Looking back at it, I must have been the easiest mark. As the attractive brunette woman approached me, my bag bulging with posters, t-shirts, and assorted sports drinks, her question was obvious, “Are you running the marathon on Sunday?”
“Yes.” I replied, hoping for some praise and, perhaps, some social interaction the following week.
“I’m not running this year, but I have before.” she said. “Let me give you just one piece of advice—you’re going to have a blast!”
And with that she walked away, having dispensed her wisdom and not her phone number. As the first Sunday in November approaches, I think back on that moment in 1992 and reflect on why I ever ran 20 marathons, 14 of them New York.
In the summer of 1991 my father died. During the race that year, one of the 25,000 runners stood out, a man in his mid-40’s plodding firmly along in the middle of the pack. His t-shirt read, “In memory of my son Michael,” and in the center a picture of a young man, probably no older than 20. Having turned 26 that year, only one thought came through my mind. If he could do that for his son, then I could do it in memory of my father.
The ludicrousness of this plan amused my friends and family alike. I’m a decent enough athlete, but nobody would have even joked that I would run a marathon. This was made abundantly clear by my brother who, after surgery, overheard me mentioning to my mother that I had gotten into the race. The following day, still lying in his hospital bed, he asked, “Was it the morphine or did you really say you were going to run the marathon?”
I finished that first marathon in agony from a knee injury and twenty minutes slower than my predicted time. But walking back home in the November twilight, I heard the crowd roaring. Surrounded by a coalition of supporters, a frail, bearded runner was shuffling his way along the final few miles. The man was the founder of the race, Fred Lebow. Cancer was ravaging his body, but he was determined to run this course, the one he created, at least once. If you can’t get inspiration from watching that, perhaps you don’t have a pulse. And interestingly, if it hadn’t been for that bum knee I would have finished sooner and missed the whole thing. Between that random t-shirt and a nagging injury, I was starting to get some interesting messages about marathons.
So why did I run those races? Suffice it to say I knew I wasn’t going to win. My money is always on some fast, skinny African coming in first (and second, third and fourth for that matter). Was it to be in good health? Of course. In memory of my father, and to commemorate the spirit of Fred Lebow? Sure. But still, why?
As it turns out, on marathon day runners become The King of New York, and the people do everything to help. And in return, I gave everything I had over 26.2 miles to thank them.
As befits royalty, the streets are closed off. Legions line the streets cheering on the thousands of runners streaming by. Toward the end, the crowds clap, cajole, and convince you that yes, the finish line was almost there. After the race, a smiling volunteer, in the best Olympic tradition, places a finisher’s medal around your neck and then wraps you up in a fashionable-for-a-day silver Mylar blanket. Complete strangers, eying my stiff post-race gait and ambulating baked potato look, come up and congratulate me. Even my regular bartender buys me drinks. Who wouldn’t put in the time and training for this treatment? Who wouldn’t want to return year after year?
So if you are part of the crowds on Sunday, or just watching on TV, know this. Those grimaces of pain on the runners’ faces and looks of exhaustion are all real. But at the end of the race, everyone has a blast.
© 2023 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.
