First Race Of The Season - The 2013 NYC Half Marathon

It’s the morning of the NYC Half Marathon, so as I am standing in my corral waiting for the gun to go off my whole body is shaking.  I’d love to say that it’s from the anticipation of the start of my 2013 race season, or for being so proud of myself for waking up on time after my husband, Wil, woke me up 4 times with his snoring that finally got him kicked to the couch at 2AM, or even for making the cutoff for getting my bag into the baggage claim trucks by getting from Grand Central Terminal to 72^nd Street & 5^th Avenue in under 10 minutes (and I tip my hat to New York, one of the only cities in the world where you can be confident that at 6AM on a Sunday you will find either a taxi cab or a time machine.  I happened upon the former).  I am shaking because I am absolutely freezing.

Though I don’t know the exact temperature, it is well below freezing, with the wind blowing at roughly Mach 2.  We’ve been standing still in our corrals for 45 minutes, and the few layers of lycra I’m wearing that will be quite comfortable once I’m moving are doing nothing to keep me warm right now.  I continually slam my toes into the ground in the hopes of actually feeling them, but I get nothing.  This is the only time I ever get upset about losing 70 pounds.  Now that I am thin and fit, I have absolutely no insulation inside my own body.

Just before the gun goes off, the announcer discusses last year’s winners, and states that the woman who won the entire female division finished the 13.1 mile race in 68 minutes.  I can’t drive 13 miles that fast.  While I stand there in awe of a person capable of moving so quickly, the gun goes off and the party gets started.  Well, it gets started for those who will win, and challenge this 68 minute finish time.  I’m so far back that I don’t get to cross the start line for 15 minutes.  Finally I do and my race season begins.

I’m excited for this race.  My history with the NYC Half Marathon has been, umm, crappy.  When I ran it in 2010, Wil was newly laid off, so although I did quite well time-wise, I spent my time running down 7^th Avenue by memorizing companies I saw so that I could research them later to see if any were hiring.  In 2011, I hurt my knee at roughly mile 0.2, so I hobbled along for the entire thing.  Last year I missed it completely, after injuring my Achilles Tendon and not being able to run a step for over 2 months.  So, this year I take this race as MINE.  I’ve earned it, I’ve trained for it, I’m ready.  Except, I feel like I’m not.  This winter has been awful, causing me to do several long runs on a treadmill, which just aren’t the same thing.  But, I think about the woman who won last year, capable of running 13.1 miles in 68 minutes.  If she can do that, I can finish what I’m starting. 

The first few miles are good, nice and fast.  I’ve warmed up enough to shed my hat, mittens, and the outermost layer on top.  But, I still can’t feel my feet.  I check my watch at each mile, and I’m running at just about a 10 minute pace, which is light years faster than I’ve achieved for months, so that makes me pretty happy.

At about mile 4, I finally get feeling back in my feet, which would be great except that now I can feel that I’m rubbing what ends up being a blood blister as big as New Jersey on my left foot.  Damn, I kind of wish my feet were numb again.  At mile 5 as we’re heading south on the West Drive in the Park, I can see the building that houses the CNN headquarters and has a big display with the time and temperature on top of it.  I look at the temperature and see that it is 29 degrees, and all I can think is that I have absolutely lost my mind for doing this race.

The first 6-1/2 miles are in Central Park, which frankly for me is just boring.  I train in Central Park so often that I know the name of every blade of grass, every rat, every tree.  I know where the hills are, so I know when to use my strategy of going up them nice and slow, letting everyone pass me, and then flying down the backside like I stole something.  It’s just so much fun to pass everyone who sprinted up the hill and now can’t breathe enough to take advantage of the nice downhill.  Finally, we leave Central Park and head down 7^th Avenue.

This is my favorite part of this race.  When can you ever run down the middle of a major street in Manhattan without either being part of a parade or getting arrested?  Instead of looking for business signs, or wondering if my knee will fall off my body, I look at the sea of people in front of me, and think about how very cool it is to be a part of this.  OK, fine, I do that while I’m convincing myself that the blister on my foot is not trying to kill me.

 

At 42^nd Street we turn right and head west, then turn left onto the West Side Highway and run in the direction of the finish line at the South Street Seaport that is still over 5 miles away.  And that’s when the wheels come off the bus.  Suddenly I get a stitch on my side, and for a moment I look down to see if someone stabbed me.  That’s how much it hurts.  In my almost 4 years of running, I have never had a stitch, so I barely know what to do.  I stop for a second and try to stretch and that helps, but about 5 steps later it’s back.  I can’t do this.  I want to stop.  But the great thing about a point to point race is that I know that all of my money and train passes are in a bag waiting for me at the South Street Seaport, and I have to get there one way or another.  I decide that I might as well keep going.

During my training for this race, I had a lot of trouble.  I have a lot going on in my world, and all of my thoughts loved to come along with me on training runs and drag me down.  And usually they’d win, causing me to have to walk huge parts of most of my runs.  So, my goal for this race is simply to run the entire thing.  But, now I am stepping on this blister every time I put my left foot down, and I’m apparently giving birth out the right side of my abdomen.  At one point I jab my own fingers into my side to try to massage the spot, and something funny happens.  I feel my own abdominal muscles.  I smile as I remind myself that I am a 44 year old woman with 6 pack abs, and I got them doing all the work that I’ve done to get fit and healthy and keep my weight off.  Suddenly my foot and my side don’t bother me as much.

I pass the 10 mile marker and think to myself, “Yay!  Just a 5k left to do!”  Then a little voice inside me says, “Umm, yeah, just a 5K, but you’ve already run 10 miles.  You can’t go another step.”  I’m about to agree with that voice when I see “The Joggler” out of the corner of my eye.

The Joggler is a man who looks like he’s in his mid-60s, who juggles throughout every single race.  I’ve seen him before, and I’ve always been pretty impressed, mostly because I have to take every ounce of concentration to not trip over the air in front of me, let alone juggle while running.  The Joggler passes me on my right, and again I think, “If this guy who is probably 20 years older than me can juggle for 13 miles AND pass me, then I can stick to my goal and keep running.”  And so I continue.  It’s slower than before, but it’s still running.  Good enough.

At mile 12 I know I need more inspiration, so I look around and quickly find it.  A man and a woman are just behind me on my right, running together.  They have a rope tied in a circle that they’re each holding on to.  The man is blind, and the woman is his guide.  The rope helps them stick together without having to be on top of each other, and the woman is doing a great job describing both the terrain and the scenery that this man is incapable of seeing himself.  Feeling very humbled, I push on.

Just after mile 12, we hit the Battery Park underpass, and have an absolutely beautiful downhill into the tunnel.  But, all I can think is “What goes down, must come up,” and in about a half mile I’m confronted with the biggest uphill on the course since the Harlem Hills in Central Park at about mile 3 when my feet were thawing and my legs were still fresh.  I do my best to run up the hill, and then realize 2 things: 1) That this is the furthest I’ve run since my “marathon” in Early November, and 2) that I have not walked a single step of this race.  I admit that I did stop at two water stations to guzzle water and Gu, but only because I am in no way coordinated or cool enough to run, eat and drink at the same time.  But with about ½ a mile left, I realize that I did it.  I’m about to defeat my own arch nemesis that is the NYC Half Marathon.  Suddenly nothing hurts, and I practically soar the last few hundred meters and over the finish line.

My GPS watch went a little wonky when I went into the tunnel, so I have to text Wil who had been tracking me all morning to find out that my official time was 2 hours, 18 minutes and 1 second.  As I walk to the baggage claim so that I can ensconce myself in my winter coat, all I think is that at 44 years of age I was able to take my bloody foot and cramped 6 pack abs 13.1 miles around Manhattan in 29 degree weather.  I didn’t do it in 68 minutes, but I ran every step.  I’ll take it.