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In Central Park, New York at mile 24, thousands of runners kept passing by. Most jogged slowly, many walking, all staring ahead, none laughing or smiling. They all had serious expressions. No talking. A woman pulled her friend along. With quiet concentration, they were fixated on one thing: the finish line.
Constant cheers erupted from both sides of the road where the runners kept moving towards the 26.2-mile celebratory final destiny. People cheer on other people they don’t even know and will never see again. Where else in life do you see this kind of genuine, freely given affection among strangers?
For many, they had been enduring the physical, emotional, and psychological torment for three, four, five, and six hours. And something else: Seventy-two-degree heat – way too hot for a marathon to be enjoyable for the runners.
A lifetime ago, seemingly, they had begun this odyssey in Staten Island, New York, and continued onto the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge on their way to Brooklyn. Then, onto Queens then the Bronx before the hopefulness of Central Park in Manhattan. Bridges and roads, runners packed in the road, the whole way.
Hours earlier before watching the scene at 24 miles, I stood by the road in Brooklyn watching fourteen women bang on their drums for hours as the throng of 50,000+ plus runners kept on moving down the road. Musical groups like them play songs all across the 26.2-mile trail.
For one reason: to inspire the runners.
The drumming produced a motivating sound like you hear from a college band before a football game. One runner stopped to take a beer handed to him by a friend. I thought the last thing I would be doing would be drinking a beer with 18 miles to go on an exceptionally warm November day. But this was New York where people do different things in unusual situations every day of the year.
Older women, middle-aged women, and younger women. Old men, young men, men of all ages. Passing by. And passing by. And passing by. For minutes and hours. And more hours.
Running. And running. And running. A treacherous trek across the most amazingly big and complex city the world has ever created, the ultimate maze for the mind to unravel and the body to push through.
Colors so varied, outfits so numerous, hats and shorts and shirts of infinite styles. The epitome of eclectic scenery kept coming and coming in parade-like fashion but with athletic motions, arms and legs swinging, and eyes straight ahead. Strangers all, but for this one day during this one event all one group of people, friends, sharing a common bond and not just any, a life-changing endeavor for all of them.
In Brooklyn, I saw the man leading the race. All alone he was, several minutes before the second cluster of men, mainly Kenyans and Ethiopians, who dominate marathon running. You had to wonder why he was so far ahead and wasn’t from one of those countries. Sporting pink running shorts and a shirt, I found out he was Brazilian, Daniel do Nascimento. Hair bleached blonde on top, he was going so fast and was so far ahead I actually thought he could not have been the leader, maybe a celebrity they let go ahead of the main event racers.
Reed Fischer, a 27-year-old professional runner from Boulder, Co. told The New York
A few minutes before the stunning sight of the Brazilian leader so far ahead, an actual celebrity, Matt James, had gone by. You know him — the Bachelor TV show heartthrob every woman loves. As a celebrity, they gave him the opportunity to run well ahead of the crowd including the fastest men.
How hot was it?
Reed Fischer, a 27-year-old professional runner from Boulder, Co. told The New York Post at the finish line that the heat made the course “incredibly difficult and was likely what caused do Nascimento to collapse. It was a day to run smarter rather than harder. You could feel it by mile two. I mean, you’re sweating way earlier than you would otherwise be sweating. So, it hurts pretty much the whole time.”
The whole time. Think about that.
I went upstairs to the marathon party in a penthouse apartment. From the balcony some 500 feet above you could see an endless stream of runners making their way out of Staten Island into Brooklyn, so early in their venture, oceans away from the finish line when wouldn’t have to travel any further. Race officials provided additional misting sprinklers and water stops for runners to cope with the heat.
On the flat-screen TV, the race was being televised. That Brazilian guy had progressed to 21 miles, leading by a wide distance for most of the race when he started to veer off the road, his legs losing their natural movement, folding up. He went to the ground and layed on his back.
Give him credit. He went as fast as he could for as long as he could until he literally dropped. He didn’t finish. Many others didn’t either. No shame in that whatsoever in that. This race crushes the will of countless people every year. All marathons do.
I had a personal reason for being in New York to watch this race for the first time in my life. My 24-year-old son was attempting his first marathon. While waiting for his start time, he asked a guy who had run this NYC Marathon for any insights on what to expect.
“Just know that at some point the wheels will come off,” the guy said.
I know all about wheels coming off during a marathon. The one I tried to run was the Marine Corps in Washington, D.C. some 25 years ago. At nine miles at the base of Capitol Hill, I felt miserable and started walking. Never did I appreciate the word “Hill” in Capitol Hill more than I did that day. During marathons, Hills crush you physically.
Yesterday my son told me he saw people dropping left and right along the course with medics coming to help them. There are many parts of the Marathon people don’t see, the middle to later stages where the agony erupts. It all looks quite inspiring at the start and even at eight miles which most people can do, and near the finish. But in between the test of who you are and how much pain you’re willing to suffer through becomes the only question you think about. You’re alone with yourself to contend with.
The marathon keeps asking the same question: How much pain can I withstand? At the 17-mile mark, I remember feeling so awful I just wanted to stop. I did not feel well mentally or physically. The course had beaten me into nothing else but unpleasant thoughts and sore legs and a desire to stop the strain on my heart.
So I stopped. Over. Out. It was all too much to suffer through any longer. Not tough enough.
Yesterday while standing at the 24.5-mile mark, people kept coming by my vision: guys from Finland and Hungary, old men, young women, people of every face you can think of, eyes often glazed, staring ahead.
Over the hill, at this stage, I saw I guy in a navy-blue hat and white shirt. This was the one I had been waiting to see: my son.
I stepped out into the road a bit and he slapped me with a high five. I had seen him at eight miles, now he had gone 16 more and he looked tired and sweaty but determined. All alone for so long he had been without me, without his Mom, without his friends, without anyone to talk about what he was feeling, what he was thinking, just doing something extraordinary, like thousands of others.
He kept jogging down that hill. Off in the distance ahead, he could hear the music being played at the finish line. Every bit of the road on both sides was filled with people cheering, waiting for the person they knew to come over that hill marking 24 miles, only 2.2 to go.
He made it to the end, one of those rare people in this world who can tell you they finished the New York City Marathon, running all across the city, from end to end, a lifetime journey through all aspects of emotions of life – worry, frustration, pain, joy, hills, crowds, music, seeing others drop out, the story of how life unfolds for all of us in one way or another, the good and bad, all in a few hours, a trip unlike any other you could ever imagine.
Done.
No more running.
People everywhere. Runners all around you. Runners all behind you. Runners all ahead of you. Runners, your soulmates, for one day, for a few hours. Brought together by a common aspiration: to run the New York Marathon.
Why?
You’d probably hear a different reason from every runner: for their deceased father; for their health; to lose weight; to fend off cancer; to fit into clothes better; to prove a point; to show somebody they could; because it’s on their bucket list; to impress another man or woman; to win a bet; because they just felt like it.
Whatever their reasons, they showed up yesterday in New York and went for the deepest of goals in a way most of us never will unless we try to run this race.
The people in this race I saw look like you and me, just ordinary folks, who spent the past few months running a lot more than most of us did. They sacrificed. Instead of watching TV at night, they went running, endured training, felt leg cramps, and dealt with being alone for hours.
We gathered with my son, family, and friends at a local restaurant to celebrate. Right behind us on the road as we enjoyed beverages and goods, ambulances rode back and forth to the nearby hospital. We started to think, probably correctly, that the ambulances were taking ill and distressed marathoners to the hospital.
Finishers or non-finishers, respect is due to all those people.
They inspired us yesterday not by talking but by showing up and striving for something that caused them serious pain.
They didn’t talk the talk.
They ran the run.
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Sammy Sportface, a sports blogger, galvanizes, inspires, and amuses The Baby Boomer Brotherhood. And you can learn about his vision and join this group's Facebook page here:
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