Dear New York City,
Probably the most excruciating breath I ever took was on 77th Street and Lexington Avenue. It was my first breath on Earth, and my lungs must have wondered what the hell had hit them. Forty-three years later it seems fitting that I would come back to the city for another physical challenge to my lungs and body: my first marathon.
I have lots of memories of you starting from those early years on the Upper East Side. There were holiday visits and sleepovers with Grandma in Stuy Town; parties at the Leffs, the Gunthers, the Carpenters, and other families in various uptown neighborhoods; days spent in daddy's office at Columbia. Then there were the fits and starts of my early professional career when I lived in Brooklyn and Alphabet City, subsisting paycheck to paycheck. And of course today when I see you a couple of times a month for work.
If I'm being honest, you've always been a bit of a headache and a challenge I could never quite deal with. Back when I was just starting out, I couldn't tolerate your high prices, abrasive attitude, and your tendency to "never sleep." Which is why, 15 years ago, I ditched you for a less exhausting life in the country. And, frankly, I truly dread my NYC workdays now. They leave me depleted and empty.
But yesterday, when you challenged me more than ever before, you helped me find a part of myself I didn't know I had.
On the Verrazano Bridge I was overcome with emotion at having made it to the starting line. Surrounded by scores of runners from all over the world with the open waterway below and the iconic skyline in the distance, I felt like a part of something huge and meaningful. It literally brought tears to my eyes.
Running through Brooklyn, I was in a zone and sticking to my pace, so I forced a smile at the throngs of cheering spectators. I've never been one to smile during races, and even your generous Brooklynites couldn't get me to light up a genuine grin.
Your streets were in remarkably good condition and I greatly appreciated that, especially through Brooklyn where I was able to stay on pace and hit the halfway mark in good shape.
Then, ugh, the 59th Street Bridge. Long Island City is perhaps one of your most charmless neighborhoods, and it was no different yesterday. Nothing against the spectators who did their best in the streets leading up to the bridge, but that endless gradual incline in the eery quiet with the wind blowing up off the East River is where I started to unravel.
First Avenue didn't make it better. The screaming wall of people did nothing to energize me. I've never really liked the Upper East Side and it did little to lift my spirits yesterday. This is where I began to feel like perhaps a marathon is just too long a run to be considered a wise choice.
And sorry, Bronx, the route didn't reveal your best side. Again, no disrespect to the spectators who were a boon no matter what sidewalks they lined, but on the Willis Avenue Bridge I cursed the fact that I had no money and no Metrocard so I could duck out of this sufferfest and just go home to my less-exhausting life. I was pretty much stuck until the finish line. But I had no idea how I was going to make it there. With every step my feet, my quads, my knees threatened mutiny. Worse, however, was the pain that wracked my whole body, like fever pain when you lie shivering in bed waiting for the Tylenol to kick in.
And then. Harlem. You lifted me up at mile 22 with your gospel choir, your ska band, your salsa beat. I started to think maybe I could make it to the end. New York, here is where you started to shine and where I started to believe in myself. Your Harlem spectators literally reached out their hands and told me "Leah, you can do this" and "Leah, you have it in you" and "Leah, you look strong." They warmed me with their smiles when my body was wracked with chills. They let me pet their Bernese Mountain dog when all I wanted was to curl up in a ball on the sidewalk. They watched me cry tears that were a shizoid mixture of homesickness, accomplishment, suffering, and self-pity. And they saw me smile a genuine smile for the first time all day.
The high was short-lived, but that's OK. Marathons are not meant to be easy. I had no illusions that I would skip along Fifth Avenue with my arms in the air. But I was able to hold onto that smile, the one I picked up in Harlem, that was as real as I've ever smiled in a race. And I'm told I looked strong and determined and was even passing people along the park.
Central Park made my head spin. It was so close to the finish, yet it felt like endless circles. I wanted to walk here as never before, but more than that, I wanted to be done with you, New York. I wanted my quiet life back.
But you had other plans. You had thoroughly depleted me yet again (I now realize my little NY work trips are nothing compared to this). After I crossed the finish line at 4 hours 44 minutes (roughly 15 minutes slower than my hoped-for time), you sent me into the arms of a mom-like volunteer named Kate on whose shoulder I blubbered and drooled and snotted until she led me into a medical tent where I collapsed in a shivering heap, was caught by a dreadlocked medic named Ishmael with gentle eyes who covered me in woolen blankets and placed me next to a heater and fed me hot soup and salt and Gatorade until I could stand up again and hobble back to the hotel and my family and my simple, quiet life.
And though you raised the stakes in a big way New York, yesterday you made me that much more thankful for the chance to prove to myself that I can handle whatever comes my way. I never believed I could run this distance, that I could face down such a challenge, but now I have. And without you, New York, I might never have found that out.
With gratitude,
Leah
#39262
P.S. You might want to tell the NYC Marathon folks that, after running 26.2 miles, runners need water and a blanket ASAP. They do not want to be herded first into corrals so they can get souvenir pictures taken. I'm just sayin'.
