‘Madness,’ I muttered to myself, as my feet slapped the asphalt, in rhythm with the hundreds of other runners surrounding me. I looked over the railing of the bridge at the Manhattan skyline, epic with its skyscrapers pointing heaven-wards. That was where we were heading, into Manhattan, the Big Apple. We weren’t yet six miles into this run, and already the pain had begun to seep into the soles of my feet. Only twenty more miles to go, I told myself. Perhaps the pain would simply go away. ‘Insanity,” a silent voice inside told me.
This was the 2002 New York City marathon, my fourth run of such length, and I told myself that I would never, never do this again. Hadn’t I said this before when I had dragged myself across the finish line of last year’s Austin Motorola marathon? But now, with my feet pounding a painful cadence across the 59th Street Bridge, I really meant it this time.
How had I got here, to the middle of this bridge, amongst these runners? During those first few miles, now thankfully behind us, crowds of spectators lining the streets back in Brooklyn cheered me – a waddling, middle-aged stranger – on. I was an imposter. Only athletes ran marathons, strong sinewy sportsmen brimming with determination to prove their stamina. I was none of these.
Thousands of us pounded along the tunnel-like lower deck of the 59th Street Bridge, the sound of rushing traffic zooming over our heads. Taped to the back of a runner in front of me was the photo of a loved one who had died in the September 11th tragedy the year before. Other than the dull patter of running shoe against pavement, the tunnel was silent. The gravity of the situation had sunk in with the runners. Twenty miles to go. Ahead of us at the far end of the tunnel, the bridge’s exit, shone a bright spot of daylight. A steady roar like that of a freight train came from that light. What was that noise, I wondered. A jet engine?
I didn’t belong here, on this bridge, amongst these thousands of determined athletes. My place was back home on my couch in front of the TV. Up until two years before my daily exercise came from getting up from a prone position in front of the TV to fetch a bag of chips out of the kitchen. Sometimes I laced up an old pair of running shoes and headed down to Town Lake so I could brag to people that I could wheeze my way through two miles.
One afternoon at work that all changed. A woman stopped me in the hall and asked if I was interested in joining a marathon training group. “We meet down at the river Saturday mornings and train for the marathon in February.” That was six months away. Did I want to join them? Before I could catch myself, a voice answered, “Sure!” The word escaped my mouth like an unexpected belch. What was I saying? Yes to running 26 miles? Madness!
A routine soon followed, Saturday mornings down at Town Lake. Thousands of people young and old, stood anxiously awaiting our first run, a two miler to determine our speed category. A brutish young woman with short-cropped hair bellowed at us. I think she was a woman. Or maybe a womanish man. She looked at me and smirked at my beer belly. “Move it, people!” I nicknamed her Sergeant Rock.
The routine of weekly runs consisted of one long run with the running group on Saturday mornings, and then during the work week two short – four mile – runs. “Don’t run two days in a row! Drink lots of water!” Sergeant Rock commanded. The pattern suited me, and by the end of October I found myself able to accomplish seven, eight, nine miles. A half marathon was feasible, I convinced myself, wiping the sweat from my forehead. That would be my goal.
“You’re in a marathon training group?” an acquaintance asked one day at the office. She shook her head. “Tom, I can’t see you doing that. Maybe a half marathon, yeah, but not a whole marathon!”
As I walked away from the encounter, the silent voice responded, ‘thank you. Now I will be forced to prove you wrong!’ The voice was not my own, but that of the mean woman-man Sergeant Rock. I had begun to channel the spirit of Sergeant Rock.
The Saturday morning runs grew longer and more torturous as the winter set in. We ran together in a pack, running shoes splashing through mud, rain streaming down our faces. The miles were adding up.
Despite the logic of training by adding miles incrementally to each weekly run – five, six, seven, eight – the distance of a long run would decrease from the previous week, and then ascend to a greater distance the next week. We were now up to thirteen miles, and the next week would be eleven, followed by an ominous fifteen the next Saturday. Sergeant Rock barked at us. “You avoid injury this way!”
Distances became an abstraction, an illusion. A fifteen mile run was as difficult as a first time ten miler. Running time was what mattered. The runs began to take all morning. “If you can run four hours, you can run a whole marathon!” Sergeant Rock howled at us.
That had been two years ago, I thought, looking out at the Manhattan skyline from the 59th Street Bridge. I recalled the training strategy of that final month before the marathon. The final long run was a 21 miler a month before the event. No one did the whole 26 miles before a marathon – that was inviting the possibility of injuries. After the grueling 21 miler, the practice runs grew shorter, until the week before the marathon we glided through an easy six mile loop. “Eat lots of pasta.” Sergeant Rock looked me in the eye. “Stay away from the beer!”
Now, two years later, and I was on a bridge in a big city. Sergeant Rock’s voice echoed through my thoughts as the light at the end of the tunnel grew bigger, and the roaring of the jet engine louder (What the hell was that noise?). To take my mind off my throbbing feet, my mind went back to the day of that very first marathon. The cold morning air seemed electrically charged with the anxiousness of the thousands of runners huddled in the darkness. This very moment was what we had prepared for during those six months, and now here it was. The national anthem was sung, followed by the sqwak of an air horn. And then the huge mass of nervous runners slowly surged forward.
Four and a half hours followed, of hobbling along the streets of the city, past cheering well wishers and water stops. At the sight of motorcycle cops holding traffic at bay for us, I savored this unique situation. When else in your life can you get away with tossing your litter to the ground in front of a cop, or with peeing in public? When else can you have perfect strangers telling you how great you look, and that you’re amazing?
The miles began to ebb away, as a dull pain overtook the muscles in my legs. To slow to a walking pace only invited more pain. It was better to simply keep running. Please, please, please let this all end.
And finally the end was in sight. The cheering crowds grew more frantic at the approach of the finish. Despite the pain, or maybe because of it, I had a sudden twisted thought, a stab at humor. Maybe as a joke I would fall to the ground a few feet before the finish line, and crawl on all fours across the line.
But I didn’t. The sight of hefty paramedics along the sidelines dissuaded me. They harbored the same no-nonsense attitude as the menacing Sergeant Rock. Instead, I simply stumbled across, and a volunteer handed me a shiny medal. “I’ll never do this again,” I announced to myself, as the aching muscles in my thighs began to lock up.
And there I was on that bridge two years later doing it again for a fourth time. As the 59th Street Bridge arched down towards Manhattan, the light at the end of the tunnel now engulfed us with sunlight. The roar of the jet engine grew deafening. I followed the other runners as they took a sharp turn into the daylight of First Avenue. Looking at the epic proportions around me I recognized the source of the jet engine roar. Packing the curbs were thousands of spectators – the otherwise aloof New Yorkers – waving hand-drawn signs and loudly cheering us on.
“You look great! Nineteen miles to go!”
The pain in the soles of my feet was ridiculous, and now seeped further north into my tired thighs. I swore to myself this would be the last time I ever did this again.
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