off, my legs were really starting to hurt, and now the emotional boost I so desperately wanted wouldn't be delivered. Most of all, I was finished with my little disposable camera, and I REALLY wanted to hand it off. All 4 ounces of Kodak MAX were starting to feel like I had a paving stone in my shorts...and it would do little for my disposition for the next 7 miles.

At mile 19, Stephen stopped running: "Go ahead, Bob. I'll get there. I'm just going to take a bit of a break here and get on with it soon." I bid him farewell, and now I was really alone to the end. It was just another bad day - one of the hundreds I've had in my career. I was okay with it, I knew I'd be hurting to the end, but I had no doubts that I would get there. Heading over the Willis Avenue Bridge towards mile 20 in The Bronx, I was already thinking about crossing back into Manhattan and allowing the draw of Central Park to bring me home. I was physically beaten, emotionally drained, and had little energy to spare...but I didn't have to look far to realize I had nothing to complain about.

The pictures were everywhere. Faces looking back at me from home-made singlets; "In Memory of Daddy."; "For John."; "God Bless and Keep you Angel." The souls and memories of the dead being carried by thousands of mortal soldiers, carrying the memories on and running in defiance of the fear. Running against those who wish to take our lives away, running to live. How could I let a bad day of running keep me down? I was alive to have this bad day, and for that I was as thankful as I could be.

Struggling on, I passed the Gospel Choir at mile 22 - they had to have been singing for nearly 2 hours now since the leaders had passed. Their sound was just perfect: Soul, Energy, Passion, all being given up to fuel the runners so late in their day. Hearts that doubted they could go on would hit that sound as they rounded the corner and simply be re-charged. "The Lord will show you the road home...Hear his call and carry oonnnnn...." The sun was low in the sky now, flirting with the distant building tops. The golden light was lighting the trees of Central Park form behind, and it was there that I really felt that New York City was alive. It was bloodied, battered, but underneath the pain and the loss was an undying sense that NOTHING can ever beat this place. The people would always get up, dust themselves off, and stand that much taller, regardless of who knocked them down.

As I headed towards Central Park for the second time, I approached mile 23 and looked at my watch: I was slipping badly, but still moving. I hadn't run better than a 10-minute mile since mile 17, but I would still finish - regardless. 3 miles to go - less than a 5K soon. No matter how bad I felt, I could finish a 5K.

"Boy, I thought I'd never catch you!" I glanced over - Eric had found me! For once in my life, I can truly say I was glad that Gumby had run me down. I figured he just kept running towards the Epicenter of the earthquake create when plodding near the end of a long day, but he'd done much more than that. He'd spent 5 minutes looking for me at Lynda and Amy on First, then he walked a mile *backwards* looking for me. Once he was sure he'd missed me, he took off - running sub-9's to try and find me. When I passed mile 20, Eric was actually 5 minutes BEHIND me - but he closed the gap in little more than 3 miles. I was running 10:20's - he was running 8:40's.

As Eric and I made the turn at 102nd Street into Central Park (skipping the cruel hill we'd run the year before), the crowd noise was unreal. It was an un-ending ovation in the late-autumn sun - a celebration of the runners that was nearing it's peak. I was just so damn glad to not be running alone anymore, I felt instantly better. To celebrate, I sped up from a 11:43 mile 23 to a 11:20 mile 24. Yippee.

We rounded the South End of the Park, exited out to the long climb to Columbus Circle, and made the final right-hand turn towards ecstasy. I could feel the adrenaline of the last mile taking the edge off my dying legs, and it was a welcome relief. I knew that I wouldn't be able to see the finish line until we had less than 200 yards to go, but I knew it was just over the next rise. I had to make one thing clear to Eric:

"Hey - this time, I'm not holding your hand - and I mean it." I tossed. Of course, this was the same promise I'd made in 1999 at Ironman Canada when we finished side-by-side, but as the picture shows...I forgot all about it when we saw the line (scroll all the way down the page to see what I mean: http://www.bobmina.com/1999_Reports/IMC1999_C4.htm). This time, he just chuckled "Whatever you say.."

As we headed over the final rise, there was a girl walking on my right. She had "Russo" written on the back of her shirt, so I patted her on the back - "C'mon Russo! Everyone runs in - you can make it! It's right over the hill! C'mon! Finish with us!" She groaned, took two begrudged strides...then saw the line that was hidden until 26.185 miles. Her eyes lit up like someone had plugged her in, and with a quick "THANK YOU!" over the shoulder...she sprinted away from us like we were nailed to the road.

"Why do they always do that?" I asked of no-one. At least I was able to help.

I turned to my left, and shook (but didn't hold!) Eric's hand after a long day. "Thank you, sir. Shall we do it again?" referring to Philadelphia, 2 weeks hence.

We crossed the line side-by-side, dead center on the road. Of course, the guy ahead of us took off his hat for the finish picture...and held it precisely in front of my face as we came through the line...so I think when I get the picture, I'll be the guy that looks like he's running with the Blue Man Group or Mummenschanz...but it didn't really bug me.

I was finished. I was alive. I could go find my wife, apologize for missing her, and get ready to do it all again in 14 days. I had just about everything go wrong in this race, but as long as there was life...there would be hope for better things to come. I was sore, I was tired, but I really never felt better.

It was no ordinary day - but then again, maybe there are no ordinary days. From all the faces and names I had been surrounded by for 26 miles...I think they would want me to remember that from now on.

Hurricane Bob

* I run, because I can. *

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