P: ING NYC Marathon Over!

Before:

26.2 miles of this: (click for detailed course map)

After! (...and never again)

Almost too exhausted to post the blow-by-blow of the race; suffice it to say, I ran the whole thing, and it was at first the most adrenaline-pumping, exciting thing ever; then it quickly became the most exhausting chore I ever voluntarily forced upon myself. Am I glad I did it? Hell's yeah! Will I ever do it again? Hell's no! Sorry, Annie, but I'm going to have to renege that earlier (tentative) promise to run the Miami Marathon with you in January.

Mile 1-2: The foot of the Verrazano Bridge in Staten Island. The wind is fierce, I can't feel my toes, there's a steep incline on the bridge (and all subsequent bridges), but it doesn't matter--I am PUMPED! There's so much energy from the rush of people, that I can't even tell I'm running uphill. Thankfully the start times are staggered, and I don't have to dodge any slow people as I was running. I hit my stride right from the start, without wasting precious energy stop-starting. However, I definitely went too fast out of the gate, without realizing it--I kept trying to run faster to catch up with different groups, because it was super windy when I was caught running alone on stretches of the bridge.

Miles 3-8: Brooklyn! This was THE most fun part of the race. Right after we got off the bridge, there were people of the Bay Ridge variety with signs saying Welcome to Brooklyn! The Bay Ridgers gave way to the Sunset Park types, and then once I got to ~20th St on 4th Ave, it was all hipsters, straight on, for the next few miles. Had a brief outer body experience, where I stepped back and evaluated just what the hell is going on: Ohmigod! This is MY city, and I'm running it! Hot damn!

Mile 7: Jessi, Colin, and Diane spotting! Yay! They were waiting near the McDonald's. First added boost of energy. Although I was tempted to take them up on the offer to quit the race and go get some Big Macs. I would continue to think about this through the remaining 19 miles of the race.

Mile 8-9: Once I crossed Atlantic Ave, my energy started to dip a bit. I had my name pinned to my shirt, so people were shouting out "Patty! You can do it!" "You go girl!" "Only 18 miles to go!" and that was cool, but I was starting to get tired. I was too quick out of the gate, which for me was a 9, 9.5min mile. Plus I'm running into ghetto downtown Brooklyn, so that holds no charm.

Mile 9: Nice surprise--I see a colleague on the sidelines, shouting my name! She snaps my pic. Energy slightly renewed.

Several spectators have signs like: "17 miles until beer!" I wondered if there would be kegs waiting for us at the finish line.

Mile 9-10: Ghetto-ish part of Clinton Hill that bleeds into W-burg. Pass the street of one of my hair-pullingly frustrating authors. Get agitated thinking re how he dicked me over after I got him on his first national TV interview. Energy dips.

Mile 10-11: Hipster sightings. People are tailgating on their stoops or balcony windows. Someone above shouts my name. Wonder if I might chance upon Damien, his Israeli boyfriend and his W-burg posse. (Nope.)

Miles 12: The race is officially starting to suck. My feet are starting to collapse a bit, my knees are starting to ache, my hips and back are faltering. Remind myself how desolate Greenpoint is. Enter Queens--ditto LIC. What's up with my hometown borough? There's no love. Not much in the way of spectators, who are keeping me afloat. Cross the Pulaski Bridge--apparently the Polish embassy gives you some kind of award for crossing the bridge. Think to self: would it be so wrong if I just ran 3 of the 5 boroughs?

Mile: 13.1: My half-marathon time is about where I want to be: 2hrs, 15min. The "projections" would be a 4hr, 30 min marathon at that pace. However, I know I'll also be infintitely more tired for the latter half of the marathon, so I figure I can tack on an extra minute or two per mile, which would put me in the 4hr, 45min range. Continue to cling to the hope that I'll run the whole thing in under 5hrs.

I literally run into Hat, this guy on my college golf team. He's shouting my name from the sidelines. What a pleasant surprise! He's there with his Korean-Jewish girlfriend. I wonder how many other random people I might chance to meet along the course?

Mile 14: I hit my first mental wall. Ohmigod, I want to start to die. You mean I have at least 2 more hours of running? More likely 3? I have no energy. I curse the fact that I only got 4hrs of sleep the night before, and the fact that I had only 3 spoonfuls of oatmeal in the morning, and that I didn't carbo-load the night before. I'd been pretty conservative about drinking water at the stations--I would only rinse my mouth, making taking one quick sip. The Gatorade I could barely drink--it kept leaving a nasty taste in my mouth whilst running. I need energy. I hesitate for a moment, and then I'm like F* this-- I run into a little bodega along the course, grab a can of Coke from the refrigerator, make an apologetic face to the clerk--"Sorry, I need--I'm running--Sugar" is all I manage to eek out, before he gives a reluctant nod--then I jog back into the race while sipping the Coke. Damnit, Coke has never tasted so good in my life. I jog the next half-mile with the can in my hands, sipping as I run. I tell myself that these calories are good for me. I worry that people will stare at me funny as they see me running and drinking a Coke. Like, they think I'm taking it easy, filling up my body with the crap kind of nutrients. Like I'm an imposter runner. Then I think- F* that--these people haven't just put themselves through this torture!

Miles 15-16: One of the speakers at the foot of the Queensboro Bridge is blasting out the Gorillaz's "Feel Good." As I am without an ipod, I am relying on all street sounds to distract me from giving up. I get an extra burst of energy. But...goddamnit the Queensboro Bridge is long! And windy. And hilly. This part of the course goes from an elevation of zero (nearly sea level) to almost 150. My arches in my feet have collapsed--I ignore the throbbing pain. Morgan and her mom are waiting at mile 17--how dumb would I look if I'm walking the course when I see them?

Miles 17-18: The UES is awesome! 1st Ave from 59th St to 96 was so pumped. There were tons, TONS of people along the sidelines--a lot of young people. So many people were shouting my name, and they were making eye contact with you, so I felt like I had to keep going on. I was surprised, because there were so many frat guy types and sorority looking girls--I felt like if I ever met them at Mad River or Doc Watsons, they would push past me at the bar, or give me a bitchy look in the bathrooms. Instead they were shouting--at least for that one second--for me!!! Even though it took such an effort even to turn around and smile at them, and acknowledge their cheers. This gave me an extra boost. Also, Morgan and her mom were waiting--as promised-- by the Duane Reade on 75th and 1st. Morgan snapped a photo. After they were out of sight, I slowed down considerably. At this point, I'm hunched over, staring at the ground as I'm shuffling each foot in front of the other. But I'm still running.

Mile 19: The crowds thin out to non-existence after 100th St. My energy plummets.

Miles 20-21: Hit a major wall on the Willis Ave Bridge. I hate the Bronx. All of my horrible associations with riding the train for 2 HOURS EACH WAY to high school come flooding back to me. Also the fact that my feet refuse to lift themselves up. I am shuffling badly. Everything hurts so much. 20 miles is still an accomplishment, right? Why couldn't I just stop right now? On the bridge, my feet stop. It's only for 6 seconds, but they stop. They refuse to keep going. I have no idea how I'm going to get through the next 6 miles. My heart feels fine, but everything south of my lower back is not working.

Someone on the sidelines has a box of tissues, and I grab one. Maybe it's a Pavlovian response to Kleenex, but I start to cry. I am so tired. My body is throbbing in pain. And no one put a gun to my head to make me do this. I cry as I run, which by this point has been reduced to a shuffle-power-walk-run. I cry for 4 seconds, realize any tears running down my cheeks will freeze over from the cold, so I keep going.

There's a guy rapping on the mic-- "Welcome to the Bronx--Welcome to the Bronx!" I love how each neighborhood plays up its "regionalism." Then Lauryn Hill was blasting on the speakers. The only things keeping me going at this point are: how the hell am I going to get home from the Bronx if I stop now? And my cousins waiting for me at mile 23.

I need sugar. Badly. There's a long stretch before I spot any stores, and I run into a Spanish bodega, and a couple of thuggish-looking teenagers are blocking the entrance to the fridge. No no no...I have no energy to spare. Then they see me and say, "What do you need?" "Coke" is all I can manage. "Oh wow, you need Coke for the race?" And they grab a bottle of Coke for me, since I'm so cold and so tired and my hands are shaking from exhaustion. I make another apologetic nod to the store clerk, and the kids hold open the door for me. "Good luck with the race!" they shout. God, I love NYC. This marathon has really made me reevaluate my own faulty stereotypes. I have a corny moment where I briefly forget my aching body and think, "Wow as regional as NYers are, a day like today brings us all together and makes us celebrate our NY heritage!"

Mile 22: Thank God I'm finally back in Manhattan. Crossing the Madison Ave bridge brought such a sigh of exhausted relief. I'm in Harlem now, and just like how a few avenues east and a few blocks down were all White-preppy-young-professionals, here were Black-suited-middle aged-professionals that were cheering on the sidelines. Really, all New Yorkers were out today; my heart swells (momentarily). I pass Marcus Garvey Park--it's beautiful, as are the surrounding brownstones. I've never been in this part of the city before.

Mile 23: Hallelujah! I see my cousins Cathy, Charlotte, Paul, Spencer, and my brother all waiting for me at 96th and 5th. I am so happy to see them. Later Charlotte tells me I was hunched over staring down, and when I saw them I lit up into a bright smile, and then after I pass them I go back to hunching over and staring at the ground.

Someone has a sign "Pain is temporary--Pride is 4-Ever!" Where the hell was that sign 9 miles ago?

Mile 24-26: Final stretch. Try to avoid the streaks of horse manure on the ground--luckily it's been flattened out by the presumably 30,000 other runners who ran the course ahead of me (of course, I later learn it was some 33,000 ahead of me). I'm still running at a slow pace, but it's faster than my pace during miles 19-21. There seem to be a lot of foreigners crowding along Central park South--not surprising. There's also--strangely--an abundance of English male tourists. Groups of them are shouting my name: "Pat-ty, you can do it! One more mile to go!" And when that mellifluous accent, coupled with a pasty complexion, is shouting out your name-- a chorus of voices and faces!--you have no other choice but to oblige. So one more mile I went.

26.2: Holy cow, there are people around me who can see the finish line but they're still walking anyway. At the .1 mark I ignore every ache in my body and sprint like a mo-fo to the finish line. Hallelujah! Ohmigod, I'm done! I never have to do this anymore, ever! Then I realize it took me an EXTRA one hour to complete the second half of the race. That means my time was almost double for the second half than the first half of the race. I am sad about my finish time.

Post-Race: My knees buckle after I cross the starting line, and a volunteer is instantly at my side. "Are you okay?" she asks. She points me to another medic, and he puts my arm over his shoulders and his arm around my waist and leads me to the medical tents. "I'm okay, really, it's just that my knees are really sore," I say. He says, "Well, let's just get some ice for you. Wait, do you want to pose for your picture first?" I do, and while attempting a model pose my knee buckles again. The cameraman and the medic chuckle. "She's trying to strike a pose!" the former says. I too laugh at myself and say: "God, that's what happens when you try to show off!"

Charlie the medic leads me to a stretcher, even though I remind him that he has some 39,999 other people to attend to, but he reassures me it's okay. If you're out there, Charlie, a BIG thank you to you for helping me out--you were awesome!

I get iced up, and I borrow a cell phone to try to find my brother. I was at 72nd and West Dr in the park, and I tell him I'll meet him on 72nd and Broadway. However, they've closed off all of the exits until 77th St. I am freezing cold, especially with the ice packs on my knees. I am so frustrated. It takes me almost a half-hour to exit the park, what with the aches, the ice packs on my knees, the freezing cold, the crowds, the exit blocades... it strikes me as ironic that I run this whole 26.2 mile length, only to have the post-race 7 block distance take longer than my first 5k.

Breakfast/lunch/dinner at a diner on 72nd: I'm not really that hungry. I eat some soup, push around a few forkfuls of spaghetti, before handing over my meal to my cousin, who devours it with flourish. What's wrong with me?

Home: My mother has a hot bath waiting for me. I shower up, then plunge myself into the steaming heat. Afterwards, I wander downstairs and eat a normal-sized Korean meal of rice, kimchi and mandoo. My mother is heating up some chicken stew with peppers for me. When I start to cough--something is tickling my throat and I feel like I'm getting an allergic reaction to something, she says to me, "Do you always eat like that? You just swallow without chewing?" She wrinkled her nose. "Umma, I think I'm allergic to something, my throat is ticklish." Then she says, "Because you not eat Calcium pills before you race, that's why." And THEN she says: "Didn't you already eat dinner? And you eat again?" I say: "Umma, I just ran a whole marathon. You try doing that, and tell me how YOU eat" and I storm out of the kitchen. I make up with my mother later.

My brother noted the other runners ahead of me, including the old grandmas and grandpas and the guy on crutches, all of whom ran faster than me. He said this in the king of loving way that only a brother can. Apparently there was a batgirl, and some raggedy anne twins, but my brother lamented that there was no one dressed as Vader, complete with a sign across his chest saying "My name is Vader." He kept musing about how the Vader costume should have a speaker device jerry-rigged into the chestplate, with pre-recorded sounds for different moments. So when someone passes Vader, he presses a button that says, "The Force is strong with this one," and when he gets tired, he presses a different button that says "Vader is tired." For whatever reason, my brother delivers this with a German accent. Since he's been giving this so much thought, I tell my brother he should be the one running around in this costume. "No way," he says. "I can't even run 2 miles at this point." Then he goes on about an oxygen tank, and the head piece, and....

10pm: Pass out. And...scene.