So here’s the graph I’ve constructed based on the times given to me via the email alerts. The first section just gave the average time at each 5km point, but from 16 miles onwards I’ve worked out the exact pace per mile.
It peaks between 16 and 17 miles probably because at that point we’d just come out of the awful Queensboro Bridge and morale came flooding back just to be out in the open.
You can see my “sprint” finish which happened sometime after 25 miles, on top of a slightly faster mile just before that. The slight slow-down once in sight of the finish line is also visible!
Not impressed with a 11.5 minute mile sprint? OK, YOU try speeding up after that long when your calves feel like they are in a vice being squeezed by the Incredible Hulk!
I wanted to capture my whole marathon story and publish it, as much for me as for anyone else. I’ve broken it down into sections to make it easier to post and read. There’s a lot to tell so if you really want to live through all my twists and turns, heartaches and joy, then take a seat, grab a drink and get ready for a marathon read in more ways than one…
The Quick Decision
Steve phones out of the blue and tells me he’s got a place in this year’s New York Marathon via his work if he wants it. Would I want to do it too? Completely un-Andy-like, I make a snap decision and agree. Before I know it, I’m looking on the web to see the best way to get in. Within two days, I’m booked and confirmed. Do I know what I’ve let myself in for?
I made the decision because I wanted a challenge. With most of my life just ticking over as normal and nothing much on the horizon, this could be something to kick start me. Also, it’s a great time to commit to something like this, in all but work. I didn’t know whether I could really do it, but was about to find out.
Training Begins
After researching schedules, getting new gear, dusting down the treadmill that had once promised a new fitness regime, it was time to put one foot in front of the other and get down to business. How far could I push it and how soon?
Disaster 1
My shins spend two weeks in constant pain after a three mile run on concrete. Confidence is shattered and I feel hopeless, useless and pathetic. The road to 26.2 miles stretches out before me like a poisonous snake, haven taken its first bite and leaving me scurrying off to lick my wounds.
Recovery and strengthening
The frustration of rest flows into the relief of recovery. Little by little I make my comeback and start to feel like a proper runner. Soon, I’m clocking sixes and even an eight with a bad hangover from an indulgent night out in Cambridge. With months to go, I’m looking good.
Disaster 2
My optimism lies shattered around me as I can only hold to a few small shards of hope. One hard run led me to knee problems that I cannot shake. Weeks fly by but the pain lingers. I watch friends with envy as they take up running, turning down numerous requests to join them. I feel the doubt surround me, suffocate me. Sponsors hesitate, family and friends look on with understanding in their eyes, almost waiting for the inevitable. I will not quit, though, and stand defiant. I see two specialists and a doctor and I start my exercise regime. Alcohol: none shall pass my lips until the marathon is done. I dig deep and believe. Slowly, I am rewarded.
Peaking
My new schedule is strong and so am I. Weekly mileage ticks into twenties then thirties. I pound the dark, leafy streets on my own with the moon high and breath misty. I recite my mantra and push on and on. A half marathon brings clenching fists and defiant yells. The snake will be tamed.
I learn to run through pain, and pile on further exercises. The race is coming too soon, though. Only fifteen is reached, and that at a struggle. If only for more time! A practise race, and the preparation is almost done. New York looms as I stride around with an air of confidence to lure in more sponsors. Bet on me - this boy doesn’t quit, you know.
T minus four days
4:30am: The journey that will take to me glory or despair starts with a simple, irritating buzzer from my alarm clock. I grab a few last-minute items and open the curtains, hoping that the blanket of white that unexpectedly descended last night has melted during my brief time asleep. My friend T pulls up, slightly late, scrubbing snow off his windscreen as I bundle my case in the boot.
Sunrise comes over the M25 and soon we reach Heathrow where I’m dropped off with a manly good luck ringing in my ears. I check in, wander round the terminal for a while and go through security with ease. The flight was overbooked and the plane had to be down-sized, so an offer was on the cards for a later flight. I decline, not wanting another complication to worry about. Boarding starts but pauses as the queue builds up and the stalling excuses pour out from the tannoys. Behind schedule, I finally get aboard and take my seat. Two Irish girls next to me take out some plans and discuss details - marathon runners too, and judging from the trainers of others, like many people on the flight. After a movie and some writing, we land.
Security takes ages, and when I finally get through, the carousel is empty. Panic begins to build. A porter points to a lone, sad case sitting a few yards away, apologising that it’s the last. No matter, it’s mine. I take it and eventually stumble my way to the monorail and trains to take me to Steve’s house in Long Island, my home whilst I’m here.
I see the kids and try to dig out my silly, playful side. It takes a while to get used to being in a world of Thomas the Tank Engine, Elmo and pirates, but I eventually adjust. Soon, I am as transfixed by Dora the Explorer as they are. Steve comes home and the talk of the marathon begins. After eating and sleeping it for months, communicating via email and phones it’s good to hear the hopes and fears in person. We’ll be fine, I’ll tell him, as we slope off for pizza.
T minus three days
The city awaits. The day is cool but clear; almost perfect Manhattan weather. I grab a train in, have lunch on the run and follow the instructions downtown to Steve’s offices. I go past the World Trade Centre site, and remember what was there, when I went up them in ‘98. Now, it’s just a big building site, but memories of that tragic day are everywhere. I meet with him and we buy some Gu - energy gels for the race. Could be our saviour. I do a bit more shopping and wander outside, hoping to get some photos. The Statue of Liberty greets me from afar, side on, and I walk along the riverside to get the best views. I set up various shots and have some pleasing results. This is nice, very relaxing, what I do best on my own on Manhattan. Thoughts of the marathon and how I might do fill my head. As often, my mind wanders to my future and what might become. As always, answers are never close to hand. A chill comes into the air as the sun threatens to invade New Jersey’s skyline for the umpteenth time. I cannot wait until sunset to capture its colours, so I head back to meet Steve.
We make our way to the Marathon Expo to pick up our numbers and check everything out. Organisation is near perfect, and after a few commemorative shots of us with our numbers we go to the travel section. Result! We get our buses changed to the seven o’ clock Staten Island ferry. Given that I was officially due to a) be somewhere different to Steve and b) be there at 4am - a full 6 hours before the race start - this is a major relief and maybe a significant factor tomorrow. More good news follows as Steve’s Team for Kids organisers sneak me in on their list. VIP all round it’s not, but I’m told in comparison to Ordinary Joe, this will help in my marathon experience.
We pick up the usual freebies, take some photos, buy some gear (not that we would be advised to wear anything new) and head off to a BBQ dinner place happy that everything is official.
T minus two days
You can’t go to New York without shopping, so I spend most of the day at the Mall. Easier than Manhattan, and with a good choice too, a few hours are spent on my feet. Is this good preparation? My legs and feet ache as I wonder how many miles I’ve covered today. I eat a Subway (why did I go for a spicy sauce?) and decide to kill a few hours at the cinema. I plump for something I assume to be brain-dead: Max Payne. I expect lots of action but instead get a crappy fantasy whodunnit. Two other people in the cinema witness this disaster. Lesson learned, (watch something you know should be good!) I trudge off and get picked up for home.
I come back to find that I missed the kids at Halloween trick-or-treating. Homeowners compete with each other with displays of ghosts and pumpkins. Orange and white fill the night.
The first part of our pasta-loading takes place in a local restaurant, so I eat plenty. More and more go in until I am full. And then I eat some ice cream. Still no beer; that will come in 48 hours!!!!
T minus one day
Things are bad. Things are extremely bad. I think I overloaded on the pasta last night, so by early hours I’m awake and in pain. My bowels are loosening and the bile keeps rising in my mouth as I fear the worst. I curse at being ill in someone’s house and wish I was back home, but it’s coming and I have no choice. A 2am trip to the bathroom leaves me feeling there’s more suffering to come. Will this jeopardise my run? Thoughts fly round my head of a recent conversation with Si’s dad who said he’d ended up in an ambulance after running a race soon after being ill. Months of preparation, of conquering injury, and now 35 hours before the race a dodgy piece of chicken or prawn was about to undo it all?!! 4am and 5am visits compounded the misery. I may have a decision to make.
Things improve slightly after taking some medicine and resting. We are booked to see an inspirational marathon movie and a pre-race pasta party in the city with Steve’s company. Great. I feel sick just thinking about it. However, I know to wallow in my own pity is to prolong the agony and delay the recovery, so I force myself to go. My fuel tank reads empty; I know I have no option but to fill up or ship out.
Popcorn layers my stomach and is added to with half a plate of plain pasta. I ignore incredulous noises from the chefs when declining the seemingly delicious pasta sauce, but safety is the word of the moment. I eat enough to hopefully keep it down but to get the needle back out of red. Is it enough, though?
The party is low-key but positive. The stories are flying, some promising, some worrying. We dash off home to go over the final few details. I realise my sickness has diverted my mind off of running and tomorrow, so maybe that wasn’t such a good thing. Plans finished, kit laid out, alarm clock set, I silently wish for an event-free night and a fresh start tomorrow. We’re suddenly into not months, not weeks, nor days but hours to go. Just need to turn up and start running.
In the house
No sooner had I put my head down after midnight, then my phone’s alarm woke me up. 4:30am: Game Time. A quick physical check appears to indicate that I’m rested and stomach is fine. Relieved that this was the case, and not a bit disappointed that I had no excuse to quit, I get myself ready to depart.
I am in confidence mode now - no negativity allowed. Despite the cold, dark morning and tired eyes I feel excited, alive. Today is going to be one of the most memorable of my life, and it is just about to unfold.
The long journey to the start
We leave the house by car and drive to Forest Hills where we are to pick up the train. Steve didn’t have much sleep and seems bothered by his ankle. I put to the back of my mind a doubt I have over a calf niggle; little I can do now other than stretch properly and hope everything holds up.
I shiver standing on the platform as another runner silently joins us, the sky turning from black to grey. We board, and Steve attempts to catch some shut-eye on our short journey into the city, green Deloitte baseball cap over face. Arriving, he finds time, as always, for food. A bagel and coffee doesn’t last long as I abstain. We make our way to the subway and catch an ever-increasingly populated tube to the ferry station. It’s a little warmer down here and the time it takes provides time to look at my fellow passengers. Wall to wall white running trainers, some with timing chips already fastened, all looking shiny and ready for action. Everyone looks like a runner, built for speed, and primed to tackle the miles that will come their way. No-one talks, but there is an air of expectancy in the air.
The ferry station opens up to us, swallowing its impressive capture of athletes. Nationalities drift past as the accents come thick and fast. No familiar faces, but everyone somehow looks the same. The ferry pulls in soon after and we pour in, everybody looking for a prime spot to chill, to sight-see or to simply obtain the best and therefore fastest exit later. The Statue of Liberty waves us hello and then goodbye on our starboard side; she’s seen it all before. Once docked, we board our final transport of the morning: a bus to the starting areas. It’s close now, and all necks are craned as the Verrazano-Narrows bridge looms out of the houses in our view like a mythical drawbridge to an enchanted castle. That is where our dreams will start.
In the fort
The start area is huge, but it’s still over two hours to go until the first wave starts and it’s sparsely populated right now. I walk past a group of Brazilians in foil sleeping bags that wouldn’t look out of place at NASA, and head towards the Team For Kids tent. Expecting a VIP setup, I’m a little disappointed to see it’s just a covering over a patch of field, bit realise that compared to open skies, in this cool temperature this is more than a blessing. We make camp, grab a bagel and Gatorade to fuel up and try to take it all in. Soon, the tents fills up. Steve says it looks like a war zone outside in the clear, with bodies everywhere, most unmoving, conserving energy. People pack in beside us, and the chatter of nervous energy and friendly banter surrounds us. Strong smells of ointment fill my nostrils, as everyone casually observes what others are doing in their preparations. I tackle the long line of green portaloos, mildly surprised at their good state. Timing, I tell myself is everything - you want to empty your bladder and not take on too much water now.
We chat to a couple of girls beside us who invite us to a party after the race. We enthusiastically agree we’d consider it, but telepathically consign ourselves tonight to limping home and dying somewhere instead. A horn sounds and the first wave is called up. A big cheer erupts from nowhere; the first lambs to the slaughter I feel.
I begin a few stretches, lubricate with Vaseline everything that could possibly rub and them some, and before I head out in wave 2 I dash again to the loo. The truck has our finish clothes and we make our way to the start position in our old throw-aways, keeping warm to the last minute. I worry about not having done enough stretching - there’s simply not been the room, and I make a few last-minute moves to free up everything I can. The noise is getting louder, and a few enthusiastic people try to pump up everyone around them. It’s moments away. No going back. In a blur, we start moving. Is this it? Are we running? Was that the start line? Confusion reigns as a throng of people ahead begin to pick up their feet. Soon, as music reaches our ears we realise that the start line is just up ahead at the beginning of the bridge. We cross the orange timing mats to the sound of “Born to Run” stinging our ears and our journey begins. After months of training, weeks of doubts and worry, I was finally running the 2008 New York Marathon.
I am hit by the scene that waits for me as I turn the corner and make my way up the first part of the bridge slope. Manhattan appears in the distance against a mainly blue sky, beckoning us to reach it. The struts and cables of the bridge climb high above us as we start to dodge discarded jackets, gloves and hats from owners long gone. The uphill is nothing as we excitedly chat in our mini team of five.
I strip off to reveal my pink charity vest and shyly fall in behind the line of four blues, but immediately get noticed. That embarrassment out of the way, I stride on without a care. We say hello to Larry the Lighthouse as we overtake him, one of the few in fancy dress here. He’ll need all the luck he can get, I think.
The first of the real crowd appear, and we congratulate ourselves for keeping a great pace. Maybe four and a half hours is easily on. I run near the middle so don’t give people a chance to see my name on my shirt, written as it is within a Union Jack. No matter, I’ll need the support much further on. The Deloitte girls running with us beam their smiles and pick up a few shouts of “Mallory!” and “Go Amanda!”, much to their obvious delight. Three miles in and we reach our first drinks stop, not before time. I grab a Gatorade and wonder whether how much I should drink every mile. The sticky yellow liquid splashes all down my top and over my face as I attempt to keep running whilst drinking. If there is an art for this, I have not mastered it yet. As the four mile marker appears I comment on how that was the easiest four miles of our lives and everyone agrees. We’re going strong and looking (relatively, given my attire) good.
The pain starts
After all the concern over my knee and my ITB, it’s my calves that are starting to show the strain. The niggle in my left calf I feared might flare up is indeed proving problematic. Both legs are now tightening, and I just hope that they will either ease or not get much worse; there are many more miles to go.
We pass through eight miles and everyone is happy. I resist telling the other four how much pain I have, though, not wanting to put a dampener on it.
The girls shoot off to see something or someone, and soon it’s just me and Steve. Without the support and enthusiasm of the others, I wonder how we’ll fare.
“Bit of an uphill here,” I remark, looking forward then backwards. A pause as Steve contemplates this information.
“Oh cheers. I hadn’t noticed until you said that.”
He shoots me a stare and I learn my lesson.
I cheer at 10 miles, and prepare for the next ten. So far, not bad, and the pace is good. I don’t celebrate 13 miles, however – who wants to be reminded: “You know how bad you feel right now? Guess what? You have to DO IT ALL OVER AGAIN!”
Silent bridge
The 15 mile marker provides a slight respite for my tired legs.
“That’s it,” I say, “This is now officially the furthest I’ve run in ten years!”
“You shouldn’t say that!” Steve replies, explaining that announcing taking yourself into new territory feeling this bad with so far to go wasn’t my best idea in the world. No matter, I thought. Any little victory was worth it.
We enter Queensboro Bridge, fully prepared for a tough test. We’d heard the stories, but were promised a cacophony of sound on our exit.
It wasn’t as dark as we’d been told, but soon the bridge swallowed us and took us into its stomach. I didn’t notice the uphill as much as the change in the environment. With no crowd, we were on our own. Silence surrounds us from all angles – were we in a vacuum? No-one talked, and it was only when I picked up the thud-thud of our trainers did I know I wasn’t deaf. I considered shouting something random, something encouraging or pro-England, but the bridge demons swept inside me and beat any positive thoughts back down.
We reach halfway on the bridge and start our descent. I decide that it would be a good time to capture some of this on video, having lugged my mobile phone all this way. I decide to be positive in it, a multimedia two-fingered salute to the bridge, at least. I activate the camera, shoot at Steve for a few words and then turn it on to myself for some interesting camera viewpoints. I keep it rolling for the reception we’re about to receive on our exit from the bridge; I can hear the noise as we approach and our legs gain a little more energy.
Was that it? We leave somewhat underwhelmed at the crowd’s reaction when we finally reached them. The bridge was pretty grim and I’d hope for a better wall of noise to move me than we got. Maybe they’d seen too many runners already. Maybe they were hungry. Maybe we expected too much. Still, a notorious hard part of the New York Marathon was over and we were back in the sun.
Insane positive thinking
“This is easy,” I say out loud to Steve as we run up a long hill. He doesn’t understand. “I love this hill! It’s a piece of cake!”
I don’t really love this hill, it’s a killer. My legs want to stop, my feet want to stop, my whole body knows this is so goddam pointless just going forward like this when I can just stop and take a rest. 99% of my brain agrees with it and is hovering over the stop button. But the 1% I have trained just for this very moment is in control – the part where it starts spewing out all the random positive message it knows cannot possibly be true. However, it seems to be working. The bands are playing, the crowd cheering and with a big chunk of the marathon already behind me I fool myself for a minute that things are good. I run up to a British woman and have a quick chat before she moves back towards her partner. Everyone seems focused now, the joy and newness of the run left far behind.
We reach another fluid station and I slow to a walk to grab a cup.
“Keep going Andy!” a helper says as she cheerfully hands me a cup of life. I am surprisingly moved to nearly tears by this unexpected boost, however small it was. I drink and lob the cup as far as I can to the side. A carpet of squashed, green cardboard containers roll beneath my feet, leaving the bottom of my trainers sticky for a few yards. My legs so enjoyed their walk that they decide to keep to that pace, but the override button gets pushed again. I have no option to get me going again other than to sprint off as a turbo boost for two seconds before slowing down to normal pace.
“Flipping ‘eck, son! Don’t shoot off like that!” Steve calls out behind me, mistaking my sprint as a new lease of life. He catches up and we continue.
I think about that burst of emotion earlier, and start to replay the daydreams of my finish I’ve had whilst training. I can see myself recalling the weeks of despair and pain, the times when I doubted myself and the emotion that engulfs me as I cross the line, proving to myself and everyone that I had indeed conquered it all. Here and now, just for a minute, tears start to form as this plays through my mind, emotional chemicals shooting round. In the bad shape that I’m in, it could engulf me, but I’m smart enough to know that this would waste energy so I quickly banish all thoughts from my mind. Don’t be a sissy. Just run.
We enter the Jewish part of Manhattan, and the crowd changes. There are few cheerers or noise, and people just go about their business silently. Conservatism is their way, I’m told, so I just respect that. Some stop with their kids and gawp at us running by, as if the freak show has come to town. As I run past in my pink vest, stumbling along more in survival than enjoyment, following hundreds of others, I wonder if they are right.
The hill that never ends
“I’ve hit the wall!” Danny Boy – a runner with Deloitte we thought long left behind – cheerfully announces, bounding up to us, slapping us on the shoulders.
“There is no wall, mate!” I say, hoping that it might offer something profound that would change his race. He didn’t need it though; we saw no wall damage as he ran off smiling. Steve and I looked at each other, perplexed. Different people, each in their own different race, I think to myself.
We cross one bridge to briefly enter The Bronx. Cool – The Bronx. The people are warm and energetic as the music pumps hard and propels us along.
Another bridge approaches, promising Manhattan again, our final NY Borough visit. This bridge is gruelling, though – a steepness that seems to always offer the peak a few steps further. Steve is loving the bridge for some reason, but for me it’s all pain. My calves are like rocks, weighing me down, and the mile markers get further apart. 35Km comes up and I swear as it come into view. I want the next mile – don’t tell me the kilometres! After what seems an age, Mile 22 appears. I stop and walk, take on some drink and pour a bit over my head. Four miles left – a walk in the park in normal circumstances, but right now it seemed like the distance to the moon.
We reach the side of Central Park and the crowd thickens. Steve’s family appears and even I jog over, desperate to see familiar faces. Steve pumps himself up (always put on a show, especially with wife and kid around!) whilst my head drops at the thought of continuing. Arms in the air defiantly, smiling, even running backwards, he gives a performance to be proud of.
We start what looks a gentle slope and I pray that the next marker is just up ahead, but it’s not. It just goes on. And on. And on. “What the…? Central Park is flat! It doesn’t have a hill!” I exclaim to anyone listening around me. We agree that the organisers must have shipped in extra material to make this hill especially for this race; it certainly has never been here in my previous visits.
I start to feel fuzzy, and for a second I wonder if I’ll be taken somewhere nice and peaceful, where pain is outlawed and only comfort exists. I snap out of it and decided to push my mantra button.
“Fulfil your dream.
Reach your goal.
You have the strength.
You have the strength.”
I mutter this over and over again, my legs keeping to its rhythm. I care not that I may look like a mumbling idiot as the fans go past in a blur, this is keeping me going. Messages of pain are briefly halted, repelled by the magic of the words. A few minutes later, I am back.
I look ahead at the top of the hill, and to my dismay it remains as elusive as it did five minutes ago. The pavement seems a treadmill, the effort almost pointless. My faces pulls a thousand expressions. I hate this hill more than any other in the world.
The time I became a hero but almost died
I have a secret: I’ve always wanted to be a hero but feel I’m built to be a flighter rather than a fighter. So, any chance I may get to be at least in some part a hero to someone I hoped I would take. After 25 miles, I saw my chance to help someone else and I took it.
I see him just ahead, struggling. He has GBR on his shirt and a look on his face that says enough is enough. He slows as I pass him, myself barely running now. He grimaces and caves, stopping in despair. A stranger he is, and I have my own problems but he’s not quitting. I won’t let him. I run back over to him, calling his name from his shirt. “C’mon mate! You ain’t quitting! Brits don’t quit!!” I scream at him with all my worth, “Move it!!” I whip up the local crowd around us into a frenzy and the words seem to magically energise him. He pumps his arms and jolts forward, propelling himself on again. He moves on ahead and pride sweeps me entirely. Sixty seconds later my world almost collapses.
Just a mile left, and still somehow running alongside Steve. Pace unknown and irrelevant - we just have to shut down and wait the twelve or so minutes left until we can stop. Suddenly, however, I can no longer suck in the air I need. Another breath - the same restricted action and I feel like I could be going down. It happens so fast I don’t have time to properly panic, but the 25 miles behind me are about to be wasted. I reach out and tap Steve on the shoulder and indicate I’m in trouble. A few more short breaths like this and it could be all over. The injuries, the sickness, the effort to get here could all be undone in the next few seconds. Moments later, it passed, but I was still in shock. I quickly realised the effort I put into rousing my compatriot had taken its toll and almost cost me my run. I continue, knowing that this old course still deserved respect, and it would take the lame any which way it could.
The blur
The crowd, our position, my entire existence is a blur. We grab a drink and promise this is the last we stop – any future drinks will have to be on the run. I reluctantly agree and apologise to my calves who have already disowned me
I don’t know how, but I keep running. Steve, seemingly in a similar way, suddenly becomes vocal.
“I’ve got cramp! Shit!”
It’s looking bad, almost like he’d been shot and was about to hit the deck. I knew I’d stay with him if he was in trouble, but this was the last thing we needed so close to the end. Moments later, it seemed to pass and we continued, just waiting for the next turn of events.
The “sprint” finish
With the 25 mile marker long behind us, my scare over, I began to visualise the finish.
“Let me know when you want to go for it.” I tell Steve.
“Go for what?”
“You know,” I said, reminding him of our pre-race competitive agreement, “when you want a 3-2-1-go for the sprint finish.”
Steve looked at me with a mixture of surprise, regret, and resignation. “It’s all yours. Go for it. If you want to push on now then go. Go get a better time.”
I glance over. Deep down, I badly wanted to beat him. Something inside told me that I needed to put one over him at least once. I wouldn’t let him down if he needed me, though, I honestly knew that. “You sure?”
He nodded. I thought about if for a few steps and then made my move.
“See you at the finish line” and I was off.
I don’t know where the energy came from, but I powered forward. Overtaking men and women, crowd in my ears as I headed for home. I was full of heart until I saw it: the half mile to go sign. Half mile??!!! But I thought I was almost there!! My muscles felt cheated. Had I really gone too soon? How much did I have left? I always remarked about Daley’s Decathlon and the energy bar that you had to get right. It was well into the red and the tarmac keeps coming.
A new pain in my right knee, but I knew what this was. It was my weak quad, having done so well to make it unscathed to this stage it suddenly dawned on me the awful truth: if this muscle goes, my leg goes with it. It would become a hang-er-on-er, just there for the ride, no longer functioning. Visions of me hopping over the finish line, right leg flailing comically for the photo. Nothing I can do but hope now.
I no longer have the energy to acknowledge them, but I hear all the shouts for my name. The crowd are fantastic. My mental crutches are in splinters; I would struggle to remember any friend or family name right now. All focus is on my body. The 26 mile sign comes up. Why the **** are you showing me the 26 mile sign now?!! All I care about is the finish!!! 26 miles is nothing!! I could collapse right now and achieve nothing. The extra .2 miles is a whole new race.
300 metres to go. Just show me the finish line. Will I make it? I’m still honestly not sure.
200 metres. Is it round the bend?
100 metres. JUST SHOW IT TO ME!
And then it’s there, in all its glory, just like the photos. ING New York Marathon in its orange banner. I smile. I can’t stop smiling. For the first time ever, I really know I’m going to complete it. I cruise home, arms wide, head back.
Grab everything you can
The medal. The glorious, hard-fought medal is handed to me. I thanked the helper, and kiss its metal surface hard. If I die now, this is coming with me. I stumble towards a small stage and get an official photo taken. Not particularly photogenic at the best of times let alone physically wrecked, I just hope it captures the moment. I thrust my hand forward and grab a silver blanket wrap. After missing out on one in London, I may well have killed to get my hands on one this time. Shifting slowly forward, I remember my friend, and move to the side. Within seconds, I see Steve plod through. I shake his hand and give him a half hug. No elation, just exhaustion. I begin to feel my chest tighten again, and I say to keep an eye on ourselves, just in case. I down some more Gatorade and chew on a horrid bagel. The other various snacks taste wonderful though. For the first time in six hours, I take a leak at one of the portaloos. Barely able to stand, I wonder how on earth not only my stomach held out but also my bladder, given the tremendous amounts of liquid and energy supplements consumed within the last few hours.
We move towards the baggage reclaim; I’m desperate to put on something dry and warm as the temperature begins to fall. A kind helper zips off and comes back with my bag, and I find a seat. My calves love the seat so much it’s unreal. I look towards Steve and see him almost catatonic. He talks to a few friends but he’s not really home. I try to take a photo of him with his medal but he doesn’t want to know, such is his state. I get him to take one of me anyway, even though I know I must look a mess. I put on as many layers as I have and a hat, and then I’m ready to go.
The bridge of sadism
The crowd of runners and supporters thread their way through from the baggage area to the exit. We get directed forward and told to cross the iron bridge that runs over the finished runners. I look up in disbelief. I have no muscles to traverse this bridge. The ones that you need to step up and then step down the other side are simply no longer working. The most stupidest post-race design decision in the history of sport was there looming above us. Cursing the whole way, taking ages and most of my remaining effort, I somehow cross it to the other side.
We slowly limp back down alongside Central Park to our meet up point. Seeing every day folk pass by I feel a sense of being special, but really I just want to be home. Finally, we make it inside a building to familiar faces and warmth.
A short break after meeting a few other finishers, taking a some photos and generally collapsing. We need to get a train back, so we limp along to the station. We see a hot dog vendor along the way and decide to stop. It’s a typical New York hot dog stand on a street corner, of the type I haven’t touched for years. Right now, it seems like a mini gourmet restaurant. Steve’s dad buys a round and we tuck in. Mmmm feels good.
The unkindness of strangers
Scientists should really get their act together and invent a teleportation device soon, I decide. The journey back home takes a detour via Hell - a place full of stairs, crowds and not a spare seat in sight. My calves are cramped beyond belief, I’m switching between boiling and cold wrapped up in my fleece, flag and foil, and clinging on to my marathon bag with what energy I have left. We negotiate countless flights of stairs which promise - and deliver - pain with every step. I try forwards, sideways, leaning on the rails, slowly, quicker but it all ends in hurt and a hint of embarrassment at my lack of mobility. Suddenly, I am at one with pensioners. I make a mental note to be more patient the next time I’m stuck behind a slow-mover. We get on a tube train but then have to exit when its driver loudly announces its new destination. Trains come and go but not the right one. I begin to lose the will to live. Drop me here and pick me up in the morning! Finally, our ride appears and my calves excitedly get ready for the relief this will bring. To their and my horror, this vision may not come true as the carriage rolls up near-full. With my mate, his wife, their son, the grandad and a buggy, there is standing room only. I cling to a pole as the train judders forward, sending a shooting pain down one calf. Twenty six miles and then this. I look around at the faces of those seated, praying that they will give up their seat. We’re the only ones dressed in marathon foil, pain etched on our faces - surely someone will have mercy? No-one returns my stare, they just carry on looking into space, pretending to doze or listening to their music. Their ignorance, my pain.
I don’t want to know but I ask Steve how long we’ve got to go on this train. His answer of “A while” kills a part of me inside. My sweaty hands slip down the pole as I lurch from one agony to another.
The rest is a daze. I jump into conflict with Steve’s dad over Paula Radcliffe. Right now you don’t want to argue with me. Reluctantly, he backs down. Soon we’re back and the mother of all showers gets closer.
Keeping old promises
After changing, and severely limping like two war veterans, we somehow make our way from the car to the restaurant. Grateful for the seat, I pick up the menu and remember the promise I made myself many months ago. I order the beer and burger I’d dreamed about for so long, and capture the moment to keep. The wait was long, but in success it was as sweet as I had dreamed about it on those long painful training runs. We continue to share our stories with Krista and it seems like this will be our sole topic forever. The buzz of pride and accomplishment lasts long into the evening and eventually filters into my dreams as I settle down, absolutely contented.
THE RACE Starters
Men 25,354
Women 13,002
Total 38,356
Finishers
Men 25,072
Women 12,827
Total 37,899
Weather: Fair, 47°F, 41% humidity, wind NE 8 mph.
Finishers by Age Group
Men Women Total
.18-19 80 34 114
20-29 2,839 2,734 5,573
30-39 7,553 4,436 11,989
40-44 4,853 2,216 7,069
45-49 3,773 1,604 5,377
50-54 2,925 1,023 3,948
55-59 1,596 442 2,038
60-64 900 214 1,114
65-69 304 74 378
70-74 110 14 124
75-79 29 6 35
80-89 12 5 17
Previous Race Experience
Have previously run a marathon 14,685 7,069 21,754
Have never run a marathon 10,471 5,786 16,257
United Kingdom 2,098 929 3,027
Oldest runners
Yolande Marois, age 83, 7:48:46
Peter Harangozo, age 87, 8:00:39
ME
Time 4:41:27
Overall Place: 25305 / 38,356 (I beat a third of all runners!)
Gender Place: 18346 / 25,354
Dear Andrew Males
Congratulations! You are an ING New York City Marathon finisher and now part of our rich history. You persevered through all five boroughs and finished 26.2 miles by crossing the most famous finish line in the world.
We celebrate you and your accomplishment. We’re proud to be the city where you and the rest of the world come to run.
Here are your unofficial results:
Walking today was a joke - me and Steve both looked like old men who were recovering from hip and knee operations. Staying still for a few minutes just meant any slight ease was completely undone. Going downstairs was a case of just working out which way to lean to avoid putting weight on the worse leg as I took minutes to hobble down. I had more pain today then I had finishing; now new muscles are vying for my attention - even the arch of my foot has got in on the act. It’s bad.
A couple of walks outside didn’t do much to ease it. I had to be careful crossing the street because there was no way my legs could process a “move it!” instruction from my brain. They’d done their part yesterday - today they’d do everything in their own time, thank you very much.
Despite all this, I managed an unbelievable thing: as the sun set over this small New York town I completed a two mile jog.
How can I get you to relate to this? It would be like asking to fight Mike Tyson in his prime, getting beaten up for hours and then phoning him up the next day and asking him if he’d come round to give you a few more jabs. Just like Mike probably would, my legs screamed in disbelief at my masochistic behaviour.
But it had to be done (so Steve said.) 1. A real man would do it and 2. They do recommend doing a “recovery” run the next day, no matter how hard. And boy, was it tough.
It helped, but not loads. I need total rest tomorrow if I’m going to recover enough to traverse the airports to get back home.
Of course, none of the pain really mattered. The day was spent basking in the glory that was completing one of the top sporting events in the world, despite the odds. Lots of analysis followed, and stories too, so it was a great day to be me, especially with my name being listed in the official list of finishers in the New York Times!
I'm not really into blogs. Who reads them all anyway? But hey, if I'm ever going to do one then now's the time, as I'm training for the NY Marathon in November. Mad? Find out exactly how mad by reading my running exploits over the next few months, whilst in the comfort, warmth and pain-free environment you're no doubt in right now...
