This race was distinct for several reasons. First, it was the fifth one I've run in New York, meaning that I've accomplished my goal of running a half marathon in each borough. Second, for the first time I had a running buddy (sort of); my chain smoking, exercise-averse, cynical friend Ferran came along. And third, it was my first time on the Staten Island Ferry and on Staten Island itself, and I couldn't have picked a more spectacularly beautiful day for it.
To my amusement, Ferran read this as "OMG caffeine" and was confused.
Shirts from the New York Half-Marathon series - ironclad proof that I a) ran all of them, and b) will never be hired by The GAP as a t-shirt folder.
A very grouchy, still-drunk Ferran and I met in the first car of the 1 train a little after 6:00 this morning to head down to the Staten Island Ferry. He was covering a film festival freelance for some online news publication all weekend, and he took full advantage of their open bar towards the end of last night. He got home at around 3:00 A.M., and wasn't too cheerful after only a few hours' sleep. We made it to the Ferry terminal in plenty of time and waited as part of a huge crowd before boarding.
Ferran is crabby.
I'm excited.
One last pre-race cigarette
I was the only one who did not take the escalator, which I thought was pretty funny. Here we were, surrounded by some of the fittest people in New York, and everyone fled from the single flight of stairs.
Boarding the Ferry. I was worried we wouldn't all fit, but there was plenty of room to spare.
The Ferry is gigantic. It took us about 20 minutes to get to Staten Island. The ride over was chilly and windy, but sunny, and I worried that my shorts and tank top weren't going to be warm enough for the run. I took pictures and watched barges swarming all over the place.
Pulling away from Manhattan. We passed the Statue of Liberty, but it was too bright and my pictures of it are terrible. You probably know what it looks like anyway.
Once we docked, we hurried towards the starting line, took off our outer layers, checked our bags, and found the right area of the starting corral. I was helping Ferran pin on his number as the national anthem was winding down, but we ducked under the tape and into the starting corral in time to start with the group.
It was clear immediately that my choice of clothing was a good one; I warmed up almost immediately and was comfortable throughout the race. Ferran, propelled by adrenaline, techno music, remnants of last night's beer, and stubbornness, stayed about 15 feet in front of me for the first three miles, which surprised me. There were no water tables set up at Mile 1 and he gave me a very dirty look over his shoulder, as I'd promised him plenty of water throughout the course. He stopped at the water tables at Mile 2 and caught up to to me again a bit later. At Mile 3, he pulled over to drink and after about 1/10th of a mile I heard a terrible wheezing drawing up behind me.
"Shit, man," he groaned.
"You should probably slow down. We have 10 miles left," I said helpfully.
"Whatever," he gasped, but he fell back, and that was the last I saw of him for a while.
I chatted with a few other runners throughout the rest of the race. I got several compliments on my shirt, and one guy told me cheerfully that I wasn't allowed to run in the bike lane but that my secret was safe with him (ha ha). There were several crowds of middle and high school kids with signs, having more fun cheering than actually watching what was going on. Never mind, distance running isn't exactly a premium spectator sport, and they kept things interesting. My favorite spectator, however, was a burly guy in his late 50's who was there to watch his daughter. He'd pick a spot on the sidelines, wait for her to go by, then hop on his bike and race to another spot farther down the line. While he waited, he doled out useful information to passing runners about using your arms to get up hills and how many minutes per mile we were running.
My favorite fellow runner came up behind me around Mile 8. I heard him about ten minutes before I finally spotted him: a stooped guy in his 40's wearing giant headphones and carrying a discman, which I had forgotten used to exist. Each time he passed a spectator, he howled (for full effect, read at full volume with the most nasal, strident, obnoxious New York accent you can muster) "I started half an hour late!" My fellow scrubs and I, with whom he obviously did not want to be associated, tittered. He passed us pretty handily, though, and was out of my line of sight within a few minutes.
The course was much hillier than I anticipated. There was a turn-around point so that we were running alongside another stream of runners going the opposite direction. I cheered for the first woman, as usual, and about five minutes after I'd turned the corner and started to head back to the finish line, I spotted Ferran. He looked surprisingly cheerful and waved at me.
I felt good and enjoyed myself more than almost any other race I can remember. Staten Island gets a bad rap, but the part we ran through was beautiful, and it was pretty cool to look across the water at the Manhattan skyline as I jogged along. Between a terrible cold and a strained hamstring, my training since the Bronx Half had been sporadic at best; I realized after about Mile 4 that I hadn't run more than about 7 miles since the Bronx, over a month before. So I cruised along at a comfortable pace and had fun with it. At Mile 12 I was at 1:43, the time it took me to finish the Manhattan Half in March. Oh well.
I finished easily, watched Ferran cross, and stretched on the grass overlooking the water for a few minutes before taking the Ferry back.
It's hard to believe that the series is really over. Now I'm faced with a big problem though: What is my next goal going to be?
Finished!
I was quite proud of this shirt, and got several compliments from other runners on the course.
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