Marathon

November 13, 2023

Most people save cherished things: photos, letters, jewelry, wedding and birth announcements, obituaries. We do, too. I also still have two oddball things: my teeshirts from the 1990 Marine Corps Marathon and the 2011 New York City Marathon.

The New York City Marathon came and departed last week, a glorious hiccup in the sports world. My niece Christine ran, so the excitement came back for us. We watched the live feed from the finish. For some who staggered across, arms raised in joy, it may be a place for love: a guy stepped over the line, got down on one knee, and proposed to his runner-partner. It looked like she said yes.

For the 99 percent of the population who will never run a marathon, the idea, running 26.2 miles, is nutty and eccentric or masochistic and reckless. The months of training required, the risk of injury, the expense, the pain of recovery—the reality of the marathon—brings a loud “Hell no.” 

The NYC Marathon is the biggest deal in the running world. A total of 51,402 entrants finished, 28,501 men, 22,807 women, and 94 “non-binary” runners. The New York Road Runners Club, which sponsors the race, says the club received more than 128,000 applications from 153 countries and all 50 states. The male and female winners in the Open Division (only professionals are eligible) get $100,000, second gets $60,000, then on down to $2,000 for tenth. Prize money also goes to top American finishers and wheelchair racers.

Last week was Christine’s first. I quit running marathon road races years ago, after 16 of them, including three Marine Corps, four Washington, D.C., marathons, and five in Nashville, and shifted to trail running. Trails are slower, easier on the joints and on older folks. But then, the marathon doesn’t go away. It draws you back.

“How to” books have been written about marathons Some of them lurch into philosophy, hinting that the essence of running long distances, e.g., discipline, perseverance, faith, has something to do with discovering the truth about life, about finding joy in sacrifice, pain, and loneliness. We all have some mystery in our private lives. And who knows? The ordeal of the marathon may help us, or some of us, confront and understand it.

Yet the marathon is the marathon. The runner awakens on race day, slips on his/her outfit and running shoes. Most will eat something, a bagel, banana, energy bar, sometimes more. They show up at the start, stretch a bit, strut to the line, and stay silent for the national anthem. Some check their GPS watches. The gun goes off, they surge ahead, feeling the adrenalin rush. If the field is large they’ll tapdance a few steps, banging elbows.

Within a quarter-mile the field starts to extend. The faster people move ahead, creating space. Runners settle into their pace. They maneuver alongside and around each other, measuring progress by noting landmarks along the course. They hear the cheers of the crowd. Then they see the one-mile marker with a clock showing time elapsed since the start.

The first mile of the New York City Marathon crosses the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, which links Staten Island to Brooklyn. Runners cross on both the upper and lower spans, the view of the city skyline and Lower New York Bay is spectacular. The one-mile marker of any marathon fills the runner’s heart with hope. One down, twenty-five point two to go. This thing is doable.  

The Las Vegas Marathon starts in late afternoon so runners navigate the Strip with its night glitter and roaring crowds. Nashville’s Country Music Marathon course passes the honky-tonks of Lower Broadway, the city’s glitzy, scruffy tourist district. On the other extreme, the Washington, D.C., race hauls the runners past the squat bulk of the Commerce and Treasury Department office buildings.

Runners pause at aid stations, grab and gulp cups of water and nod at the encouragement of the volunteers. The field has extended farther, but in the straightaway segments runners can look ahead at the colorful river of humanity flowing ahead, then gracefully making the turns.

The mile markers are passing, the runners are keeping their pace, trying to stay with their race plans. They may be slowing on hills and picking up speed on downhills. The weather matters—too warm can sap energy and spirit.

By the half-marathon marker the field is well spaced. The runners see the marker and feel a jolt of encouragement. But the legs know the body has come only halfway. Many are alternately walking and jogging, some are struggling. Miles 14, 15, 16 come harder, slower. The street is littered with discarded water cups. The course now seems a desert, hot, humid, the crowd thinner. Thighs and calves may seize up with cramps, meaning stop, stretch, work them out. Then keep going.

Around now, when the middle of the pack blends with the back of the pack, runners remind themselves of the “wall,” the overwhelming urge to quit, to stop running forever. Legs feel like lead, hamstrings burn. “Keep moving,” they tell themselves. The philosophy, the “you got this” cheers seem pointless, empty, cruel. Hitting the wall, it’s called, when stopping the pain seems the only reason for living.  

The wall may break runners, but they overcome. The miles creep by. Then at 20 six remain, a 10K, the standard road race all marathon hopefuls have run many times. Finishing now seems possible. Then the 22- and 23-mile markers. Three to go. The wall passes, runners may be walking, backs bent or jogging, but moving. All those chilly early morning runs, the 10Ks, the ten-milers, the agonizing long training runs, now worthwhile.  

The finish line is still a dot in the distance. But the crowd is building, yelling, waving signs. The pack is slogging forward, the energy returning, euphoria building. The pack breaks up, pounds ahead.

The arch of the finish gate is suddenly there, runners feel their bodies surge again in one last burst of will. Then the footfall on the line, a quick glance at the clock, a volunteer is smiling and offering a bottle of water and the finisher’s medallion. The runner glances around, legs stiffening, then moves slowly forward. Behind him or her, others are crossing the line. The sensation is pain, but relief, then joy.