“And lastly, off the record, I’m really curious about how your makeup is still incredible after a marathon.”
And that was all I needed to make the mile-long zombie walk from the finish line back down to Columbus Circle bearable. I had just completed a marathon and a reporter from the Huffington Post not only interviewed me, but told me I looked amazing.
Ten hours earlier, I had hit the STOP button on my alarm and jolted out of bed. Of course I was doing my makeup—one doesn’t run the biggest race of her life, as a visitor in her old stomping grounds, without a fresh face of makeup.
I threw on my Goodwill fleece and “A Christmas Story” themed Youth XL pajama pants and called an Uber. A short ride over to the NY Public Library and the hurry-up-and-wait game officially began. I arrived at 5:30AM, was herded through a block of similarly sloppily dressed runners and boarded a bus at 6:00. We had an hour’s drive ahead of us to Staten Island—there’s no way I was going to miss this chance for some extra ZzzZzzs.
I arrived at 7:00AM and I wasn’t scheduled to start until 9:50AM. I figured I had some time to kill. I grabbed a bagel and the smallest cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee I’d ever seen. I ponied up to a piece of curb right next to a man wearing badly stained college sweats sitting on a piece of cardboard. I marveled at the crowds…all these 50,000 people were running…either that or I was in a bad dream that looked eerily similar to the tent cities of San Francisco.
It wasn’t long before my friend and running inspiration
Matt arrived. We waxed poetic about following our dreams. We started to plan our next running adventure.
We noticed the SEA of people running towards the exit of the food zone when I thought out loud, “what are they running for?” The large announcement screen shuffled through about 15 languages before settling on English and reading: “9:50 Start Corrals CLOSE IN FIVE MINUTES.” Wuh-oh—that was me and I had to pee AND find where I was supposed to go.
No worries, I could pee fast. A fellow runner was none too pleased when I asked him to cut. I tore off my throw away fleece and by the time I made it to my corral—it was closed. A race volunteer suggested we try the next corral over and a few of late comers squeezed in just in time.
In a stroke of luck, this corral held Emily, another runner friend. I was ecstatic to start the race with her. We chatted on the long walk from the corral to the start line…we peed (again) between busses. I bid her adieu as the starting gun went off.
I'm really sad I ditched that free Dunkin Donut beanie everyone's wearing.
Here we go. I had planned to run without headphones and started off with nothing more than a long sleeved tee and a phone on airplane mode in my short’s pocket.
I started up the Verrazano Bridge. Wow. Not a cloud in sight. I looked to the left, grateful to be on the upper level and saw the Statue of Liberty and southern Manhattan. “Oh. My. God. I have to run to there.” (Ok, not all the way down there but close enough.)
The bridge has a bad reputation, but SF’s hilly trails had me well prepared and before I knew it, a stranger stood on a corner and yelled “You’re in Brooklyn NOW!"
I can’t remember much of Brooklyn. I remember being fast. I remember telling myself to slow down. I remember thinking “the crowds really let you know which neighborhoods you’re in.” From the Hasidic Jews to the brownstones to the Mexican flags, I knew where I was every step of the way. My favorite random cheerleader yelled “Andale Chiquita!” and I felt right at home—yeah, in Brooklyn.
Thirteen miles later and I reached the foot of the Pulaski Bridge. I saw a sign held high. “Wow, that person’s bib has the same last four numbers as me.” And then, “wow, who else in this race goes by Sel?” And then, “oh! That sign’s for me and that’s Nurse Susie!” The school nurse from my old school stood on the median and shouted my name when our eyes met.
“Welcome to Queens!” yelled a sideline cheerleader.
“Don’t start crying, don’t start crying.”
I was home. I was in Queens. I had only two short miles here, but managed to see throngs of friends. My old roommate; former students and their families; a sorority sister. I stopped and hugged each of them, grateful for their support.
At the foot of the Queensboro Bridge, the sound was deafening. On the Queensboro Bridge, a resounding stomp-stomp-stomp and pant-pant-pant was all that could be heard.
Turning off Queensboro and onto First Avenue in Manhattan was like meeting another wall of sound. So. Many. People. And one long climb up to the Bronx. I spotted my best friend and her boyfriend by the big gold star balloon she had purchased, and I had seen, the night before.
I didn’t need headphones. The constant cheers, the yelling of my name and the occasional “Go Eagle!,” kept me going. The stranger passing out little sandwich baggies filled with a dark liquid caught my eye. “Coca?” I called out. “Oh si!” She responded and passed me a bag. It’s the one time I’ve taken something from a stranger—and it happened in the streets of New York.
The Bronx wasn’t as awful as others had warned. Yes, it was quieter, but only in very short spurts. I managed to catch the Team RWB Cheer Zone here, and it was a welcome push for leaving the Bronx and heading into Manhattan for the last five miles.
Oh God. My feet finally started throbbing. My big toe had been pushing against my toe box the entire race. It was finally getting sunny and warm. I wouldn’t say I “hit the wall,” but I was looking forward to being done.
And finally, the meter countdown flags came. A final push. And there it was. The finish line. I could quite make out what my finish time was—each wave had a clock and in my post-marathon haze, I couldn’t make anything clear. I was herded through medaling, nutrition bags and foil sheets. I was interviewed by someone from the Huffpost and made a new friend. Everything was cold and foggy. But I had perfect makeup.
I don't want to pay for this photo, and I probably should.
I turned on my phone and received a barrage of “Congratulations!” and “Impressive time!” texts from people who had been live tracking me. Woah. 04:20:37. I was a two-time marathoner.
I zombie walk out of Central Park and met a friend who laughed as I struggled to stretch at the top of the subway entrance. He laughed even harder as I painfully shuffled down the stairs and gingerly sat on the platform’s bench.
“I’m so hungry!” I cried out. He pulled a chocolate donut out of his backpack and said, “Congratulations, Shambles” (an old nickname of mine).
The goal was to run. The goal was to finish with pride and strength. The goal was to celebrate New York. And I met every goal. That night, my cheerleaders--my New York family--joined me at the bar to eat, drink and be merry. I could ride that “I just ran a marathon,” thing for a few weeks now.
The day would not have been possible without the following people:
Melida—for housing me in a lovely one-bedroom apartment in Queens.
My NY Crew—Saira, Jenna, Ryan, PJ, Josh, Erika, Jayson, Nia, Max, Yvonne, Dominic, Yury, Luna, Nurse Susie and Alex.
My International Crew—Team RWB San Francisco, Teresa, Luann, Kirsten, Room 6 & their substitute teacher Zena, and Gamma Phi Beta’s Presentation Team.
Coming up—things I wish I had known before running this race.
