February 2003 Newsletter

The "I Love NY" New York City Marathon Story

It's 6:00am and, double-checking my armload of warm clothing and supplies, I close the door on my friend's apartment and hike the few blocks to the Carlton to meet Terry Delaney and Rick Cleary at 6:25am. We enjoy the warmth for a few minutes before heading outside to the early morning sun but still-cool air to walk to the 7:00am busses that will take us to Staten Island. The 40-min. drive gives us a partial tour of the race route, and instills in us the size and scale of the city. So much distance to cover on such meager fuel as human chemical energy. How could I possibly have eaten enough yesterday? Along the way, I relate last night's dream of running a 2:54:27, the first time I've ever dreamed of racing and actually seeing a finish time on the clock.

Upon arrival, we huddle under layers of fabric and mylar, waiting the three hours to race start in a cold wind but full sun. I experience the longest urinal in the world, which has to be heard and smelled, not simply seen. Then it's time to strip off the extra clothing and head to the front of the green corral, where I start only four rows back from the front, on the middle deck of the fearsome Verrazano Narrows Bridge.

The elite runners are at a separate start, as are most of the first-timers. So our start is smooth and trouble-free, feeling much more like a race of hundreds than thousands. Two enormous fire boats shoot colored streams of water into the sky on the north side of the bridge, where we're running. I hit 6:40 going up, decide to pick it up on the downside, hitting a ridiculous and zippy 5:40. Moderation ensues, hitting 6:15-6:20 for most of the next 10 miles, joining the blue field at mile 3, the elite women's route at mile 8 (the athletes themselves long gone). Perhaps 19:20 for the 5K, 38:45 for 10K, followed by several attempts to back off the pace, at the same time not willing to lose contact with the runners around me.

Eventually I settle into something of a groove, running with a Brit for some 5 miles through mile 12 or so; he's just come off Chicago three weeks ago and has devised a "controlled burn" strategy that involves running too fast at the start and then slowing down gradually from 6:18's to 6:29's. I say nothing as we hit a slow 6:23, then a 6:19. I have to let him go eventually as I realize that whether his plan works for him or not, it's just too fast for me.

I interact with the crowd a lot, much more than I have in past races. They are a resource, as useful in the marathon distance as water or gatorade, and can be employed just as effectively. At key spots, a feeble hand-wave is enough to generate a huge roar from the spectators, pouring energy into my legs and spirit for another mile.

We hit the halfway mark on the Pulaski bridge; I'm way ahead of schedule at 82:45, and starting to feel the toll of the 6:19 average pace. But the long-distance training and the rigors of Elm Street start to shine through---I find I can keep going. We hit the Queensboro bridge a long few miles later, and once again, though I notice the climb to the peak of the span, it costs me nothing in effort, as I continue to hang with runners and pass a few others. As we race down the far side, we can hear the roar of the crowds gathered on First Avenue, Manhattan, and it adds to the energy and excitement. We roll of the bridge, take a hard corner, and the contact becomes real---we live on the crowd's sound and enthusiasm as mile 16 flies by.

Then it's it the long straight-away up Manhattan all the way to the Bronx. How far is it---to 120th St or 140th St or worse? I put it out of mind and vow only to look at street signs every 5 blocks. Amazingly, it works: I glance up at the signs and tick off 60th, 65th, ..., 95th, PowerGel near mile 18, and then the Willis Bridge is in sight. It marks the turning point in the race in my mind: from here it's "only" down Central Park to the finish, albeit more than 6 miles away. A token mile in the Bronx and then it's back to Manhattan on the Madison Avenue Bridge, and I start to count blocks of five streets again, dimly recalling that the far end of Central Park is somewhere down near 60th. And we're way up at 120th. Then 115th. It's less than 10K to go. If I can churn out a 40 min. 10K, I can make my best-of-all-possible-worlds hope of a 2:50. But I've run 20 miles already. The strength and endurance of High Noon comes back to propel me on.

My calves start to go when we hit Central Park proper near mile 23. But I see some singlets ahead that I remember from the first few miles. Surely I can keep up with them. There is no sign of the Brit from earlier miles, but there's an Italian and a Frenchman that I refuse to let go. I concentrate on the surroundings, crowds, runners, and sights, staving off the effort to withdraw and slow to a plodding crawl. Stay engaged. Try a faster pace at first if you feel tired. The strategies pay off. I manage to stay under the 7:00 mark.

I can tell I'm running in a different crowd than past marathons. We all know we're easily under the 3:00 hour mark. No silly costumes, no 8:30 final miles, no heroic finishes. We're in it for the pride of personal accomplishment, of seeing weeks, months of hard training realized in a time that starts with "2:", with every minute under 3:00 a hard-earned victory. The race continues as we round more bends in Central Park. Now I'm using the crowd as much as I can. Near any slightly quieter section I pump my fist and use my remaining lung power to shout a strong "Yeah" and then feed off the response of the spectators. At last I start to believe the cliched cries of "You can do it" and "You're almost there". Somewhere before mile 25 I hear a clear "Go Thomas Meyer!" and I turn my head to see Chris Getman on the sidelines with a grin on his face. Another incredible boost, and we're down to about a mile to go. I find that I've somehow missed a mile on my watch, stopping it instead of taking a split somewhere, but the clocks tell me all I need to know. 2:50 will probably be out of reach, but beating last night's dream time of 2:54 should be easy even if I slow past 7:00 pace. Then we're almost there. I'm picking it up for the finish, the first time I've ever had the strength at the end of a 26.2 mile race to do so.

The finish is still around several bends, but there's a sign marking only a 1/2 mi to go. Then only 300 yards, and then the finish line is sight. The clock says mid-2:50, and I crank it up to the last gear I still have left to try to avoid the momentous change to 2:51. And then I'm across the mats, underneath a big green 2:51:06, knowing that with my 4-5 second chip bonus, I've basically reached my goal.

After that, it's a slow walk up half of Central Park, receiving congratulations, thanking volunteers profusely, squeezing water into my drained body while a ridiculously large smile decorates my face. I've done New York.

2:51:01 chip, 252 overall, 229 in gender, 44 in age group. 6:31 avg pace.
31824 finishers. Clock splits: 38:49 for 10K (6:15 avg), 1:22:52 for HM (6:19 avg), 2:08:28 for 20 mi (6:25 avg).

-- Tom Meyer