“If I Can Make It There, I’ll Make It Anywhere”: The 2006 NYC Marathon Race Report

(Ed. Note: Pictures to come soon!)

In the past couple of days, I’ve often thought that I can’t begin to describe the 2006 ING New York City Marathon, but I know that I must. Not only so that I can go back, read, and re-live the marathon (like I do with the half marathon in San Francisco from time to time), but because there is so much to say that I think people should know. They should know how to prepare for the long wait at Fort Wadsworth on Staten Island. They should know how thrilling it is to start the race at the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. They should know how dark the Queensboro Bridge can be (feelin’ groovy, anyone?), should know how spectacular the crowds are, should know how light you suddenly become when you see the signs that say 400 yards to go . . . 300 . . . 200 . . . 100 . . . Finish.

The day began at 4:00am when first IP’s then my alarm went off. I woke up, lucky to wake up, considering that our next door neighbors in the building where we were staying in Manhattan had been the loudest, rudest sons of bitches this planet can possibly offer. At 2:00am, I had been crying because I had not gotten more than a couple of hours of sleep thanks to them—the racket they made was incredible. I got up at one point and retired to the living room, where I wrote in my journal that I’d trained hard and that if I didn’t finish the marathon, it would be these clowns’ fault. I then went back to bed, where IP (who had luckily enough slept through their auditory carnage but woke up to find me crying) comforted me and told me to try the relaxation technique he had taught me a few months ago. It worked, and I woke up, with an hour and a half hour more of sleep under my belt.

I showered, changed into my capris, running bra, long-sleeve marathon tee and short sleeve technical tee. I drank some water, stretched a bit, and then climbed into a pair of sweat pants and a heavy sweater. I packed a Michigan sweater into my race goody bag, along with my race number, chip (remind me to send that back), and some water. After slipping into some socks and my trusty New Balance 857s, I was ready to catch a taxi to the midtown bus loading zone. IP, ever the gentleman, walked me to the closest intersection and hailed a cab for me. I kissed him good-bye, climbed in, and the driver quickly whisked me off down 5TH Avenue, where I would later—hopefully—be running towards the finish line.

I was herded onto a bus at midtown almost immediately—marathon officials were extra sure that each and every one of us had a bib number. As soon as the bus was full, we pulled away and were off to Staten Island. After pinning my number to my shirt, I tried to relax during the ride, closing my eyes and trying to concentrate on the idea of finishing strong. I tried not to let my nerves get the better of me—I wanted desperately to tap my foot, dance about in my seat, or walk up and down the length of the bus, but I kept myself in one place (although that last one would’ve been tough to pull off).

When we were loaded off at Fort Wadsworth and separated into our corrals (orange for me), I quickly seized on a bagel and some tea (no coffee or donuts for me, Dunkin’ Donuts, but I do appreciate it), then sat down to wait out my time at Fort Wadsworth. During the following 4.5 hours, I had a yogurt smoothie, walked around a bit to see the field, looked up at helicopters documenting us marathon zombies milling about, had my picture taken by the pros, was thankful for the port-a-potties, sipped on Gatorade, and met a very nice woman from Massachusetts who was running her third marathon. We were separated by a port-a-potty break, but I know she finished. Good job, S!

At 9:50am, we were asked to move into our corrals. Before hitting my assigned corral number, I grabbed half a bagel and consumed it before the run started (believe it or not, I didn’t feel it at all and it helped, I think). We then slowly started shuffling towards the start, where I had a quick but funny and pleasant conversation with some Canadian runners, witnessed people struggling out of their pre-marathon clothing (I had ditched my sweat pants into my goody bag, but had kept my bulkier jacket—it’s warm, pretty new, high-end, and was $10 thanks to a sale—I wanted to throw it off so someone in New York would have a comfortable sweater to hang out in this winter), and tried not to jog towards the start as other people were doing. When we got to the bridge, I heard the last strains of the National Anthem, and then the gun went off. A huge cheer went through the crowd, followed by Frank Sinatra singing “New York, New York.” The crowd began to swing their hands above their heads in tune with the music, singing the lyrics loudly and proudly (and here I have to admit that no, I do not know the lyrics). “Born to Run” started after “New York, New York” ended with wild jazz hands in the air. It was then that I could start moving. The whine of the chips crossing over the mat was sweet—the race had started.

Mile 1: The first mile is, understandably, slow. I told myself to take it easy—after all, my goal was to finish, not break any self-imposed, phantom record. I looked out over the bridge to Manhattan, took in the people all around me, and told myself that I couldn’t really believe I was there. I had been training for New York since July 4, but it never really hit me that I was going to be running a marathon through the streets of the city. I tried to wake myself up to the reality, but the fact was this: I was awake, and I was calm. I was composed. I was ready. I had a little less than 26.2 miles to go at this point, and I knew I could do it. Finishing was never in doubt, and during that first mile, I took on the attitude I would have for the rest of the race: serenity. Even when the going got tough, I knew I’d finish, so I took it easy.

Mile 2: This mile was faster than Mile 1 given that you’re going downhill. Again, I told myself to keep a conservative pace and just take in the atmosphere. I did the mile in less than 10 minutes—I knew that the hill contributed to that, but I also knew that I was in no shape to keep up a pace of less than 10 minutes. I’d be done at the halfway point. As we ran into Brooklyn, I shook myself a bit to loosen up and slow down the pace. After all, it was time to enjoy the crowds.

Mile 3 – 7: “Mexicanos, Colombianos, corren, corren!” This greeted me immediately into Brooklyn, and I couldn’t help smiling. I didn’t have anything on me—not my name, not a flag to represent my home country, but it was very nice to hear this woman cheering on the Spanish speaking runners. I was feeling good, if a little warm at this point—I still had my hat and gloves on, and I knew I would have to ditch them sooner or later. I tried to drop my hat a couple of times in Brooklyn, but every time I made to drop the hat, my heart broke—I have had that hat for years, and I love it dearly. It was a gray fleece hat with a small snowflake on it. The best hat in the world, I wore it during every winter run since probably 1999, and wore it indoors when it got a bit too cold (prompting my mother to beg me to take it off when my hair was short and tucked into the hat, and it looked like I didn’t have hair). I decided to ditch the hat at the 10K mark—sort of an “only 32.1K to go, dudes” statement.

The crowds lining Fourth Avenue in Brooklyn were fantastic. Everyone was cheering us loudly and the music was a great motivator—the bands dotting the route were varied, so we got a dose of a wide range of music throughout. The signs ranged from personal to generally hilarious—I believe this is where the “Run Like There’s a Werewolf Behind You!” sign appeared, though that could’ve been Queens—I just have to say, what about zombies!? The kids lining the course were so very cute—they offered up high fives, bananas, and water. Right before Mile 7, a woman held her hand up to me and cheered “You can do this!” before giving me a high five that hurt like hell, but still made my spirits swing even higher. As we approached Mile 8, a few runners behind me started shouting “Merge! Merge!” We were about to be united with our blue and green brethren.

Mile 8 – 13: The entire marathon field merged, we continued our way through Brooklyn, still enjoying the strength of the crowd, the narrowing streets, and our mutual support of one another. By Mile 8, my stomach was bothering me a bit—slowing down to an even more conservative pace, I decided that a bathroom break after Mile 10 would not hurt at all. Sighing to myself, I stopped at a port-a-potty right before Mile 11, losing seven minutes of my race. I wasn’t upset, though—I thought that I would need a better bathroom break strategy the next time around, but that, for this time, losing seven minutes wasn’t a big deal. I watched countless marathoners go by as I waited. After this, though, I jumped right back into the field, approaching Mile 11 with some amazement. I couldn’t believe I had already run nearly half of the course with very little ill effect. I knew I wasn’t pushing hard, and I hoped this would help me in the final miles. As we hit Mile 13 at the Pulaski Bridge, and then the half, I felt elated—exactly how one should feel when doing a marathon. I noted the time as 12:43pm after coming off of the bridge into Queens.

Mile 14 – 16: This was probably the second toughest part of the marathon for me. As we finished Mile 14, I started to droop a bit, and by Mile 15, I was in desperate need of an extended walking break. I ended up walking a good bit of the Queensboro Bridge (goal for 2008: run the entire 59TH Street Bridge, damnit—feelin’ groovy all the way, too!). It was very dark in there, and I ended up stepping on someone’s heels even as someone stepped on my heels. It was a bit spooky, being on the bridge—I imagined that the feeling was what one would get in the Windsor Tunnel during the Detroit Free Press Marathon (correct me if I’m wrong, Freep marathoners). At Mile 16, we turned off of the bridge into Manhattan and the loudest, proudest crowd in the world.

Mile 17 – 20: The toughest part of the race for me was Mile 17 – 18.5ish. I walked a huge chunk of that stretch—while I had come off the bridge running, I knew I had hit my wall. Not too hard that I couldn’t recover, but the wall was there and I needed to either go over it, around it, or through it. I hadn’t decided which by the time we hit 1ST Avenue, but the cheering spectators were inspiring. IP might’ve been there when I passed by—I looked for him, but didn’t spot him, and he looked for me, but didn’t catch me, either. We’ve yet to upload pictures that he took, but he might’ve caught me given what we could see from the preview screen (I recognized some of my fellow nearby marathoners, particularly the rhino dudes). As I made my way up 1ST Avenue, I tried to rally myself back into a run, but it was tough. The 4:45 pace leader passed me, and it was almost heartbreaking to see that I had been on course to beat 4:45—almost. I quickly threw away that thought, though, and concentrated on re-energizing myself. I focused on the crowds, on the happy kids who I hope one day run this thing too, and tried to enjoy Manhattan on a cool, crisp day with thousands of New Yorkers cheering us onwards and upwards. At about Mile 18.5, I decided to pick it up already. I found myself walking fast, then shambling, and then running once more. As we hit Mile 19, and then the Willis Avenue Bridge into the Bronx, I began to feel the marathon coming back into my hands. Willis Avenue is supposed to be a wall for most marathoners, but I found the bridge to be easygoing, with the crowds in the Bronx lively and doing what they could to get us through any walls. We were only in the Bronx for a mile—IP joked about getting out of there as fast as possible, and even the NYC program book was a bit dismissive of the Bronx, but I enjoyed my brief mile there. “Manhattan’s waiting for you!” one gentleman bellowed to us as we made our way to the Madison Avenue Bridge.

Mile 21 – 24: I felt good throughout this section, though I did slow down for some Gatorade mixed with water a couple of times. I had reduced my fluid intake to every other mile as the Gatorade was becoming too sugary and the water by itself was a bit boring. I walked only when drinking—after crushing my cup (“I crush you!”) I’d continue at my slow but steady pace. My hamstrings were tight, especially my left side, but I surged forth with as much power as possible. When someone shouted “You’re almost there!” at Mile 22, I nearly gave him the stink-eye—trust me, even though I was feeling good, it didn’t feel like we were almost there. I didn’t send out my stink-eye, though, because he meant well. When we finally ran into Central Park and hit Mile 24, it dawned on me that there really was very little to go. Two point two miles? I can do this in my sleep! Someone said as much, and I have to say, they were right.

Mile 25: Mile 25 probably seemed like the longest mile even though it wasn’t the hardest. It was anticipation more than exhaustion that made the mile feel long. It’s not that I wanted to finish to be done, I wanted to finish to be accomplished. When the Mile 25 marker finally appeared, a huge swell of emotion went through me, but I quickly quelled it. It wouldn’t do to cry with 1.2 miles left in the race.

Mile 26: This mile went by quickly, though I have to say that the “½ Mile To Go” marker almost makes you slump a bit—still a half mile, you ask? But that thought evaporates as the cheering swells and you’re urged on by countless people in Central Park. You pass by a huge screen that displays the runners as they move forward, but I didn’t get to catch myself at movie star size; it was much more important to get to the end. My pace accelerated as we approached the Mile 26 marker with the finish line visible behind it. As the yards started to count down, I felt a sprint coming into my legs—where it came from, I don’t know, but I didn’t have to dig deep for it because it was suddenly there, waiting to be used. I crossed the finish in just under 5:05, gun time, with a huge grin on my face and my arms pumping in victory. I nearly gave in to some sobs at that point because I was so damn proud of myself. Still am, in fact. I had run the tough course of New York and finished pretty strong—a sprint, I mean, what the hell? I held it together, though, and happily (and tear-free) received my finisher’s medal, was swept past the photographers by the crowds (damnit, but at least I’ll get the Fort Wadsworth one), and slowly made my way to the UPS truck that held my sweat pants and Michigan sweater.

The march to the truck took forever, thanks to the fact that my truck was practically last (and these trucks were not in numerical order, either). After receiving my bag and some food (yum! An apple!), I headed over to the Family Reunion Area (arranged by last name), glad that at least my long trek to my sweater would lead me to 81ST and Columbus, where IP said he would meet me. As I made my way to that intersection and passed by the “O’s”, IP appeared with Scorpie in hand (!) and gave me the hugest hug in the world combined with a bunch of kisses. I again fought back the tears that threatened to come forth; I was in disbelief a bit, and I needed a moment for the marathon’s end to catch up to me. I could tell that I had made IP (and Scorpie!) proud. After discussing the marathon for a bit, calling my father, and after IP helped me into my Michigan sweater, we set about finding a cab (unsuccessfully), then trekking back to the apartment that we rented for the weekend. All in all, I probably logged 30 miles that day thanks to the lack of cabs, but it was all right. It probably helped my somewhat speedy recovery (I’m not hurting nearly as much today as I was yesterday).

After a nice shower, IP and I met his brother for dinner. It was my first time meeting IP’s younger brother (I still have one to meet), who exclaimed “You survived!” after asking me how I felt. It was a very tasty dinner in Chinatown with lots of water and lots of food—exactly what I needed after such a long day. After dinner, we headed back to IP’s brother’s house, where I immediately collapsed into bed thanks to the marathon and some Tylenol PM that had been included in my race packet.

The next morning, I checked my unofficial net time to see that I had made it in under five hours (4:59:17). The tentative plan of doing strength training and speed work this winter became official in order to improve my time for my next marathon. IP and I ventured out into the Long Island world and he purchased the New York Times for me, which had a special marathon section that included my name among the finishers. Like the say, all the news that’s fit to print! IP said he would call the paper and complain.

And there it is: The 2006 ING New York City Marathon. Thanks very much to my family and IP, who supported me throughout my training (even as my mother and sister gasped in pained disbelief in response to my longer training runs). Hugs and kisses and future beer to IP for being there this weekend—from calming me down from my lack of sleep scare to lugging about my luggage to helping me crawl into my Michigan sweater, he was there for me 100%. Thanks bunches to the fair city of New York, which has set the bar for all my marathons to come: I’m sure there aren’t very many spectators in the world like you guys. It was a terrific experience, and it was an honor to run New York, to run in the world’s largest marathon. I sincerely hope I can make it back in 2008 (my current plan it to try to run it every other year—fingers crossed!) and enjoy your support once more. I hope to be there, and if “New York, New York” is played at the starting line again, I swear I’ll know the lyrics!