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.”