My First Marathon: New York

A marathon, like life, contains euphoric highs and debilitating lows. It has moments that test your resolve, moments where you’re on autopilot, and everything in between. 

It's 26.2 miles of self revelation. Although the finish line is the ultimate destination, the New York Marathon was all about the journey.

Ralph Waldo Emerson’s words resonated within me as I boarded my Megabus late in the afternoon on Friday, November 1st.

Marathon weekend was starting early for me and I was excited to get a taste of New York City before resting up and racing through its streets. During the bus ride, I voraciously read through the middle portion of Liz Robbins’ book “A Race Like No Other;” an in depth look at the New York Marathon and the eclectic cast of runners that make this such a fascinating race. 

I read about the Hassidic Jewish community of Williamsburg, the Polish section of the Queens, the boisterous charisma of the Bronx, the EPCOT-like vibe of the starting line, and the nostalgia that would inevitably occur each moment I heard the song "New York, New York" from that moment on. 

Minutes after reading about the astounding diversity of the race, we entered New York City and our charismatic driver was heard over the speakers. 

“Any Jews in the house?” He said. “You got it, I’m a Puerto Rican Jew! Welcome to New York!” 

A testament to the diversity of this city and this race.

The first few days of my trip to New York were a whirlwind. I went to my friend (and host for the weekend) Megan’s work party at a PR firm in New York, experienced a bit of the Brooklyn nightlife, slept like a baby, enjoyed some New York pizza, and roamed around the marathon expo to start things off.

Saturday night was the USTA Serves team pasta dinner at the Hyatt. Here, we’d meet our team for the first time, enjoy some quality carb-loading pasta,  and share marathon stories and expectations. The atmosphere was not that of a locker room before a big game, but that of new friends who were about to wake up early and embark on a trip together. 

There were no nerves or tension. Just genuine excitement for the race to come. From Dorothy’s movie recommendation of “The Spirit of the Marathon” (which I watched later that night) to Lee’s tales of his 11 marathons. I was feeling inspired. I wasn’t concerned with the grueling physical test that the marathon would present in the morning. I was more enthralled with and intrigued by the sociological aspect of the race. The crowds, the diversity, the international cast of runners, the constantly changing dynamic of the course.

That night after watching “Spirt of the Marathon” I tossed and turned and slept on and off, but woke up in time to leave the apartment in plenty of time to catch my 5:45AM Ferry. Of course, I can't forget my gear!

The journey begins. 

I strap on my vibrams, down some black coffee and oatmeal and head out for what promises to be a memorable day. Since the bars in New York City close at 4AM, I caught a few late night stragglers. As I waited for the L train in a dazed state of feeling in my element, a drunk hipster sat next to me. “I dare you to get that shovel on the other side of the station. I DARE you!” He slurred, while hiccuping and telling me how Jewish his friend is. I was affable despite the time and humored this hipster in his drunken stupor.

At the next transfer, I met Nick, an Englishman running his third marathon of the year. We shared Power Bars while he regaled me with marathon stories from earlier this year. He had a twinge in his knee from pounding the Chicago course and was a bit apprehensive about how it would hold up in this marathon. He’s a retired ski instructor living and working in Denver and with his sprightly, positive demeanor, he’s expected to run a time much faster than my own.

We headed towards South Ferry. I talked to a Nova Scotian who expected a 3:19 pace. In between his “oots” and “aboots” he realized that he left his Garmin and energy gels back at the previous station. He was not happy. I talked to a few recreational Mom-esque runners in their 40s who could tell by my questions that I was a first time marathoner.

The sun hit the snooze button and darkness still enveloped Staten Island Ferry.

Thanks to my new British ski instructor friend from Colorado with the 3:30 pace, I even got some photos of myself on the ferry! The anticipation was mounting and I was beginning to feel lost in the moment.

After I arrived, I met up with Erin (one of my teammates) and we excitedly boarded the crowded bus and headed to our starting village. We talked with fellow runners about everything from marathoning experiences to peeing off of the Verrazano bridge. After a winding, warm bus ride, our fatigue hit us. We were tired. The adrenaline hadn’t kicked in yet and we were feeling the effects of such an early morning.

Various languages were heard from the speakers in regards to the start villages. The slightly familiar harshness of the German language, the sing-songy Japanese vernacular, and of course, the Spanish and Italian. Erin and I strolled through the villages, in awe of the Dunkin Donuts hats everyone was sporting.

The start village was a frigid blur of a moment, filled with anticipation. As I downed my coffee and stretched my quads in the starting gate, I struck up conversation with a few dad-aged marathoners about Florida marathons, Garmins, and expectations. Time to head to the starting line. We shed our first layer of clothes, donating them to goodwill as we trekked to the starting line. As I shivered forward a cannon went off. There goes the elite women’s runners.

An obsessive compulsive female runner stood next to me as we made our way towards the starting line. “Is my number straight?” She asked. “How about now, is it crooked?” “My boyfriend runs marathons! I run with Ethiopians” She exclaimed as she got lost in the moment and told me all about her dream 3:29 pace for the race. She was ready. As she coated herself with bodyglide, I could tell, her mind was nowhere else. She was set to break her personal record.

I stood, ready to go. Sporting my Nike running gloves and my shirt, which read “Justin – Team USTA Serves” on the front and “10SNE1?” on the back. A pun to our great cause. 

After the introduction of the elite runners, the signature song of the New York Marathon came booming out of the speakers. Frank Sinatra, booming out of the amplifiers, stating that “If I can make it here, I’ll make it anywhere, it’s up to you…”  Runners shed clothing, fist pumped, gestured to the flag-waving audience at the start and sang along to the song. The anticipation was undeniable. 

It’s up to me. It’s up the New York crowd to keep me energized and alive. Time to hit the Verrazano bridge.

A helicopter whizzed in the distance as I set off on my 7:45 pace in my vibrams, gliding across the bridge, careful not to kick it into full gear too early. As we eased into Brooklyn, the crowd, as expected took on its own life form.

A Drum Corps confidently pounded away and spectators reached their hands out for high fives. “Come on Justin! You got this Justin!” They yell as we cruise past (since my name was on my shirt), still confident in the early pace we’ve set for ourselves. I had a lot of energy, so I made sure to give those who shouted my name a proper acknowledgement.

The volume increased, the speed picked up, the street bands rocked on, and before we knew it, we were deep into Brooklyn. My indigestion was in full gear once we approached the Hassidic Jewish community of Williamsburg. I felt heavy and full, yet I was cruising at around an 8 minute pace. I remember my first bout of panic struck when I heard other runners in casual conversation while I was struggling to regulate my body chemistry. “What does this have in store for me for the rest of the race?”

The transition to Queens was seamless, and honestly, quite a blur. I don’t remember Queens. What was Queens? I remember clutching my power bar and chomping at it in fear that my glycogen levels were dangerously low. I remember people watching in Williamsburg as Hasidic Jewish families went about their day to day lives while I felt my breakfast coming up early on in the race. I remember a slightly Polish scenario in Greenpoint as I approached the half marathon marker. I remember cries of BLIND RUNNER COMING THROUGH when I haphazardly dragged myself across the center of the Pulaski Bridge. Queens was a blur, but the Queensboro bridge was clear as day.

This was when I first considered stopping and stretching out. My pace slowed and the crowd died out. Other runners, devoid of the crowd provided energy, stopped to catch their breath, stretch their calves, and take a moment to regain their strength. It’s a dark and lonely stretch on the bridges, and its moments like this that test your metal fortitude.

I remember what Lee, one of my teammates said at dinner the night before. “Once you get over that bridge, it will blow you away.” I kept the Christmas morning-like anticipation alight within me as I trudged along the bridge, and it was all worth it. 

The crowd erupted as we entered Manhattan and I felt like a pseudo running celebrity. I waved to the crowd and smiled as I kept my composure and rounded the corner, painfully aware of the long journey I had ahead of me while blissfully rejoicing in the crowd energy. You can really see it at around the 1:30 mark of this video.

Around mile 18-19 marked the toughest point of the race. I’ve come so far but knew I had so much left to go. In all my training runs, I knew how to feel. I knew the end was near. But here, the end was nowhere in sight. 

The crowd was amazing though. In all its youthful, creative, loud and boisterous exuberance, they enabled me to fight past the fatigue and shuffle my feet, taking it one mile at a time. I stepped on sponges, ingested power gels, fought off dry heaving, and kept shuffling towards the Willis Street Bridge.

This was the moment of truth. Between miles 19 and 20 is when the wall establishes itself in full force.

The white architecture of the Willis St. Bridge combined with my own fatigue provided an interesting optical illusion, making me think that I was about to pass out. I shrugged it off, but my body heaved. I dry heaved and cramped up simultaneously. Fortunately, this enraged me a bit and triggered my adrenaline, so I entered the Bronx with a new vomit adrenaline infused life. I waved as I saw myself on the big screen. 6 more miles!

The transition into the Bronx was much needed. The energy was as proud as it was rambunctious. It was a distinctive “Welcome to the Bronx” attitude as the DJ enthusiastically welcomed us down into the borough, past the Madison Ave Bridge and into Manhattan. 

“How about a shout out to everyone comin’ down the bridge!!!” He said into his microphone. I was nearing the wall, dragging my feet, simply trying to keep up with the guy in front of me.

My casual, haphazard drink station stops now turned into a necessity as I stopped to a slow jog to chug Gatorade. I felt high maintenance as I denied someone who tried to enthusiastically hand me Gatorade. “No, no, water! I want water!” I shouted.

It’s a straight stretch to Central Park. About 5K to go, yet I only feel as though I’ve only reached the half way point. I shuffle past Marcus Garvey Park as spectators shout my name. “Stay strong Justin!” “You go this Justin!” “Come on Justin, only a few more miles!” The enthusiastic wave in which I greeted them with in Brooklyn has been replaced with an exhausted exasperated hand raise. Yeah, I hear you loud and clear.

I still feel full. My legs are heavy, my stomach is heaving. My face is in a permanent grimace. I’m on the verge of tears due to the sheer exertion of it all.

As I turn the corner into Central Park, the crowd energizes me a bit. I begin to think I can finish this race. Around mile 24 the crowd is deafening but my fatigue is prominent. 

They cheer my name, I drag my feet at around an 8:40 pace. Mentally tough runners pass me by. Exhausted runners exasperatedly walk. A few stretch out their tired calf muscles, Others are sprawled out in the grass, attended to by a medical staff. Delirious, drooling and completely exhausted. I didn’t want to be one of them.

I went on. Mile 25. I thought of my friends. It would be nice to see them after I finished! This last mile or so was the longest of the entire race. The stage was set, the crowd was loud, I saw the finish line. My stomach started to seize up again. Someone at the line shouted “It’s Justin from USTA!? This energized me the slightest bit.

I finished at the 3:49 mark.

My legs felt raw and heavy. Remember the scene in Rocky where Rocky pounds raw meat in the meat packing plant? Well, my legs felt like that meat. I was sore, shaking, stumbling and delirious. I took my medal and posed for this surprisingly normal looking picture.

A month or so before the race, I asked my aunt what it was like to finish. I couldn’t imagine the state of my body or my mind after running such a distance. She simply said “…you cry.” Surprisingly I didn’t see a lot of runners crying. As for me, I had a few moments during the race where I wanted to. Miles 17-24 were particularly painful and borderline emotional. 

But the moment I sat down to let the emotion of the race wash over me shortly after the finish line, the red cross staff rushed over to me. “Are you ok? Are you cramping? Do you need help? You can’t sit down, you’ll cramp up!” They were carefully herding us like exhausted cattle across Central Park.

My head was spinning, my face was raw, and I limped around covered in my “cape” as a guy shouted monotonously through a megaphone “Wow. 26.2 miles. That’s amazing. I can only run about 3 miles. While watching TV. And you guys didn’t even have a TV. Wow.”

I limped on and met up with my friends Megan (from home) and Meredith and Karen (from Prague). I didn’t see them during the race, but they made these great signs for me! No, Meredith didn't misspell my name. It's some sort of Czech vocative tense. 

Afterwards, we went to Starbucks, headed back to Megans, made friendly marathon small talk to my fellow caped runners walking around the city, and went to a Czech restaurant for dinner. Unfortunately, I was unable to eat or drink anything, but it was a sentimental way to close out an extremely memorable day.  

After drinking ginger tea, lounging around, and going to bed at 9:30 like an old man, I woke up early and went to the USTA Serves/Women's Sports Foundation team breakfast at the Hilton  Midtown. 

Here, we had breakfast with Kathrine Switzer: The 1974 New York Marathon winner and the first woman to run in the Boston marathon as a numbered entry. For all you tennis fans out there, she's basically the Billie Jean King of women's running. The food was great, and I made sure to stack my plate 3 times. 

Kathrine was very engaging and curious about our marathon experiences. We talked a lot about the sociological aspect of the marathon, the impact of the crowd, hitting "the wall," our future running plans (I decided running marathons is the perfect excuse for me to travel) and of course, strategic ways to relieve yourself mid-race when you've had a little too much water and gatorade.  Here is a picture with me, some members of the Women's Sports Foundation team, and Kathrine (second from left). 

 I didn't sport the medal that morning for fear of being "that guy." I thought it was a little ostentatious and that nobody else would be doing it. I was wrong. "That guy" was all over New York. Runners limped around and wore their medals with pride. I felt a twinge of sympathy as I watched medal-sporting tourists struggling to walk up stairs or into subways. I sported the medal while waiting for a bus and 2 people immediately struck up conversations with me and another foreign tourist took a photo of me and the medal. Man, I should've worn that medal all day. 

As I took my Bolt Bus home and delved back into "A Race Like No Other" I had some time to reflect.

Nothing captures the human experience quite like a marathon.  And no course seems akin to my life more than that of New York. The energizing diversity, constant changes and well calculated moments of solitude all resonated with me and my life decisions in my 20s so far. 

It was truly a memorable experience and I can't wait to do more. I'm already considering Nashville next April and possibly Chicago next Fall. I even mentioned something to Kathrine about running a marathon that she's organizing in Mallorca! 

But who knows. Like the dynamic of the New York Marathon, you can't always guess what's next and exactly how it will affect you. All we can do is make it memorable. Here's to a great first marathon and more races to come!