New York Marathon - 07 Nov 2004

[Seafront Plodder]

...

The early miles passed without incident; a couple of runners tried to start conversations but I kept it as short as I could hopefully without being too rude. Part of the reason I have never joined a running club is that I prefer not to talk when I’m running, many times I have seen a group from my local running club out for a simultaneous jog and chat – boring bugger me.

I resisted the desire to press on by going around slower runners (yes there were a few!) unless I could do so in a straight line, and settled into a steady rhythm expending as little energy as possible that actually worked well for the first 10k.

If New York doesn’t do runners in fancy dress (I only saw 1 Elvis), it certainly does crowds that put London to shame. New Yorkers are not known for their shy, reserved manner and the support was truly ‘awesome’. I had my name shouted around every ten yards or so followed by ‘looking good’, ‘nice job’ or the increasingly irritating ‘way to go’. Nowhere in the early miles were we free from this and the more miles I ran, the more annoying the name-calling became. It sounds terribly arrogant and obviously yes they were there to push us on, but I began to regret having my name on my vest; I started to feel the need to be anonymous.

Mile 9 or so was when I had to take my first walk break! I slowed to a walk just as I happened to pass a rather large lady who I took to be a Brooklyner (!) She was sitting at the side of the road in a deckchair waving the US flag and hollering to all. I recall her encouragement to me as I slowed….“Come on now Andy, don’t you dare give up on me boy!” A hundred yards further on I stopped to walk again, this time to rip the sticky-backed lettering from the front of my shirt.

Anonymous at last, I pressed on, past halfway and through Brooklyn and into Queens. By then I was counting down the miles, taking water and too much Gatorade every mile, to the point where the mouth was dry but the stomach was sloshing – not ideal but in the increasingly warm conditions, necessary.

Mile 15 is an energy-sapping uphill climb to the summit of Queensborough Bridge, where we re-enter Manhattan. It was also the point where I saw my first race casualty as this poor guy was flat out on the pavement surrounded by a couple of police on bikes who were with him waiting for the ambulance. I remember wondering whether in the UK they would at least be off their machines trying to do what they could for him, instead of sitting astride CHiPS style just letting him lay there. He was motionless; eyes open, but motionless. I hoped it was simply exhaustion.

The two things I detest about running downhill: the way your toes push against the front of your shoe, and the fact that the time lost running uphill can never quite be made up. The corner turn off the Bridge and into Manhattan is where the crowds are reported to be at their most vocal. You start to hear the roar of the crowds long before you can see them. The screaming, clamouring, flag waving masses are packing the pavements and nothing, but nothing can effectively describe the moment. I couldn’t help feeling very proud as I ran around the corner and smacked straight into this wall of noise. We were treated like heroes, every one of us. We were special.

If that was one of the highest points of the race, then it was immediately followed by one of the lowest. We turned onto 1St Avenue, I remember looking ahead into the distance some 4.5 miles away down a road which was dead straight, and all I could for the whole distance were bobbing heads disappearing over the horizon. It made me realise that I had to do some serious digging-in if I wanted to finish the race so I began to try and feed off the crowds a little more. High-fiving the kids was strictly a 0–6 mile activity but I started to read the signs being held up. A chap holding a 9 Miles To a Hot Bath and a Beer! got the largest thumbs up I could muster.

My family has arranged to be around mile 17 with the rest of the MS Society cheering team. Sure enough they were there, a sea of orange tops, balloons and flags. A quick kiss and a photo followed by “never again” and I was off once more, if not rejuvenated, then certainly lifted.

Mile 20 and into The Bronx for a mile that means that the organisers can boast that the run encompasses all 5 Boroughs. By then I wasn’t really taking much in, but I do recall a huge sign strung across a bridge 10K to go, run it like your first! If I had had the energy I would have disagreed. ‘Bollocks’ is what I think I muttered!

Back into Manhattan and the route took us along the side of Central Park, and therefore nearer home. We run down 5th Avenue before we turned into the Park itself at mile 24. Grateful for the tree coverage, I shuffled on trying to ignore the pain in my calfs and left big toe. We passed the mile 25 marker and I could have kissed the guy with the loudhailer as he stood on the side shouting “Half Mile Downhill, Half Mile Uphill and You’re Home!!”

I had long since given up any thoughts of a decent (by my standard) time, but it was at that point that I actually knew I would finish. Giving a feeble excuse for a kick I ran most of the last mile, giving in to walk around 400 yards to go to catch my breath for one final run that would take me over the finish line.

Oh the relief!!

My bag was on truck #3, which meant I had to carry it past 35 more before I could shuffle off to have the chip removed and head for the repatriation area. With no chance of a cab we had little choice but to walk the 3 miles back to the hotel, and any desire to return for the post-race disco had by then long since vanished. Nevertheless there was one thing I did have to do. My first beer for a month could wait no longer. So craving was I for adulation and sympathy that I selfishly forgot that my family had been standing around waiting for me for the best part of 3 hours. So they picked up some giant cookies and hot chocolate while I only stayed for a swift two, before it was back for the hot bath that had seemed so appealing at mile 17.

We were off to Niagara the next day, so once more the alarm was set for some ungodly hour. With breakfast in the room, duly prepared "over easy" I was able to glance through the New York Post and that headline. “A record 36534 finishers, and every one a winner!” Was I?

Over the next few days for the remainder of the trip I had more opportunity to reflect. Whist dissecting the race with fellow runners I found that for most of them it wasn’t right either and we were all pretty much without exception, feeling the same way.

Is it a disaster that I ran a whole 40 minutes slower than my last marathon? At the time for me it was. I felt well prepared and confident going in to the race. I had trained on hills, I could run 19 or so miles non-stop, had tapered correctly, was well rested, hydrated and buzzing; and yet something clearly wasn’t right, I was disappointed.

But that was then.

Now I realise that I am not disappointed at all, I am proud – very proud. Able to say that I have taken part in the biggest, brashest, loudest marathon in the world! Way To Go!