Flirting with the New York City Marathon
Could it be the race for me?
Last weekend while I was in Colorado thinking about Jane Austen, I was also thinking of the 50,000 people running the New York City Marathon.
On the hotel-gym treadmill Saturday afternoon, I imagined the marathoners completing their shake-out runs and prepping their carby dinners. I tried to picture myself running with them instead of the mostly unsupervised child jogging next to me in jeans.
I was sad not to join the spectators this year, my first year back in New York since college. Every November when I was in high school, my mom and I would station ourselves on Central Park’s Cat Hill, cheering and clapping until our hands stung. It was lots of fun, especially because my mom seemed to get a kick out of watching me shout at the runners. In the excitement of the day, any shyness I felt would dissipate. I’d make finger guns and call out the names on people’s race bibs. Out of character, I’d yell things like, “Lookin’ good, Ted!” or “Vamos Argentina!”
At my graduation in May, my class marched through the wrought-iron Van Wickle gates of campus as family, faculty, and alumni exalted us. After we made our way down College Hill, the arrangement folded in on itself: we lined the street as newly minted alumni hailing the reunion classes who then processed.
Something came over me during this act of crowd peristalsis. From my place outside the RISD museum, I remember whooping and applauding frantically. Generally averse to strangers’ germs, I extended my hands to every passing alum, their numbers rising and buckling with the ages.
My friends eyed me with some surprise. I’m not usually a rollicking person, but for whatever reason the role of eager spectator suits me.
A few weeks before graduation, I ran the Providence half marathon on the first warm day of the spring. The crowds were somewhat sparse but enthusiastic. A few people held signs that seemed intended to berate: “Remember, you paid money to do this!”
I enjoy running because it makes me feel self-sufficient. It’s solitary and a little bit anonymous, depending where you are. I’d be embarrassed to share all the mental mantras that get me through tough runs. I’ll illustrate my point, though, by admitting I sometimes take comfort in the phrase “You’re invisible.” It’s intended more positively than it sounds –– a reminder that my run belongs to me and not to any onlookers.
But as I learned during the Providence half, there is something thrilling about being in a race as one of the official bibbed participants. I accepted water from child volunteers, tossing down the paper cups with the air of an elite racer.
This year, I celebrated the New York City marathon from afar. I could feel the wave of excitement hitting me, even as I paced laps around a metal horse sculpture in my hotel parking lot. As I checked out of the resort in Aurora, I found myself incessantly refreshing the TCS Marathon webpage. By searching a runner’s name or bib number, I could track their approximate progress across the five boroughs.
My phone was following Holly Brooks, the British running influencer whose playlist I featured in last week’s culture roundup. I like Holly because she’s relatable, an adjective that gets used a lot but is accurate here. She’s a newer runner, who worked her way up to a half marathon and now to full marathons in Paris and New York. There’s something legitimately inspiring about her videos of training runs and races, an un-cringey motivation in her efforts to keep going. She posts running gear hauls and recipes for chorizo risotto (she pronounces it “chor-itz-o,” because she’s from Manchester).
Those who know me well know my fascination with certain fitness and lifestyle influencers. It’s a deep interest, maybe the closest I get to fan behavior. In fact, between attending the Austen conference and tracking the marathon, I found myself at the intersection of my fan identities.
Since flying home on Sunday, I’ve soaked in the online content from marathon day. Holly completed the race with a four hour and six minute PR. My heart swelled with pride as I watched her cross the Verrazano Bridge in her marathon vlog. The same video showed her return to her hotel in a pedicab, wrapped in one of the orange mylar race blankets.
I consumed several other marathon vlogs, many from people whose content I’d never previously watched. I found myself being genuinely influenced: I began to wonder if the New York City Marathon should be my next running goal.
Apparently, I was not alone in the marathon speculation. A friend who ran cross country in college said she was also considering running it. I went to a reading with a high-school friend also toying with the idea. We cautiously voiced our excitement, batting away thoughts of the physical pain and the time commitment.
My marathon flirtation continues, though I’m not sure if I’ll be running it next year or in ten. But something about circling it, imagining it, and even stalking it on social media has got me in a flutter. It’s brought a quiet thrill to my runs, an extra bounce to my stride.