A few years back…okay, maybe more than a few years I ran the New York City Marathon. It was my First and Last. I trained for 7 weeks prior to the race. With ten days to go, I flew out to San Francisco for a trade show that tested the processing capacity of my liver and I promptly came down with the flu. Three days before the race I tried running 5 miles and it was ugly.
The morning of the race, the guy I was living with in Sayerville, NJ (who was also running the Marathon) asks me, “Well, are you coming?” I swallowed four Tylenol, put on my stuff and we headed out to the Verrazano Bridge. We get to the Bridge and my friend heads to the front group of runners. He’s going to finish in less than 3 and ½ hours. My focus was a little different.
Right around this era there were a number of well-known Marathon runners who would…towards the very end of their races, lose total control of their sphincter muscles. The results made for difficult interviews but the late night talk show hosts would have a field day. This was my major concern. Everyone has their Achilles Heel, and if I drink water that’s out of my zip code challenging problems can occur. So this was weighing heavily on my mind. At all costs, I needed to avoid earning a nickname like, “Hash.”
As the race is about to begin, I’m standing next to a group of people and one of guys seemed to be coaching the rest of them on how to run the race. What became buried in my brain was a comment this guy made about “not” stopping during the race. He said, “Whatever you do, don’t stop running. If you do, you’ll never start again.” This piece of advice became my mantra. No matter how bad I felt, no matter how bad I might soil my clothing or otherwise embarrass myself (more than usual), I would not stop running. This was sound advice until about the 13th mile. By this stage of the race all of my adrenalin was gone. Now I just wanted to stop in the worst way and take a break, maybe catch a cab. But I kept on running… cursing the memory of this guy. Coming down off the 59th Street Bridge, (which I thought would be a relief) was painful on the knees. The steel does not give at all. Running up 2nd Ave was worse. People are cheering you on, but for the most part you’re in too much pain to appreciate their enthusiastic cheers. (You’re thinking to yourself, could you please just shut up and let me finish this misery in silence.) Throughout the race they’re constantly handing you cups of water that have some sort of electrolyte concoction in it. After a while it just upsets your stomach. And we can’t have that, as a weakened sphincter will lead to an ugly finish line and an uglier laundry situation.
I finally get into the Park and its nightmarish as the rolling hills (yes there are rolling hills), are killing my legs. I turn the corner onto 59th street and whatever pocket of adrenalin is left kicks in and I finish strong-ish. And a major bonus, my dwear survived unblemished…no really.
Now for the fun part: My roommate and his family and our friends are waiting for me at the finish line. High Fives are sent all around. I’m on an absolutely amazing high. I finished in a very reasonable time and my sphincter is completely intact. It doesn’t get much better than this. The girl I’m dating at the time (let’s call her Delilah) is supposed to bring my street clothes and stuff, so we can all go celebrate in the city that night. Delilah is not at the finish line. I ask my roommate’s girlfriend if she’s heard from her. That’s a negative. (Keep in mind cell phones do not exist yet) So I tell everyone, ”Just go off to the bars and I’ll catch up.” I go to the Marathon family waiting area - no girl and no clothes. It’s starting to get very cold and all I have on is a small, very wet (perspiration only) pair of shorts, a thin sleeveless running shirt and a large piece of aluminum foil they hand you at the finish line to keep your body heat in. Well that ain’t happening any more, and my kahoonies are starting to freeze. I wait over 30 minutes and finally give up and head off to try to catch up with my friends. I run up and down Broadway, 7th and 8th avenues looking for my friends in about a dozen bars…can’t find them.
Finally with no money…or real clothes for that matter, in about 40 degrees with a stiff breeze, I hop on the subway to Port Authority (Mass Transit was free that day if you ran in the NYC Marathon). I catch a bus to Sayerville, NJ and walk (more like hobble) the last three or four miles from the bus stop to my friend’s condo. Luckily a key was under the front door mat.
Turns out Delilah came back into NYC that morning on a red-eye and overslept that afternoon. For a while I'm speechless. (Thinking back though, I have to give her some credit, because if I had done something like that, I'd never admit to it. I think I'd pay to have someone beat me up and just say I was mugged.)
Of course I was very understanding…that is after regaining the ability to speak...and upgrading my vocabulary past 4 letter words…I was very understanding.
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