Long-distance winners.
I’d forgotten about the New York City Marathon, so I was pleasantly surprised this morning when The Scamp and I headed out to run some errands and found ourselves at the Lafayette Avenue piece of the route. We happened upon the scene as some runners with disabilities were heading up the crest of the hill near Clermont Avenue; their faces were determined, exhausted, exhilarated. As The Scamp and I gave ‘em some applause, the air filled with the strains of a ragtag rendition of “New York, New York,” played by a band set up on the edge of the Bishop Loughlin High schoolyard. I stood at the corner, gripping The Scamp’s stroller and watching the racers power themselves up and on, and I thought about how to continue my own New York City marathon, which I’ve slowly realized isn’t necessarily the one I thought I was running. (That’s life for you.)
I remembered that my friend Rico ran the New York City Marathon several years back; we cheered him on and met him after he crossed the finish line in Central Park, having made it there in 5 hours or so. He had the ultimate runner’s high and the pride of his accomplishment. He had been inspired to do it by his parents, especially his mom (he was thrilled to see them along the route in Queens). I asked him what he was thinking while he was in the thick of the race. “This is so stupid. This will never work. I’ll probably vomit bile.” How, I wondered, do you put one foot in front of the other, keep going? “You just do. You keep going.” He said it helped to have the people of New York City cheering the runners on from the sidelines. “You’ve gotta put your name on your shirt, so they can shout your name. Although,” he laughed, “if I had to do it over again, I might’ve used a different name. Like ‘Magnum.’ So they could cheer, ‘Go Magnum!’”