Part II- Central Park

Our new friend in the bright blue jacket needed to share the news with someone. He didn’t drop the bomb and leave. He stayed and sympathized and repeated it, after I clearly didn’t believe him.

My family dropped back to see what was happening and he told them, too. Then we looked around again and people’s faces made sense. After a couple of minutes I thanked the guy and we shared a powerful moment of adjusting our expectations of the world together. Here were all these people whose long months of training and faith in the Mayor’s call to come to New York rendered them true believers—in the city, in ourselves, in the race. And in a second it was all gone.

We rushed into the expo center and joined the long lines to get in to where our race numbers were waiting. Maybe if we can get our hands on our identifying, official materials, we can reverse this. Runners were quiet. We watched Wolf Blitzer on big screen tvs breaking the news. News crews began to set up around us, too, in a crush of media wanting to capture our shock.

The line also stopped moving and we spied a rush of activity inside the hall. Now we know they were swiftly dismantling the areas where they distributed the numbers.

You can’t successfully put in marathon miles all year if you believe for a second the day won’t come. We were an army of denial. This couldn’t, couldn’t be true. The airports had opened just in time! We responded to the Mayor’s call and came!

Within an hour we had been ushered in, thrown orange t-shirts and ushered back out. The press conference began on the tvs and we came back out to the lobby to watch the marathon organization and the city explain why, ‘Of course this marathon can’t go on, you fools!’

Disappointed, naïve, crushed. We all filed back into the streets to wander and think. No one ever stopped considering the suffering of the storm victims. I have said it before but I believe that the storm and the marathon can be considered as separate entities because the Mayor characterized it that way all week when urging us to come. He said runners could contribute to healing the city. We could bring life back to the streets.

We walked down 34^th St. towards the Empire State Building and down into the subway. We made it to our big dinner at vegan mecca Candle 79, where we were warmly greeted by Javier and then Benay. They expressed support for us immediately and sat us upstairs around other runners. There could not have been a warmer environment to sink into at that moment. Benay runs the place and exudes compassion. She reminded me of a beautiful woodland creature, dominating her forest and keeping all her friends fed and safe.  

The next day brought greater acceptance and reconciliation. We walked to the park first thing and found it re-opened for the first time since the storm. By then it was sunny. Everyone headed to the Finish Line, which was being taken down. Flags along the 26^th mile were removed, one by one. We sat in the orange bleachers listening to gorgeous, uniformed runners speaking almost every language you can imagine except English.  Word began to spread that two main options existed for Sunday-race day.

The marathon organizers remained silent and didn’t sanction either of these options. Actually, by Saturday morning, they hadn’t even formally notified us of the race cancellation.  Though we all hope for the guaranteed entry for 2013 that they promised us, no one is very happy right now with New York Road Runners and their unconscionable silence throughout the last 2 weeks.

But resourceful runners organized a Sunday morning trip to Staten Island to assist with relief efforts. Another resourceful group organized a makeshift run in the park—Run Anyway NYC 12. I can’t say why we didn’t discuss joining the relief contingent. I’m sad to say it wasn’t my first instinct to go there. It’s clear to me now that that would have been the right thing to do. A lot of us had developed outright fear since the threats made by Staten Islanders against marathoners when the race was still on. Their rage came from grief and wouldn’t stop me from reaching back out to support their recovery. But we made our contributions monetary and didn’t join the ranks of the real responders.

If running an impromptu grassroots international race in Central Park with thousands of other runners was the wrong thing to do, though, I’d be shocked. It was too beautiful to regret and will remain one of my most stunning memories. Sharing the experience with my mother made it sublime.

We all wore our orange marathon shirts and headed into the park throughout the morning. I carried an 8-pack of bottles of Gatorade in with me and started handing them out to runners immediately. Some were running 4 times around—a full marathon. Most of us, I think, made it more of a fun run to celebrate the city carrying on and our own ability to get past this.

Joe Nocera wrote of this event in the New York Times: “It was one of the most joyous, awe-inspiring things I have ever seen in this city, cathartic in a way that the real marathon could never have been. Not this year anyway. A politician could have-should have- owned that moment.”

His point was that no politician, corporation, or corporatized running organization did own it. The runners took back the park. We ran under the stripped structures and past strewn signs. They took our marathon down and yet we ran together without their approval or support.

I ran once around, slowly and in awe. Everyone was running. On the west side, New Yorkers brought out Dixie cups of water, along with some Oreos and Starbursts. On the east side a well-meaning and amused gentleman brought out his box of Cheerios and shook some into any hand who needed some mid-run nourishment.

This was the antithesis of sweeping, shouty Gatorade stations we’re used to at major mile markers. No one was jockeying for position or stressing about their time.

It seemed like what the park was made for—a public gathering space. To play and share.

The glory of it was the simple humanity-cool people like my mom sitting in the bleachers, celebrating the success of Peruvians, Swiss, Chileans and Mexicans. Runners and native New Yorkers joining ranks to acknowledge a bright new day.

In Canada’s The Globe and Mail, Sarah Nicole Prickett wrote about the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy, boldly stating that “Manhattan as disaster movie is the new, already post-apocalyptic reality.” She says it’s always a film set, but when disaster strikes, as we have seen happen too often this century, a strange mix of fiction and reality intertwine. Considering New York City last week, she refers to a line from Cormac McCarthy’s terrifying The Road: “Nobody wants to be here and nobody wants to leave.”

The path around Central Park presented us a safe circle after the storm. We came to the city to run everywhere (hitting 5 boroughs is the point). We comforted ourselves by remaining in a confined loop at the city’s heart.

There were jokes flying around about how, if we were somehow hooked up to generators, our steps could power the city.

Central Park as the heart.

Runners pumping the blood.

Our presence did no harm to the city as it suffered and healed. I like to think the symbolic run empowered an embattled people. If my initial goal was to tap into the romance of New York City, all facets of a brilliant human drama were realized.

[Part III-The Philadelphia Marathon, 11/18/12]

The Man in the Bright Blue Jacket (Part I)

The phrase I keep repeating in my head since returning from New York is “No one cares.” I don’t mean it in a self-pitying way at all. It is more of mantra to reinforce that no one cares my marathon got canceled at the last minute and no one should. After the hurricane hit New York and the whole eastern seaboard, the damage and recovery was all that mattered. No one could care about the 2012 New York City Marathon.

What I struggle with is the fact that I still do.

I was at the pre-race celebratory dinner best friends were throwing for me in Chicago Tuesday night when NYC was being battered by Sandy. We were horrified by what we were hearing about the force of the storm. And, just for closure, we anxiously awaited the e-mail from marathon organizers announcing the cancellation.

It didn’t come Tuesday or Wednesday or Thursday.

Silence from the marathon was countered by a vigorous assurance from Mayor Bloomberg, over and over, that the marathon would indeed go on. If the Mayor believes that we can contribute to the healing of the city, it’s my privilege to be there, I thought. My problem then became the fact that the airport I was flying to was underwater and not scheduled to reopen. I focused my energy on willing LaGuardia to open. Because of the Mayor’s urging, I was sure I could help if I was there. I know that communities of runners are strong, resourceful and generous. This would be a historic moment in the life of New York City.

As conditions deteriorated around (but not in) Manhattan, I waited for the cancellation talk to strike up again. Social media communication about the race controversy had become an all-out witch hunt. Marathoners were called shameful, selfish, disgusting and much worse. Specific threats were being made about booing us along the course, throwing bottles, blockading the road and other anger-driven creative, violent mischief.

The Mayor still wanted us there. The Europeans, Africans, Koreans, South Americans and Australians were getting cleared for travel. I was undeterred.

I must have refreshed the United flight status page 600 times last week. Our flight remained on the schedule. What I was waiting for was the decision to be made for me. While others accepted the marathon’s offer of a deferral until next year, I still wanted this one. I told everyone who asked that I was going if the plane took off. I have a brave mother by my side every step of the way who takes her cues from the mom in The Runaway Bunny. That woman would follow me anywhere as bottles were thrown at my head and find a way to keep me safe. So she was all in, too.

Friday morning came. We checked the flight, the Mayor and the race organizers. No one stopped us from moving forward.

We were somber and sober along the way about the storm aftermath. While we knew we weren’t heading into a cheerful marathon, we respected its profound meaning, as the Mayor had described it all week.

Manhattan greeted us with sunshine and talkative citizens with their important stories of endurance. Clearly no one supported the marathon, but acknowledged that we were there as guests in good faith in their city.

Knowing that the meaning of this race would only become clear in the longer term future, we kept our mouths shut, our heads down, listened intently and hit the streets.

By evening Friday, my intrepid New Yorker sister led the way through (free) buses and trains until we reached 34th street. We had started to see runners everywhere with their race gear from the expo. At that point- so close- we couldn’t apologize for giddy enthusiasm. When we had the bib number in our hands, minutes from now, this historic event and our role in it, would become real.

Against an icy wind, we climbed uphill towards the Javits Center, as night fell. That’s when the feeling started. Something was wrong.

People passing us as they left the center didn’t look eager in the way you would if you had your race number in hand and the 36 hour countdown had begun.

A tall, attractive man in a bright blue jacket walked towards us and made serious, intentional eye contact. We were about 200 feet from the expo entrance.

“It’s canceled,” he said. “The marathon is canceled.”

It's Time

It's time. The day has almost come. I have done everything they said to do and I feel pretty great. Hurricane Sandy's adding some drama. Hopefully everyone will be safe and life in NYC will be back to normal next weekend. I'm grateful to be healthy and very grateful that my family will be with me. This will be our second family race trip this year. Feels like the whole world is kind of going crazy (hurricane, once-in-a-lifetime NYC marathon, terrifying Presidential election). But we're in the middle of it all instead of just sittin' around letting life live us. I just ran my last lakefront run and felt emotional. That path was my north, south, east and west all year. I blew a kiss to the crashing waves as I turned to go home one last time. I only wanted to run my heart out to get ready for this big day and that's all I'll try to do again one week from now.

"I Can Almost See It..."

After postponing a day due to weather that I probably could have handled, I ran my 20. It was 20.6 total and possibly a little more. Nothing really lovely or metaphorical anymore. Just grind out your miles. But I was excited to see if I could do it and I did it. The season's over for everyone else. No more teams or crowds or buzz out there. Just geese. So many geese. I slowed down after half and kept trying to pick it up again. That's going to be really hard in the race after 20, for sure. Duh, I guess. I never got cramps. Just tired legs. My left heel likes this whole project the least. I decided to run with music for half because I was going to be away for so long. It was sort of cute when I started crying to Miley Cyrus The Climb, which is probably the best sappy song for a situation like this. ("I may not know it,/ but these are the moments/ that I'm gonna remember most-/just gotta keep going.") Great. Crying again. Anyway, I'll be in the bathtub. Sorry for neglecting everything and everybody! We're getting close. Ain't about how fast I get there/ Ain't about what's waiting on the other side/ It's the climb. (That little spaz is a genius.)

Settle Down

What did, like, our great-grandmothers do to derive strength without girl-empowerment pop songs? I don't run with headphones anymore but I had a clear loop of No Doubt's "Settle Down" in mind the whole 18 miles. Get, get, get...in line and set-tle down. Ima rough and tough. Ima rough and tough. And nothing's gonna knock this girl down. (Don't get me started. I'm trying to get a hold on this.) Then I was trying to remember that my halfway time was 1:54 so I pictured Gwen Stefani, like, gesturing 1-5-4 in her cutie-gangster style. All I'm saying is that I had some crazy stuff in my head during this 18 mile run but it was really fun. No one has been luckier with training weather than us here in Chicago. Weekend mornings have been perfect. I ran into my buddy Tim on Mile 1, which was a treat and made that mile fly by. Then I found myself in the middle of a race at the zoo where the loudspeakers were blasting Brown-Eyed Girl (just for me, naturally). Then I felt the spray from Buckingham Fountain all the way across Lake Shore Drive which I found surprising. The lake looked beautiful. Boats out. A multiple myeloma walk between North and Fullerton. Nice people walking to honor people they loved who lost their lives. Made me grateful. And I just felt pretty good the whole way. I decided at Montrose I had to finish under 3:50 so I gunned it (which doesn't mean much for me). Made it with 3 seconds to spare.

"You Just Might Surprise Yourself"

This run was totally different than the last long one. Infinitely better. Glorious, completely delightful. I never got into a suffering zone at all. All credit goes to Amena and Rauf, my great friends who started out there with me in the cold deep dark at 5:30am. Rauf went to Fullerton and Amena smashed it all the way to Roosevelt or more for her 21. IN-spirations. They are strong, laid back, fun and happy. Perfect influences. They even shared their gel shots and power-jelly beans with me. I will never forget this generous companionship when I needed it most. My run was 17. Possibly slightly more.

I simply got to Balbo and then turned my ass around. It was almost 'easy'? I checked myself (before I wrecked myself) that my miles were still around 12 min. Ran into 2 races--one for blood and one for dogs. The dog one also had a doggie parade when I was just about home which was adorable. What I did better than last time: worked on gratitude/attitude all week, new bra, hydrated a lot more carefully yesterday, watched a Shalane Flanagan doc over and over, hot bath yesterday, re-reading all my running books (someone in Born to Run starts doing 'chop steps' when the going gets tough. I tried it.). A good long talk on the train with Tim about running/racing also gave me great motivation and specific advice. One more thing--when I bought my new shoes at Fleet Feet yesterday, I told the nice saleswoman/runner, Kristin, that I was scared about the marathon because I'm 'older.' She said "You just might surprise yourself. A lot of women are hitting their running peak later in life." It was one of the most generous things she could have said to me. Maybe I'm actually learning things and getting better. Maybe my body and mind aren't conspiring against me. I won't get too cocky, though. A few more of these left and they can't all be sunshine and flowers. Amena's cool with me jumping in for a mile or two with her for Chicago in 2 weeks, which would be amazing. This happy run convinced me this whole idea isn't preposterous at all.

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