On Sunday, I ran the NYC marathon. It wasn’t my first or my fastest, but it is a day that will stick with me for a long time.
I was just one of 50,000 people who ran that day. It was a gray, overcast day, with the rain only slightly holding back. But from the moment we started running over the Verazzano Bridge in Staten Island, with Frank Sinatra singing “It’s up to you, New York, New York!” the day was magic.
I always get extra nerves for New York. It’s crazy. At every race I want to do my best, but wouldn’t it be nice if it happened when the most my friends and family can watch?
This year, I set new PRs for almost every distance. Except the big one - the marathon! -let’s make this the day-, I thought at the starting line.
Because my times have improved I had the advantage of starting with faster runners than last year. I meditated and felt the soft gusts of wind at the start. I tried to let go of all expectations of what I could and couldn’t do. Your life is this moment, your life is this moment, your life is this moment, I told myself. It soon became a mantra as my feet started moving.
I tried not to think about the distance at all. I felt like my whole race could be keeping the sub-4 pacers in sight, and before I knew it, I could be at the finish line with the PR I wanted. A sub-4 hour marathon is something I’ve never done in 8 marathons. It wasn’t my first marathon, didn’t want the day to be a notch on my belt. I wanted to do something I’d never done.
So I didn’t hold back. What should I be afraid of? Not finishing? Having to walk? Cramping? Hitting a wall?
Some of those things have already happened to me in past races . Even if you blow up completely today and can’t finish, I thought to myself, it’s OK! That would be something new. One thing I’ve learned from a more competitive year is that a lot of great athletes blow up / break down completely on the course. They are pushing that hard.
Soon, I wasn’t thinking about that though, or anything. All my thoughts were reduced to repetitions to accompany my feet pounding pavement.
I stopped reading signs and scanning the crowd to distract myself. I didn’t have any electronics. I dialed into myself I was and found nothing hurt, but I was burning energy quickly. I ran with my palms upturned to pick up the energy of the crowd on the sidelines while keeping my eyes dead ahead.
When I passed other runners, I tried not to waste energy feeding my ego about it. If I was particularly motivated to pass someone, as happens running in a group, I accepted it as a gift that moved me forward for another moment.
Die to your ego, die to your ego, die to your ego. I chanted as I ran.
My ego died a lot at mile 15- the 59th street bridge: when I started getting passed by other people. My ego was whalloped. I hit my wall on first avenue, mile 17- with 9 miles and the Bronx still before me.
Now the only gift that was going to move me forward was not the thrill of passing any other runners - it was the free Powerade gels on the sidelines.
I didn’t have some zen mantra for how or why this part of the race went. There was no conscious thought at all moving my feet towards the volunteers to take as many gels as I could.
Caffeine? Caffeine? Caffeine? I heard my own voice, almost outside myself, trying to find the Powerade gel with the most power.
I snapped back into it to realize I was so frenzied I was taking way more gels than I could eat and dropping them on the pavement.
I ate three at once though. Instead of gagging like usual, I think they went straight into my bloodstream.
A little further down people were handing out leftover Halloween candy. I really hope I didn’t scare them when I turned into a werewolf and grabbed a handful.
I love Gwyneth Paltrow, and I have been influenced a lot by the clean-eating, whole 30, vegan, organic, paleo trends. But in that moment I felt absolutely remorse about chomping mini Twix bars down like cars in a junkyard. I’ve literally never eaten anything more pure.
The energy took a while to kick in though. I suffered through the Bronx like last year, but I guess since I hit the wall so early this year I don’t remember the Bronx as the hardest part of the race. I was deep in the struggle by then. Crocodile tears. Phantom cramps. Still getting passed.
Mile 20 came and went. The gray skies didn’t change at all. A friend unexpectedly popped out with a cheering voice loud enough to pull me out and make me strong.
When we finally made it back into Manhattan, I could taste the end, but a sub 4 hour pacer past me. I came out so fast, though, I truly thought my net time still stood a chance of breaking 4.
The slow climb up fifth avenue was taking it out of me, but I was so looking forward to finding my mom and getting out of the rain.
Finally, Central Park. Hold on, hold on, hold on, I thought. I accelerated but I couldn’t feel my legs. We ran out of the park and the signs suddenly read 800m, 400m. I tried to imagine how long that really was. It felt longer.
My mom appeared out of nowhere and ran alongside me into Central Park.
MOOOOOOMMMM!
I passed the finish line, but in a way, the road rose to meet me. Is that what they say in the Irish blessing? It wasn’t quite the collapsing, all-out finish I was trying to achieve, but I thought it would be good enough. I believed I had run faster than what the board read; 4:10.
Fortunately, I would have no way of knowing for at least 20 minutes because I purposely ditched my phone in Brooklyn the night before the race. Which meant: a yellowcab to the start, no texting or calling friends before or after the race, no meeting up, no music, no selfies, no tracking app. Also, complete freedom to pour Gatorade/water all over myself and live my grossest life over 26.2.
As it turns out, not having a phone is great way to make new friends!
My mom’s cellphone number was in sharpie on my arm. I called her on borrowed minutes to arrange a place to find each other.
I finally looked up my time online and was surprised. No PR, I was 4 minutes slower than my last marathon, just three weeks ago.
You are not your time, you are not your time, you are not your time.
I can’t say that even now, days later, I’m not thinking about my time. My time is what I’m judged by as a runner, so maybe I feel compelled to offer an explanation- “I was trying, I swear!” But I don’t think my time is what motivates me to run. After all, the truest footrace would be head to head competition. Gun times and net times and personal bests must have come later to extend the competitiveness of the sport beyond the elite corral.
And if I dream my biggest dream, maybe I’m in that elite corral someday, with a glamorous red white and blue running kit and MORANO in big letters on my race bib.
But on Sunday, I was just bib number 20856. Next year, maybe another string of numbers that I‘ll never remember. I’m not a 4:10 marathon, I wasn’t a 4:05 when I PR’d. I’m not the number on the scale or the number or likes on an marathon instagram.
I’m a speck in 50,000. I’m one breath in a marathon.
I’m just a part of it.
And I like that.