The 2013 ING New York City Marathon: A Fairy Tale

It’s finally here.  November 3^rd, 2013, the day of the NYC Marathon.  I made it.  I’m here.  The cannon is about to blast and start the 4^th and final (read: slowest) wave of this 5 borough tour of arguably one of the greatest cities on earth.  The chilly air is crisp and full of excited chatter in more languages than I can count.  All around is a sea of brightly colored running shirts, most with people’s names on the front, and some with comical or inspiring sayings on the back: “For Mom”, “Screw You, Cancer” and “I lost a bet”. 

The cannon blasts (so much cooler than a starting pistol, by the way), Frank Sinatra starts singing “New York, New York”, and off we go.  At first everything seems so surreal that it feels a bit like a fairy tale.  I am the fairy princess with the long hair and beautiful dress, on a quest to obtain a finisher’s medal and some serious bragging rights.  Well, swap the beautiful dress for some running clothes, and then cut her hair real short and spike it up a bit and then you have a more accurate picture.

As we cross the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, my fairy tale starts to unfold, and – I’m a bit annoyed.   To keep my foot as happy as possible, my plan was to do run/walk intervals of 4 minutes to 2 for the entire thing.  In training I’ve realized that my preference is to practically sprint the 4 minute run and then use the 2 minute walk break as sort of a self-induced CPR.  But, in my very first run segment, I can’t sprint.  I can barely run.  The lower deck of the bridge is so congested that I can’t do more than shuffle unless I feel like crashing into the runner in front of me and creating a huge mosh pit.  After 4 minutes my watch beeps to tell me to walk, and I refuse.  I’ve been going so slowly that my pace will be pure crap if I go any slower.  I’m not concentrating on pure numbers, but the concept of “slow” and “fast” is in my head.  If I’m “slow” for the first couple of miles, I know that it’ll get into my head and the rest of the marathon will suck. 

I ignore my plan and solely run for the first mile or so until we’re off the bridge and there’s a bit more space.  When I do start doing my run/walk intervals, I sidle over to the side of the course.  As a “pure” runner, I’d often think evil thoughts of the person in front of me who suddenly slows to a walk and I have to dart around at the last second.  So, while temporarily playing for the run/walk team, I try to avoid the hostilities of those around me by running on the side of the course and briefly putting my hand up just before I switch to walking.  Because I’m on the side, and because I’ve emblazoned my name with black marker on white duct tape stuck to a bright yellow shirt (in case anyone from Jupiter was cheering for me), spectators are screaming my name.  It is awesome.  I feel as though all these people are here just for me, the short princess with the spiky hair.  Logic would follow that they are cheering for anyone with their name on their shirt (which is most of us), but all I hear are things like “Go, Alison!”, “Nice job, Alison”, and even “Yay Alison with one ‘l’!” (and to anyone reading this who has opportunity in the future to name another human being, I beg you to use a traditional spelling of whatever name you pick so that they don’t have to spend their lives correcting everyone).

I continue my run/walk intervals, and start to play a little cat and mouse game.  The field is still pretty crowded, so during the run portions I find a group of people to pass.  I speed up, find any hole between them and wiggle through.  In the back of my head I think that this might backfire on me in the later miles, but I’m having fun and it’s my fairy tale, so I keep it up.

At one point I look down at my watch and am shocked.  The first hour has flown past in the blink of an eye.  I also do some quick math and discover that I’m running about a 12 minute mile.  That’s slow for a runner, but not too bad for a run/walker.  As I sprint to cut between two people – one of whom is dressed as a bumble bee – I wonder if I can keep this pace for the entire race.

Just past mile 9, I start to feel the effects of my random sprints to get through the crowds.  My quads are burning and my hamstrings feel like they are fraying like an old rope that’s falling apart.  But every princess gets a few scratches along the way, so I ignore the pain, dig down a bit and carry on.

At about mile 11.5 I get to my first true personal fans, my sister-in-law and my niece.  My niece is holding a sign that says, “My Aunt Ali Rocks!”  They give me hugs and tell me how proud they are of me.  I hug them once more, and re-energized by some hugs and affirmation that I rock, this princess continues on.

The 13.1 mile marker – the halfway – point is on the Pulaski Bridge, which takes us out of Brooklyn and into Queens.  I am both happy and sad that my journey is half over.  I am thrilled to be this far, but I don’t want my fairy tale to end so soon.  But then I remember how slowly I’m going, and that I’ll have hours until I have to close this book and put it away.

Queens, miles 13 - 15

We run a few miles through Queens, where the crowds are thinner but their enthusiasm is just as grand.  People keep cheering my name, and I keep getting motivated by it.  On the back of my shirt I’ve stuck on my own mantra, again with black marker on white duct tape: “I GOT THIS!”  Occasionally during a walk break, another runner taps me on my back as they pass me and yell out, “Come on!  You got this!”  I want to explain that I’m doing a run/walking technique and am walking on purpose, but they’re already gone and I’m too tired to explain.  So, I take their encouragement and happily continue down the course.

We turn a few corners, and that’s when I see it.  Every fairy tale has some kind of enemy: a dragon, a mean giant, a talking snake.  My arch nemesis is the Evil Queen – sboro Bridge.  Two years ago we battled and she beat me hands down. This year she has disguised herself by changing her name to the Edward Koch Bridge, but I know exactly what lies ahead and I am ready for it.  Even though I’m on a run segment, I slow down to a nice easy walk.  The on-ramp to this bridge is long and steep, and if you take it too quickly you’ll want to throw yourself off the bridge when you finally get up to it, but you won’t have the strength to.  I ignore my watch as it beeps run and walk intervals, and only when my hamstrings tell me that I’m on flat surface do I get back into my routine.  I may have lost some time, but here at mile 16 I still have 2 boroughs plus a dragon or two to conquer. 

The bridge exits with a steep 270 degree turn (I admit that the Queen does get the last punch in with that off-ramp), and spills us out onto First Avenue.  There are no spectators allowed on the bridge, making it relatively quiet except for the pounding of feet and people swearing at the bridge in various languages.  First Avenue is the polar opposite.  Picture how loud and raucous Boston was after the Red Sox won the World Series in 2004 after 86 years of nothing but heartbreak (sorry, Sox fans, I’m still licking my wounds from your victory this year).  Now remove the riots and looting, multiply the noise by 10 and you have the spectators here on First Avenue.  Somehow the sounds remove the pain in my legs and hunger in the pit of my stomach and I keep moving north.

Close to mile 18, I gain an extra kick in my step.  No, I’m not so well trained that I know to hold out for the last few miles.  I’m about to see my family.  My mom and 2 kids, Olivia and Benjamin are waiting for me at 91^st Street and First Avenue.  I’m so excited to see them, and also know that my mom might freak if she knows how much I’m really hurting, so I straighten up and run through the pain. I see them and run harder, and when I get to them I almost collapse into them as I try to hug the three of them at once.  I step back to look at the signs they’ve made for me.  Olivia, my very cerebral 8 year old holds a sign that says, “Run Long, Run Strong”.  Ben’s sign (made with the help of his big sister) makes me laugh out loud: “My Mom Runs As Fast As A Cheetah.”  I hug them again, make a mental note that I need to teach my 5 year old son a lot more about Cheetahs, and then take Olivia’s advice and decide to “Run Long, Run Strong.”

I continue north on First Avenue, and that’s when I think that rather than a fairy tale, I’m deep into some horror movie and I’m the idiot that has run upstairs away from the monster, only to get trapped in the attic and burned/eaten/killed/destroyed.  I look for a source of strength: a prince to kiss, a potion to give me strength, anything.  Just then, a man comes up to me and in very broken English asks, “What time?”  I’m assuming he means the time on my stop watch, and not the actual time of day (which at that moment I discover that I have no clue of), and I say, “3 hours, 45 minutes.”  I must have looked confused, wondering why he cared how long I’d been running, when he explains: “I run with you whole time.  Since beginning.  I know, you got this.” He’s right.  I got this.  I need to start listening to the back of my own shirt.  The man trots off to the left, the great wizard with the magic potion I was looking for.  With my new found strength, I trudge onward.

Around 110^th street, I need one thing: sugar.  Desperately.  I’ve eaten several Gels, but they are just sitting in my stomach and making me nauseous.  I need some energy.  Often spectators hand out candy, and I start looking for someone holding lollipops, Twizzlers, or anything that I’d forbid my kids from having before dinner.  Nothing.  This is getting difficult.  The dragon that is this marathon just might win.  But no, not now.  I’ve been working too hard.  I try to ignore how crappy I feel and keep moving.

At about 123^rd Street, my watch signals that it’s time to walk, and I ignore it for the first time since the evil Queensboro Bridge.  My husband Wil, my true prince, is waiting for me at 125^th Street and I’ll be damned if I’m going to walk past him.  So I speed up and continue north, away from the finish line in Central Park.  Being 6’4”, Wil is a beacon and I spot him easily in the crowd.  As I get close enough for him to see me (at just under 5’0”, I am much harder to spot in a crowd), he screams my name and the entire crowd starts screaming for me.  Apparently Wil had been there for a while and had revved up the whole crowd up for me.  I get a hug from him and he gently shoves me towards the Bronx.

Mile 20, the “Wall”, lives in the Bronx.  The “Wall” is something that a long distance runner hits when their body is out of glucose and starts burning fat.  It makes you feel like your legs are in cement.  As I approach the 20 mile marker, I feel my legs getting heavier and know I’m hitting the wall.  But I was ready for it (well, except for the damn candy that I’m dying for and didn’t think to ask Wil to go buy and give to me when I see him again in a couple of miles).  I am the princess.  This is my fairy tale, and no wall is going to stop me.  I start thinking about my year.  I broke my foot in the spring and was on crutches for a month.  In that time I still went to the gym every damned day.  I trained for months running in water when I couldn’t put any weight on my foot.  I didn’t gain back a pound of the 70 that I’ve kept off for over 4 years now.  I signed up for 4 triathlons and participated in zero, which takes a huge mental toll on a competitive person who can’t compete.  But I didn’t give up then, and I’m not giving up now.  In my mind I hurtle the Wall, and am completely elated when I can finally turn south and head over the Madison Avenue Bridge and back into Manhattan.

Wil, my Prince Charming, is waiting for me again, this time on 125^th Street and Fifth Avenue.  I am disappointed when I see that he didn’t read my mind and is not holding a pack of Skittles for me.  Darn it.  I hug and kiss him anyway, he yells, “See you when you’re finished!”, and off I go.

I had been running on the left because that’s where Wil was going to be, but over on the right, I see her.  My fairy Godmother.  A woman is standing on the right side of the street holding a white bowl with the word “CANDY” taped onto it.  Thank the Lord.  I play a quick game of Frogger to get myself over to the right and head straight for her.  I grab some candy bar – I don’t even remember what it was – and say, “Thank you!” to her in the most gracious voice I can muster almost 5 hours into a marathon.

After I’ve inhaled whatever it was that she gave me and decide that this woman is my new best friend, I feel better than I have for the last 21 miles.  My shirt is right.  I got this.

I continue south down Fifth Avenue, trying to ignore the fact that it slopes uphill and I a little bit want to die.  At this point, all I want to do is finish.  So, I sprint (as best as a person can sprint after already running 22 or so miles) on the run intervals and scurry on the walk ones (ok, fine. I shuffle along in complete agony.  Do you think that all the other fairy tales you’ve read are completely accurate?). 

At 90^th street we turn into Central Park, and I actually go faster so that I can end this story a bit earlier.  I end up blowing right past my buddy and cardio sculpt instructor, Bob, who stuck around to wait for me (sorry again, Bob!).  At that point I was so exhausted I could barely remember my own name let alone hear him scream it (though Bob tells me that I looked determined and focused and that’s why I didn’t hear him.  Let’s go with that story).

As we’re about a ½ mile from exiting the park, my watch makes a weird sound.  I look at it just in time to see it display, “Low battery.  Run saved” as it shuts off at what ended up being 25.44 miles and 5 hours, 10 minutes into the race.  I had kind of thought that I’d have more stamina than my watch, so I had my cell phone set up with an app that was going to time my run/walk intervals for me.  I pulled it out, but then I changed my mind.  I decided that my watch dying was a symbol that I needed to stop this run/walking crap and run as fast as I could to the end of my fairy tale.

Finish Line! (clock started with wave 1)

I have to admit, the rest was kind of a blur.  I remember leaving the park and running west on Central Park South.  I remember passing as many runners as I could, and then turning back into the park at Columbus Circle.  There were tons of great signs along the course: “You run better than the government”, “Nice legs”, “Tomorrow you don’t have to train!” and “Go Random Stranger” to name a few.  But finally I see my favorite sign of the day: “Finish”.  I pick up speed, cross the finish line, and pump my arms up in the air as I start to cry.  I did it.  I didn’t even know my time (a friend texted it to me.  It was 5:22:37, six minutes faster than my race in 2011 when I ran the whole thing.  Maybe there is something to this run/walking stuff after all).  Someone handed me a medal that I put around my neck, then another wrapped me in a mylar blanket, my royal robe.

I’d love to say that that is the happy ending to my fairy tale, that the princess in running clothes and spiky hair overcame a year’s worth of obstacles and won out in the end just like princesses always do, and that I lived happily ever after.  But, I can’t say that.  Not yet.  Every good story has a sequel, right?  Here’s mine: a couple of days after the race I decided that I wasn’t quite done racing for the year (and you can’t blame me;  I missed so many races when my foot was in a boot for 3 months).  So, next Sunday, November 17^th, I’ll be running the Brooklyn Marathon.  I know, it’s insane.  But I figured that I’m already trained and my foot survived the first one, so why not? 

This next one will be much harder.  My legs still hurt an entire week after the marathon. I did a 6 mile run yesterday and couldn’t walk afterwards.  I won’t have any spectators (unless anyone reading this wants to come down to Prospect Park and catch me on any of the 8 loops around it that I’m going to have to do.  It starts at 8:30, so I should be there until past 2PM or when I keel over and die, whichever comes first.  And if it’s the latter, if you wouldn’t mind just dragging my body over the finish line, I’d really appreciate it).  I’m not sure how I’ll do, or even if I’ll be able to finish.  But every fairy tale needs a good cliffhanger…