A Winter Visit from Marion

It was a cold weekend, but a wonderful one, because I spent it entertaining my dear hometown friend Marion here in the city! During a visit to her now-home in San Antonio in October, I suggested (somewhat hopelessly) that she should come visit. December, I said, would be a good time. Perhaps it was the margaritas we were drinking, but Marion pulled out her phone and, to my surprise, began researching plane ticket options then and there. After taking a bit of time to research her options-and to let the margaritas wear off, I assume-she'd booked, and I ecstatically welcomed her on Friday for a weekend of fun in New York!

Cozy!

Marion, who has lived only in Texas and California, was rather nervous about the weather that was forecast for her visit. But she spent the weeks leading up to her trip assembling long underwear, warm hats, and a sturdy-but-stylish pair of waterproof boots. We had a very nice dinner our first evening, then had a few drinks at a nearby lounge. It was cold when we'd set out and even colder when we made our way home, and we clung to each other for the last part of the walk. The next morning, we woke to steadily falling snow, strong wind, and a layer of white accumulating slowly but surely on everything that hadn't been salted. Marion mostly hid her trepidation as we bundled up. She borrowed a warm coat of mine, and we walked into the West Village for a late breakfast and a bit of shopping. As is often the case in New York, some streets were fairly calm, but others were invisible wind tunnels, just waiting for two unsuspecting walkers to wander down them. We made it to a restaurant unscathed, and enjoyed watching the snowfall, and people and dogs both bundled in warm coats, through the window. It was great to have enough time to really catch up! It seemed a luxury to have one of my wises and most fun friends around for long enough to really enjoy each other's company instead of frantically trying to fit in all the filling in there was to do from long months apart.

Snowy West Village

We spent a bit more time poking around the Village, stopping occasionally to mop ineffectively at the mascara that streamed down both our faces. It really was lovely; this part of town is usually quite charming, but it was made more so by Christmas decorations, and their charm factor was amplified by the picturesque snowflakes that continued to drift gently down. (Occasionally exfoliating blasts of flakes were less welcome.) If that didn't put us in the holiday spirit, the crowds of Santas certainly did. Saturday just happened to be Santacon (short for Santa Convention, an event many locals celebrate by dressing as Santa and getting drunk in bars all over the city), and we saw Santas walking in groups down streets, smoking cigarettes outside bars, and tipping back drinks on the other side of windows. We saw even more of them when we boarded the subway for the east side to get to our next stop: the Morgan Library.

Letter by Poe, who had lovely handwriting

I'm always cautious about taking people to museums when they visit NYC - that's not the kind of trip some people are after. But Marion has been here a few times before, so she'd see lots of the highlights already. And the Morgan really is one-of-a-kind, and just up Marion's alley. We saw A Christmas Carol in Dickens' own hand (I'd seen it before; they must haul it out for the holidays every year), letters by Washington and Lincoln, scores by Wagner and Mozart, and loads of ancient books of hours, stamps, and maps. The main exhibit in the Morgan at the moment is a collection of poems and letters by Poe, which we enjoyed very much. There was also a Da Vinci exhibit, which was interesting but somewhat disappointing, as a lot of it consisted of work done by his students under his supervision instead of his own drawings. We did enjoy marveling over his trademark backwards handwriting, however, and spent some time flipping through a digital collection of his analysis of the flight of birds. And it's always wonderful to see Morgan's lush study and his dream-worthy library.

That night was a full one. Our first stop was a restaurant on the Lower East Side, an area that's tough to get to via subway. Hailing a cab wasn't likely, though, since they are always in very high demand in inclement weather, so we ended up using a car service for which we had a gift card to get to the restaurant. After a nice meal, we walked to a bar to have birthday drinks with our friend Kumanon. As forecast, the weather had begun to warm up. This, alas, was not good news, as the gentle snow had turned into hard little pellets of ice that stung as the wind flung them at my face. It was tough to tell how Marion was faring, as she was wearing a face warmer that most New Yorkers would consider overkill, but from the small sliver of her eyes that peeked out between her hood and the mask, I could swear she was smirking. I was relieved when we finally arrived at the bar after more than 15 minutes of trudging with a lowered head. After a bit of time with the birthday boy, we set out for the final stop of the evening, a Christmas party at a friends' apartment. It also, alas, was far from a subway line, and the hard ice pellets had softened by now into a steady drizzle. These conditions are never ideal for walking, but without an umbrella, and with temperatures in the mid-30's, we were especially loath to attempt it. By some miracle, however, we managed to hail a cab after only a few minutes of huddling under an overhang. We made our way home from the party at the end of the night by leaping into a cab outside our friends' building just as a homecoming resident was vacating it.

At the holiday concert

Sunday was a day of performances. After breakfast, Marion and I went for a walk around Central Park and browsed in some shops and in the Christmas market that had sprung up in Columbus Circle. The snow had mostly melted from the sidewalks and pavement around the city, but it remained on the lawns of the park. This was lucky, as Central Park is always especially bewitching when covered with snow. We must have seen at least twenty snowmen, and it was fun to watch the squirrels scurrying about over the soft, white blanket. We went straight from the park to nearby Lincoln Center for a performance of holiday music by a brass band from the philharmonic. They were joined by a trio made up of a piano player, a percussionist, and an upright bass player. This was Marion's treat to me, and it was a really wonderful show. We listened to music from various traditions and parts of the world. I particularly enjoyed watching the piano player. Set at an angle to his grand piano was what looked like a standard wooden upright but turned out to be a celeste (the instrument that makes the high, tinkling notes you hear in The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy). The musician would turn from one instrument to the other, and sometimes played the celeste with his left hand at the same time as he pressed the piano keys with his right! It was quite amazing, and I left feeling nearly full of holiday cheer.

Luckily, I still had room for a bit more seasonal merriment, because after dinner with Ed we headed to Radio City Music Hall to see the famous Christmas Spectacular. I confess that I was a tiny bit skeptical about this excursion. When Marion suggested it, I decided I'd be happy to see it with her because it was a classic New York experiences I'd never had, but I didn't expect to enjoy it much. It seemed like the kind of thing tourists come to do because they don't know any better, to say nothing of my feelings about the commercialization of Christmas. Instead, the show was a surprise and a delight. The famous Rockettes dominated the first half of the show, sometimes dressed as reindeer, sometimes as toy soldiers, and sometimes in other spangly costumes. I loved a lengthy tap dance to The Twelve Days of Christmas and was blown away by their precision in number after number. It really was mesmerizing.

The famous Rockettes-cum-reindeer

Stars of the show

The show was incredibly intricate. The sets were wonderful, the costumes dazzling, and the music (sometimes live, sometimes recorded) was of the highest quality. I marveled at how many parts of the stage moved. One number included a male and female figure skater who performed beautifully on what I can only assume was a real oval of ice decorated to look like a frozen pond in Central Park. The show had a few scenes dedicated to a fairly weak storyline about a girl who wants a video game for Christmas to the dismay of her mother who laments the days when kids played outside and read books. Santa saves the day, of course, but it was rather corny and forced. I much preferred the dance numbers, of which, luckily, there was plenty. We were in for another surprise as the show reached its end: a procession of the three kings and their entourages, dressed lavishly in beautiful costumes led live camels and a donkey across the stage! The animals reappeared, accompanied by about six real sheep, in a final nativity scene. I imagined them retiring to the green room afterward, where they'd relax and graze at the refreshments table with laughing Rockettes.

After fighting our way out of the throngs leaving the theater, we stopped to see the tree in nearby Rockefeller Center, which was just as lovely as always. The city really does a wonderful job of decorating this part of town for Christmas, and even though it was crowded I found myself filling with a deep contentment quite unlike the overwhelming irritation I feel whenever I have to walk through Times Square. Looks like all those carols paid off.

It was, of course, fantastic to see Marion, and I feel lucky that we'll be together again before too long when I head back to San Antonio for a friend's wedding in April. And it was wonderful to spend a wintery weekend experiencing New York through her eyes, thus gaining fresh perspective on the city I love.

Just Peachy: Selected Shorts and The Lucky Peach

I would never go so far as to describe myself as a foodie but I do enjoy trying new restaurants and cooking. And who doesn't love eating? So I was very excited for last night's Selected Shorts program, which was produced in conjunction with the food magazine Lucky Peach. I confess I'd never heard of Lucky Peach before purchasing tickets for the show. It's a collaboration between Peter Meehan, a writer prior to Lucky Peach and David Chang, the genius behind the Momofuku (translation: lucky peach) restaurants. They co-authored the Momofuku cookbook years ago, and have now moved on to magazine production. Lucky Peach is a quarterly collection of fiction and nonfiction writing all about food. Each issue has a theme. Meehan acknowledged that he doesn't cook recipes from most magazines, and feels that most other people don't either. Part of the reason is that sometimes the recipes are just not that good, certainly not as good as the recipes you'll find in a good cookbook. And the ones that are good are usually too complicated to make at home. Something David Chang would make his kitchen, said Meehan, could take several days and would usually require complicated equipment the average person is unlikely to have. For this reason, their magazine doesn't really have recipes; rather, it has literary descriptions of recipes written by chefs that evoke the experience of cooking. The magazine started in 2011 and has been very popular and successful.

Peter Meehan

David Chang

The show started later than usual last night. People seemed intrigued by the new theme-Selected Shorts usually focuses on a particular author or something a bit more abstract-and it took forever to get the long line of ticket buyers through the door. As Ed and I, who'd had our tickets mailed to us, waited in our seats, I eavesdropped on conversations around me. Lots of people seemed new to Symphony Space, which normally tends to draw more or less the same lit-loving crowd. 

The show began at last with an introduction by our intrepid host BD Wong, wearing his usual bowtie and vest. Next, Meehan and Chang took the stage. Meehan opened with a self-deprecating joke about how they were not performers and had no stage presence. As it turns out, this was absolutely true. I really enjoyed hearing their commentary throughout the evening, but they seem slightly awkward in front of all those eyes. Chang is a tall, chubby Asian man; never trust a thin cook, they say. Onstage, he stood with his feet apart as though he were steadying himself on a rocking ship's deck. He looked anxious. He wore Timberland boots, jeans, and a gray cardigan, which he unbuttoned and buttoned over course of the evening. Meehan wore jeans and blazer, his hornrimmed glasses perched just below a strange, pompadour-like mound of brown hair. He was probably about my age, but stood slightly stooped. He was pretty funny, but had a serious, deadpan delivery; a deaf audience member would have had no idea there was humor in his words. He seemed like the kind of very intelligent person who is always slightly scattered, and we got confirmation when he later told us that it was his four-year-old daughter's birthday that very day, and that when he'd scheduled this performance months ago he'd totally forgotten. He said she was pretty forgiving about the whole thing...

This was the first Selected Shorts performance I've attended at which I've recognized all of the readers. Often, most are local actors who've gotten parts in movies or TV shows here and there. One or two is usually quite famous and I'll generally recognize some of the others. But there are always unfamiliar faces. I recognized all of last night's line-up, though. It was headed by David Cross and Mario Batali. David Cross was simply hysterical, and did a bit of his own comedy routine at the end of a reading when he congratulated us for raising lots of money for a charity, then pretended to have a conversation with someone in the wing who told him that this wasn't a fundraiser. "But tickets are $28!" he exclaimed. "To listen to people read?" He wore a gray hooded sweatshirt and jeans, and his beard made scratching sounds against his body mic as he read. 

Mario & crocs

Mario Batali was the only one of the bunch who was not a professional actor, but he was a very good performer anyway. I guess he's done enough cooking shows to have a stage presence, and he seems like a man who likes to entertain in general. No shrinking violet here. He spoke perhaps a little faster than would have been ideal, but he was expressive and entertaining. He read three pieces, all in the first half of the show, and we didn't see him again after intermission. He wore a massive vest over his protruding belly, and a thin red scrunchy (it had been a very long time since I'd seen one of those) held his somewhat limp ponytail in place. On his feet were his ubiquitous orange crocs, even though temperatures outside the theater hovered around thirty degrees.

The other two readers were Gaby Hoffman (if, like me, you're not exactly up-to-date on pop culture trends, you'll know her best as Kevin Costner's daughter in Field of Dreams) and Sarah Steele (who played Adam Sandler's daughter in Spanglish). I recognized both women, though they were much younger in the movies I knew them for. Both read very well. Interestingly, two of the writers whose work was read came to speak briefly about how they came to get the assignment they'd gotten, or the experience of writing the piece.

David Cross

Steele read the only fictional piece of the night. The style of the pieces was really varied, reflecting, I imagine, the hodgepodge found in each issue of the magazine. We heard several personal narratives, one about eating snake in a small African village and one about the emotional implications of seasoning cast iron. There was the fictional short story, and there was an essay about "perfect moments" in cooking, such as the brief week or two during which you can use fennel buds before they bloom and are gone until about the same time next year. Cross read a verbatim narration to a magazine writer by a chef in the South Pole. Hoffman read a short love letter to Seville Orange Marmalade. Batali narrated a series of comics drawn for one issue of the magazine as they were projected onto a screen above him. One piece, from the Chinatown issue, was all about Chinese drinking games. Meehan read a piece of his own, a meditation on crab rangoons and the period of his life when he was young and poor enough to think they were wonderful. (I still secretly think they are, though I know, deep down, that anything that combines cream cheese and imitation crab meat should not be wonderful.) The quality of the writing was good, particularly Meehan's piece, but not nearly as good as Ed and I have come to expect from Selected Shorts. But we both really enjoyed the evening and the performances very much. 

The show ended at about 9:30, and we were starving for several reasons. Eager to get to a restaurant and order half the menu, I was dismayed when it took forever to get out of the theater. When we reached the exit, we discovered the reason: Ushers were frantically handing out individually wrapped chocolate chocolate cookies from Momofuku to each member of the audience. I was eager to taste mine, having never been to Momofuku, but Ed and I ended up eating so much at a nearby restaurant that I couldn't imagine trying even a bite of my cookie. It awaits me on our kitchen counter, a tasty morsel to remind me of the deliciously good time I had last night.

The Walking Wounded

It's been a long time since I've posted, but I have a good excuse. I promise.

About a week after the marathon, I went under the knife. What began as a slight, nagging pain in my right wrist whenever I was in the push-up position got slowly worse over months and years. Eventually, it was hurting whenever I carried a heavy bag or even held the phone to my ear for a long time. Forget downward dog in yoga. An x-ray revealed nothing, but an MRI showed that I had several ganglion cysts and a small tear in a ligament in my wrist. So I scheduled a surgery to fix all this and showed up at the crack of dawn on November 13th to get it done. I was quite nervous the night before and all morning, and my panic peaked when I walked into the operating room. I wasn't wearing contacts and they'd made me take off my glasses, so I could hardly see as the nurse led me into a room filled with terrifying gadgets with a table at its center. Standing in the doorway, I started to tremble and nearly bolted, but figured that I wouldn't get far half-blind with no shoes on. Things were hairy at first. I climbed onto the table and felt obligated to make pleasant small talk with the distracted OR team while the trainee assigned to IV duty struggled. (Why I felt pressured to follow social norms while blind, gowned, strapped to a table, and terrified I can't tell you.) He couldn't get it into the back of my hand, and after about five minutes of jabbing and flicking had equal difficulty with several spots on the inside of my arm, eventually prompting the anesthesiologist to cluck sympathetically, "Oh, your poor vein!" But he hit pay dirt with the vein on the inside of my elbow at last. I remember saying, "Here it comes," and went out like a light as the powerful sedative kicked in. 

My memories of the hours after surgery are hazy. They brought Ed to see me in the recovery room, and he reports that we had a conversation about a blister on my toe (leftover from the marathon), which I do not remember. I was wearing a different gown than I'd fallen asleep in, which was somewhat disconcerting, my hair net was gone, and my right arm was encased in a half cast (plaster on the bottom and cotton and ace bandages on the top) and completely numb from just below the shoulder on down thanks to a nerve block. I fell asleep again for a bit, then dressed with the help of Ed and the nurse, manually wrangling my arm into place, gleefully immodest about donning my undergarments in front of a stranger due to the sedative. I was wheeled to a cab and dozed on and off during the ride home. Ed helped me down the stairs to bed and I went right to sleep. I woke for a snack and hour later, then slept again for at least three more hours. My arm gradually regained feeling over the course of the evening. It hurt, but really not too much.

Modeling the foam thing. Usually it rested on a tabletop with my hand sticking straight up in the air - suspending it like this while standing sort of defeated its purpose.

I worked from home the next day, and was back at work the day after that. I hadn't believed my doctor or my father that there wouldn't be much pain (doctors aren't great judges of this in my book), but I must admit that they were both right: it really wasn't bad. At first, my hand would throb a bit when it hung at my side for more than a minuter or two, and it helped to keep it arm elevated with a huge foam contraption they gave me, especially while sleeping. Eventually however, no longer needed it. It was nice to be rid of the foam thing, but the cast was still cumbersome It was so wide that I couldn't fit any long shirt sleeves over it, and in November this was a problem. Around the house, I was able to wear Ed's sweatshirts, but at work I made do with short sleeves and a space heater. I tried my best, but productivity was tough that week. My fingers were free, but the bulky piece of plaster under the heel of my hand made it tricky to do things like type. I relied on dictating text into it the body of an email message on my phone, then sending it to myself, copying the text into the document I needed to work on, and editing it on the screen. My handwriting was abysmal. At home, I couldn't wash or blow dry my hair without help, or do a million other things easily, and Ed was very patient and helpful. Walking around New York with one-and-half useful arms is awful. I will not miss grocery shopping or trying to wrestle an umbrella with a half-casted hand.

Stitch removal: less gross than expected.

Ten days after the surgery, I returned to the clinic to have the cast removed (yay!) and my stitches taken out. There were four incisions (arthroscopic surgery = shorter recovery time) and a small hole on the outside edge of my hand which was used for "drainage." Ew. It was so small that it hadn't needed to be stitched. I was given a removable splint, for which I was grateful, as my wrist felt fragile without the protection of the cast at first. A fellow who I'd met in the office before and who had worked with my surgeon in the OR popped his head into the exam room just as the nurse finally got the last bit of the cast off and asked me if I could move it. I obligingly held up my arm and tried. It was shocking how much mobility I had lost. After being immobilized for only about ten days, I could scarcely bend it. It didn't hurt, exactly, but it was unbelievably tight. Bending it felt like trying to stretch a very tight muscle. I felt that if I pushed it too far, something inside my wrist would snap. All four scars were perched atop a swollen lump about 1x2 inches, too.  I was eager to begin physical therapy.

Heat wrap

Currently, I'm slowly but surely getting my mobility back by doing a series of stretching exercises (basically bending it backward and forward as far as I can a bunch of times) each day and seeing a physical therapist twice a week. During my sessions, my wrist is encased in a heating wrap for a few minutes, then massaged somewhat painfully before I do some more stretching exercises and head home. I've made progress: at my first session, I could bend it only 10° in one direction (can't remember which), and even less than that in the other, but now I'm up to 45° one way and 40° for the other. I can use my wrist and hand for almost any daily task now, though I'm not supposed to lift anything heavier than a quart of milk for a while.  After a few more weeks, I will begin working on strength, and then I can slowly get back into my regular routine of yoga, weightlifting classes at the gym, etc.

The surgery was much easier than I thought, and the recovery has been much more difficult, in that it has been slow. But I am making progress as far as flexibility and my scars are looking smaller and less noticeable. The swelling is also diminishing, though I'm told it will fluctuate a lot over the next few months.

My scars today, almost a month after surgery

Just wanted to provide an update on my status. I recommend taking very good care of your scapholunate ligaments, dear readers. The surgery is a hassle, and the pain medication that comes with it is certainly not enough for a soma-holiday.

Tips for the New York Marathon: Advice, Course Description, and More

This, the final installment in my marathon blog trifecta, may be less interesting to the casual reader than to the NYC marathon hopefuls. The marathon is daunting, and not just because of the distance. There are a lot of unknowns that can make things stressful. Learning as much as possible about what to expect will help runners have a calmer, happier race day. Runners, scroll through to find information about:

• Getting to the Starting Area
• Race Attire
• The Course
• The Finish Area

For spectators, skip down a bit for information about:

• Tracking Your Runner
• Watching the Race
• Post-Race: Finding Your Runner 

Getting to the Starting Area

The Staten Island Ferry terminal

For those without their own transportation, there are two good options for getting to the start on Staten Island: shuttle buses and the ferry. You'll sign up for these well in advance of race day. I recommend the ferry for several reasons. One is that waiting inside the warm terminal building is infinitely preferable to waiting on a chilly pre-dawn sidewalk for your bus. Another is that the ferry provides great views of Manhattan, and of the Verrazano Bridge you'll be conquering in a few short hours. Note that even if you have access to your own car, I don't recommend trying to drive it to the start - much too congested, and you've got enough to worry about without adding traffic to the mix.

Contrary to popular belief, trains in NYC are timely, at least first thing in the morning. If you need to take a train to either the ferry (the South Ferry station on the 1 train will get you there) or to one of the shuttle buses, find out what time you need to catch your train the night before by visiting the MTA's Trip Planner website. The fare is $2.50 for one trip. I recommend buying your card in advance. The train car will be crowded with other runners, so don't expect to find a seat. I barely managed to find standing room on mine. Wait near the end of the platform by the front of the train (the back cars don't have access to South Ferry) - the very first car or two will have a little bit more space.

If you take the ferry, you will have to wait in line once you get to Staten Island for a bus to get you to the starting area. It's a ten-minute drive. Don't be tempted to linger in the Staten Island ferry terminal for too long. It's warm in there, but you don't want to get stuck in a long line for the buses.

What to Bring to the Starting Area
I highly recommend not checking a bag; it will save you at least half an hour at the finish line, where you're going to be exhausted and not in the mood to wait around for your stuff. Another benefit is getting to keep your warm clothes on until the last minute before the race starts (read on for details about that). If you check your warm clothes, you'll have to be without them for at least half an hour before the race starts. (If you want to ignore me and decide to check a bag anyway, you'll drop it off in the starting area and it will be transported to the finish for you.) Not checking? Great! This means that all the warm clothes and other things you'll need for before the race should be disposable. Don't worry about the waste: NYRR will donate all your discarded clothes and blankets to charity. Pack everything in a clear plastic bag (do this the night before the race) to avoid being help up by security.

You will want to have:

• A metro card with $2.50 on it
• Warm clothes - Bring more than you think you will need. Nothing will wreck your mood and physical state before the race like shivering for an hour before the start. Know that it will almost certainly be windier and damper on Staten Island than it is inland in the other boroughs. I highly recommend both long sleeves and pants, preferable in several layers.
• Something for your hands and head - A hoodie with pockets will do the trick. If you don't have one, bring a hat and gloves. You can even take a page from my dad's book and put extra socks over your hands.
• A windproof layer - An old reflective blanket from another race, a rain poncho, or even a large garbage bag will work.
• Something waterproof - If it threatens, even a bit, to drizzle, add this to your line-up. (See above - lots of windproof items will also be waterproof.)
• A blanket or towel to sit on - This will really help keep you warm. I saw runners sitting on old newspapers; this will work in a pinch. You can wrap your blanket/towel around you, too.
• Toilet paper - 'Nuff said. If you bring some extra, you will earn the undying gratitude of others in line behind you when you share it.
• Nutrition/Hydration - I won't presume to try to advise you on what to bring, but know that it will take you around two hours to get from home to the start, so you'll probably want to top off those calories before you begin your race. Food, beverages, and hot water (good for oatmeal) are available at the start, but I recommend having your own food on hand so you don't have to worry about finding what you need. Sip your beverage and don't drink too much or you'll have to use on-course port-a-potties. Trust me that this is best avoided.
• A few dollars - This will give you peace of mind when you leave the house, as you can pick up something you've forgotten while waiting for the bus or in the ferry terminal.

Other Tips for the Starting Area

The starting area is well marked

• Allow yourself about half an hour to get through the bathroom line. It's going to be gross when you do finally get there. Sorry.
• Relax. You'll be anxious, but try to sit still. Don't walk it out. You want to start the race with fresh legs.
• If there's a tent set up somewhere, find space in it so you'll stay warm. There was definitely one in my wave area; I imagine there is probably one for each wave.
• Get into your corral during the designated window - they will close it and you'll have to join a later wave if you're late.
• If you're chilly leave your warm clothes on until the last minute. You can actually wear them into the corral - there are donation boxes in each one - and you can even toss your warm clothes after you leave the corral as you walk toward the start line. 

Race Attire
I hate being too hot while running, so I opted to go for shorts and a singlet on a mostly sunny, breezy day in the 40s. I had arm warmers on in the beginning, but I tucked them into my fuel belt after the first few miles and was quite comfortable during the race. If you're not planning on a very strenuous pace, you may want to dress more warmly, however. Planning to wear a long layer? Find something with a zipper so you can modulate your temperature easily. I recommend gloves (they can be tucked into a waistband if you take them off) if you don't have sleeves; my hands were the only part of me that felt chilly.

Getting a blister mid-race is terrible, so think prevention. Your old hot spots may have healed over during your taper, so try to remember were they are and practice prophylactic bandaging. I've read that coating the outside of your band-aid with Body Glide helps, though I haven't tried it.

The Course
Be familiar with it. Here's the map from the 2013 race.

First, know that there are aid stations every mile, and port-a-potties every few miles. The aid stations are really long, so don't be afraid to pass the first six or so tables if the area is congested to find more elbow room farther down. The first half of the tables will have Gatorade, and the second half has water. Energy gels are available at Mile 17 (I think). One station was also handing out bananas - be extra careful in this area. As you've learned from cartoons, those peels dropped all over the course are slippery.

Here is how I drink water on the course without stopping: 1) Grab the cup near the top and pinch it closed so it doesn't splash out. Yell "thank you." 2) Run for a few steps until you have a clear area ahead and can focus on drinking, not dodging. 3) Hold your breath as you tilt the cup upwards to prevent yourself aspirating the water. 4) When your mouth is full of water, swallow. 5) Take a few breaths, then repeat. It will take you a while to get through the cup. That's OK. Hold onto the cup as long as you need.

Start of the Verrazano Bridge

Take it easy on the hills. You'll encounter your first one just about the second the cannon goes off. The first mile of the Verrazano Bridge is a long, gentle climb. It won't feel too bad because your legs will be fresh. You'll also be full of adrenaline and probably be tempted to blast through it. Don't. Hold yourself back. On a related note, don't weave around people; this will add distance to your race. You want to be slower than your goal pace here. You'll have another mile to make up some of that time on the second half of the bridge, and then another 25 miles after the bridge to continue to gain lost time, so relax and start slowly. A mantra might help. I used, "Bank for the bonk" (i.e. save energy for the part of the race where you're going to run out of juice). You can go faster than your goal pace on the downhill half of the bridge, but don't be a bat out of hell here.

Brooklyn will probably be your favorite part of the race. You'll be feeling great - well warmed up and in your groove by now. Resist the urge to share that joy with the adorable children on the sides of the course holding their hands out for high fives. A small deviation in your course here and there will add a lot of distance to your overall mileage by the time the race is over. ("Bank for the bonk.") Run in a straight line - I used the line painted on the road to make sure I stayed straight - and watch your pace. The course is generally pretty straight here, but there are a few turns. Look ahead and know when they're coming. Stay on the inside and cut them close to save distance.

The Queensboro Bridge (shudder)

For me, the Queensboro bridge, just after Mile 15, was the toughest part of the race. It's not a particularly steep hill, but it goes on and on, unlike the shorter rollers of Brooklyn and Queens. To boot, there are no spectators allowed on the bridge, so you can't get your motivation from your adoring fans. The sudden quiet is almost eerie. Be mentally ready for this stretch. It'll help to know that Manhattan is on the other side. Back off your pace here; you'll have a long downhill after you reach the "summit."

Getting to Manhattan feels great, but stay focused and be extra vigilant of your pace as you proceed up First Avenue. It's easy to get so jazzed up by the crowds, particularly after the terrible lull of the bridge, that you blast out a very fast mile or two that you'll pay for later. You still have ten miles to go, so keep it contained. ("Bank for the bonk. Om.") You'll notice, by sighting ahead of you, that First undulates a bit. I didn't really feel this and haven't heard a lot of complaint about it, so don't panic but know that you'll encounter a few very gentle rises.  

The Bronx has lots of twists and turns, so be sure you're cutting your corners as closely as you can. When you're finally on Fifth Avenue again and can see the Empire State Building in the distance, it will feel like the home stretch. This can be a good place to pick up the pace (right around Mile 21 or so; it's a bit too hilly before this point), but be aware that the second half of Fifth Avenue is one long uphill. It will suck. You should be able to stick with your original target pace here, but if you've kicked it up, you might want to kick it back until...

The park! You'll enter Engineer's Gate at 90th Street and be surrounded on both sides by cheering spectators as you head downhill. Know that the path in the park, though mostly downhill, will include some slopes you'll have to run up. Resist the urge to punch everyone who yells that "you're almost there." You'll have 2.2 miles to go, and they will be tough, but the end is in sight. No more banking for the bonk. Push. Hold it around the curves of the running path in the park, hold it along the straight section along 59th Street, and then floor it as you turn north and barrel toward the finish line.

The Finish Area

Part of the LONG walk after crossing the finish line

Good news: The race is over! (You'll have access to finish photos, so be sure to look up and smile for the camera as you cross the finish line if having a good shot of your sweaty mug is important to you.) Bad news: You've still got a long way to go. You'll collect a medal, a reflective blanket, and a bag of goodies as you walk, and walk, and walk, ushered along by friendly but firm volunteers. Dip into that goodie bag ASAP, even if you don't feel hungry or thirsty. You need calories, so at least sip a bit of Gatorade. You'll walk through the park for about half a mile, then, if you haven't checked a bag, make a left turn and walk along the outside of the park until 73rd Street. You'll get stylish poncho once you leave the park if you did not check a bag. This whole slog is lined with volunteers and metal fencing, so there's really no way to get out of it. It's long and you'll be exhausted, but knowing what to expect will help. It took me about half an hour to get from the finish line through the end of the mandatory walk-out.

73rd is blocked off to cars and all pedestrians but runners between Central Park West and Columbus. There's a line of port-a-potties here, just in case. You can arrange to  meet your family at 73rd and Columbus if you want to, but I don't recommend it. The area will be congested with all the other people who had the same idea, and there's nowhere to sit. I suggest meeting outside the 72nd Street 1 subway station. It's a little farther away, but there are benches where you can rest your very (very, very, very) weary legs if it takes your crew a little longer than planned to show up. You can also go inside the station if it's freezing out - be sure to let your family know you might be inside so they can find you if they don't see you on the benches. Go home, replenish those calories, and glow.

Congratulations!

FOR SPECTATORS

Track Your Runner
Download the free app and keep an eye on it, otherwise it will be next to impossible to find who you're looking for. You can track more than one runner at a time. The app will give you updates for every 5K your runner completes. Find the app at the NYRR website. You don't need your runner's number, just his/her name.

Watching the Race
As much as you can, communicate in advance exactly where you'll be standing so your runner can find you. This is somewhat subject to race-day conditions, of course; you may find that your plan to wait on a particular corner is foiled by a group of 20 who got there first. Be sure they know at least what side of the street you'll be on at the very least, and give them a street or a range of streets (e.g. on the west side of First Avenue, between 80th and 83rd Streets). Be distinctive if you can; my family wore matching orange shirts, and I don't think I'd have been able to spot them otherwise. A helium balloon would be a great idea; a single, red balloon floating a few feet above the crowd will all but ensure that your runner is able to see you.

Lots of people have asked me whether they can watch the finish. Unless you buy bleacher seats, the answer is no. Sadly, it's tough to get anywhere near the finish for most people, so I don't recommend trying. Pick a few points on the course instead - your runner is going to need your support along there more than they will at the finish, anyway. My family saw me three times: once in Brooklyn and twice in Manhattan. They had just enough time to get from place to place, then to walk to the 72nd Street 1 station (see above) to meet me. This seemed to work well, so here's how to do it if you want to repeat their route:

Brooklyn - Around Mile 8 is a great place to watch. It will be crowded, but it's very easy to get to because there are tons of subway lines that converge here. Take the 2, 3, 4 or Q trains to Atlantic Avenue, the G to Fulton, the C to Lafayette, or the N, R, or M to Pacific Street and pick a good spot along Fourth, Atlantic, or Lafayette.

Manhattan - It's easy to go between First and Fifth Avenues to see your runner twice here. From Brooklyn, take the 4 train toward Manhattan and get off at 86th Street. From here, you'll need to walk east three blocks. You'll cross Third and Second Avenues. The race course proceeds up First Avenue. Once you see your runner pass by, turn around and go back the way you came from. Walking west, cross Second, Third, Lexington, Park, and Madison Avenues. You'll run into Fifth Avenue next, where you'll find yourself along the course again. Find a place to watch above 90th Street (i.e. on Fifth Avenue and any street with a number that's bigger than 90), ideally around 93rd through 95th. The course goes into the park at 90th, so you'll need to be staked out on Fifth to see them before this happens.

Post-Race: Finding Your Runner
There is a designated family meet-up area, but thanks to the jerks who bombed Boston last year, security is high and it will likely take your family a while to get sniffed, searched, and patted down before they're able to get into it. Plus, it will be really crowded, and you'll be able to be on your way faster if you pick a spot outside the park to meet. See the second paragraph under The Finish Area (above) for a specific suggestion.

No matter where you decide to meet up, you'll need to keep walking west in order to get on the right side of the park. It's just about impossible to get across Fifth Avenue during the race, and spectators can't cross Park Drive (the road in the park that the runners follow after they leave Fifth Avenue). This is a problem, because you need to cross the park to meet your runner on the west side. Here's your best bet: Walk south along Fifth until you get to 89th. The marathon course will go into the park at 90th Street, so you can cross Fifth at 89th or 88th. Do it, and walk down the west side of Fifth until you get to the Greywacke Arch at 80th Street. This is an underpass you can use to go under Park Drive (i.e. under the course). Keep walking west to your pre-determined meet-up spot. FYI, other underpasses you can use to cross the park by going under the course are Trefoil Arch at 73rd Street, Willowdell Arch at 67th Street, and Inscope Arch at 62nd Street.

Be sure you know exactly where you're going to find your runner. If he/she took my advice, they won't have checked a bag and so won't have a cell phone handy. This means you won't be able to contact them, though they may call you with a borrowed cell phone, so have yours on hand and answer it even if the call is from a number you don't recognize. Another thing they won't have if they haven't checked a bag are warm clothes. They'll be wrapped in a cozy poncho by the time you find them, but even so it might be nice to bring them long pants, a sweatshirt or coat, and a hat. A change of footwear is often appreciated by a weary runner, too. And a small carton of chocolate milk makes for an unbeatable post-race beverage.

I hope this information is helpful to runners and spectators alike! Post any questions you may have in the Comments section and I'll try to address them. Have a wonderful marathon!

The New York Marathon - The Crowds

I read that runners noted fewer fans this year than in past marathons. I find this rather difficult to believe, though of course I have no basis for comparison. While there were a few areas that were a bit sparse, for the most part the course was lined with people. Somewhat annoyingly, some of them were clearly there only to watch for friends or family; they stood there passively, cheering only when they spotted someone they knew. I know it's tough to keep up a steady stream of hooting and hollering, but it's a strange feeling to run by large groups of people who just watch pass without saying anything.

For the most part, however, spectators were vocal, which really helped during the earlier parts of the race before my tunnel vision kicked in. The course was frequently a cacophony of whistling, yelling, cow bells, and the occasional vuvuzela. I had written my name on masking tape and stuck it to the front of my shirt, and quite a few people yelled things like, "Go Beth!" and "You got this, Beth!" as I ran by. It was nice to hear some personalized cheers, but more than that it was motivating, serving as an incontestable reminder that people were watching me and that I'd better keep my pace up! Running alongside others always makes the distance easier to handle, and running in front of others has the same effect.

One of my favorite parts about racing (again, pre-tunnel vision) is looking at all the fan-made signs, and there were plenty to admire on Sunday. Of course there were lots of garden variety signs ("Go Barb Go"; "Good job Daddy! We Love You!"; etc.), but twenty-six point two miles of New Yorkers can be pretty creative. I noticed that making enormous photographs of people's heads--runners, I presumed--and mounting them on sticks so that they could be waved around was popular. Also hot were large pictures of people's pet dogs glued to poster boards. I made mental notes of many of the signs I liked. Here are the ones I remember; please note that some of the content below may not be suitable for children:

You're running better than the federal government/Obamacare website!
(Lots of references to things that are long and hard, and requests for faster performance)
I don't do marathons, I do marathon runners.
Your feet hurt because you're kicking so much ass! (lots of these)
Run now, beer/bacon later!
Babewatch - I'm looking for Pamela*
Yo! Welcome to Brooklyn!
2012 was awful - We missed you!
Run like you stole something! (lots of these)
Status update: You're killing it!
Nice Legs!
Spoiler Alert: A Kenyan won.
Run faster, B*tches ( with a picture of Jesse, plus other signs that made reference to Breaking Bad)
More running, No Walken (with a picture of Christopher Walken)
Way to go, random stranger!
If marathons were easy, they'd be called your mom.
Toenails are for pussies.

Spectators who didn't have signs often had other encouragement to offer. Small children beamed up hopefully at passing runners, offering their palms for high fives. (Normally I oblige, but I was too focused to think much about them on Sunday, not to mention loathe to weave all over the course and add mileage to an already long race.) Similarly, a few signs had the outline of a hand on them with messages inviting runners to "Hit here for power." I saw one man holding a tissue box on a stick over the course and another woman handing out paper towels from a roll; grateful runners grabbed at them and wiped noses as they ran by. Although there were aid stations to provide water and Gatorade, as well as gel packs and bananas in some cases, some spectators took it upon themselves to hand out their own candy, bananas, and orange slices. I saw at least one woman dressed as a banana as she handed them out.

According to a program I received, there were 130 musical performers along the course, and I did seem to pass by a lot of them. The musical styles and degree of talent on display was highly variable. Some groups, sounding like garage bands, played rock. I heard Beatles and bagpipes. I particularly liked a drumline, and was sorry to have to run by a quartet of young women performing a polished dance routine as they sang into microphones. I was generally only able to hear fifteen to twenty seconds' worth of music as I passed by before yelling fans and pounding feet drowned out the sound. Sometimes I was sorry about this, and sometimes I was glad.

Things got really quiet in South Williamsburg, but I was prepared for this lull. I'd learned from a neighborhood guide I read before the race that this area was home to one of the largest community of Samtar Hasidic Jews in the world. Men with beards, earlocks, and big black hats silently watched us run by, looking mildly annoyed. Well-dressed girls in thick tights stood in groups, smiling a bit and talking to each other in hushed voices as they stared at us and we stared right back. It was pretty fascinating. Apparently this group was resistant to the marathon course going right through their neighborhood, but Fred Lebow, founder of the marathon, was able to foster enough goodwill in the community to allow the course to be plotted along its current lines. Lebow was born in Romania as Fischel Lebowitz. He used his fluent Yiddish to sweet-talk the residents into allowing him to design the course the way he wanted it. Some of the residents looked as though they rather regretted this leniency, but I hope they didn't begrudge us this one day too much.

Regardless of whether the spectators were silent or raucous, I always had only to look a few feet to the left or right to be entertained by my fellow runners. I saw several women running in tutus and one man running in a cow costume. In past years, I've twice seen a skinny Asian man running surprisingly quickly in a Minnie Mouse costume, and at least once seen a girl dressed as Winnie the Pooh in a t-shirt that reads "Will Run for Hunny." I did not see either of them this year, unfortunately. Many who were running to raise money for medical research had touching messages on their shirts about the people they were running for. And one zealous German ran with his country's flag tied around his neck like a cape.

All of this is par for the course in New York. I was talking recently to my friend Ferran, a Spaniard I met in graduate school who is living in South Korea now. He doesn't much like it. He said he still feels like a complete outsider after a few months, and could live there forever and probably still feel like he doesn't belong. In New York, though, he felt like a native the moment he arrived. This city is like that. The diversity and variety can be overwhelming, but that's part of what makes New York so welcoming, too. It seems fitting that this spirit of openness permeated the marathon.

*Pamela Anderson was just one of the celebrities who ran the marathon. I looked for her but did not see her, and learned later that she was almost certainly behind me. She finished nearly two hours after I did.

The New York Marathon - Overview

Pre-race, modeling my intended clothing choice for a
picture to send to friends. I ended up adding some tape
with my name written on it to the shirt, as well as my
race number.

Hard to believe that the big day has come and gone! I ran a marathon, but it is not my intention, dear reader, to saddle you with a marathon reading session. I have a lot to say, though, so I will divide and conquer: I plan to write this post as a general overview, write a post about the people along the course next, and finish with a post to share useful tips and information with people who wish to run the New York Marathon. (This one will still be very long. Hope you're hydrated.)

To get to the start of the marathon on Staten Island, I chose to take the ferry rather than the shuttle buses provided by NYRR. This meant a southward ride on the 1 train at 6:30. The South Ferry station has a very short platform so only the first half of the train has access to it, and when the train arrived it was packed with runners. I don't think I've ever been in such a crowded car outside of Japan. People were rather quiet and meditative, but there were whoops when we finally arrived at our station at the end of the line and the conductor told us over the loudspeaker to have a great race.

I joined a sea of runners that poured into the terminal building past numerous cops, some with bomb-sniffing dogs on leashes that gave every passer-by a casual sniff. I saw two Homeland Security officers as we boarded. There were more cops on the ferry itself, and a peek out the window revealed our armed police boat escort. People around me struck up conversations with strangers. A New Zealander sitting across from me kept bouncing in his seat and grinning to himself. He started chatting with a woman from Kentucky who was here for her first marathon. She said she felt like she'd already run one, having taken her kids sightseeing all over the city the day before. I, who had spent Saturday being as immobile as possible, hoped this didn't hurt her race.

Once on Staten Island, I sat in the warm ferry building for a while before heading out to line up for the shuttle buses. There was really no established uniform and I saw all kinds of ensembles. Some people looked sleek and athletic in lycra, while others, like me, wore loose sweats. "Did those pants come with free bowl of soup, Steve?" one guy cracked, looking meaningfully at his friend's over-sized fleece pants. I spotted a girl wearing a bathrobe. I was grateful for my too-big sweatsuit and the old towel I'd brought in lieu of a blanket as I waited for the shuttle; the wind was biting and it felt much colder than it had been in Manhattan. I heard someone tell his friend that the temperature was in the high 40's, but with the windchill the "real feel" was in the mid-30s. We were wanded with metal detectors after exiting the bus and sniffed by more dogs.

Ed's photos of the leading men. We heard them being
introduced, then their starting gun, from my corral, though
we couldn't see them. 

After waiting in a long line for the very unpleasant port-a-potties in my starting area, I sat around for about 20 minutes until it was time to report to my corral. We were allowed to wear our warm clothes in, thank goodness, because there was more waiting around inside before we were allowed to start. (To put it in perspective: I left my apartment at 6:20 and did not start the race until 10:05.) Finally, it was time to walk toward the starting line, which took another five minutes. I tossed my sweats into one of the bins for donated clothing, which was overflowing, and shivered for ten minutes before we were finally allowed to start. My wave was the second of four, and my corral was the first or second one in the wave, meaning that it wasn't long after the cannon blast that I crossed the starting line and was off.

It was a very surreal feeling to set out on the Verrazano Bridge. I felt as though I was going slower than most of the people around me, but I knew I had to keep my pace in check. One woman in bright tights and a running skirt breezed by me, calling out, "On your left!" then "On your right!" to the guy in front of me as she dodged around us. I reminded myself that while I didn't know what her goals were, I knew that mine dictated a slower pace than that. I glanced at my watch often, but was dismayed to discover that I had somehow pressed the "stop" button at 58 seconds in. I asked a fellow runner for the mileage at that point and learned that my watch was only .3 miles behind. Still, I wasn't able to rely on it from then on for anything but pacing, which was slightly disorienting.

Click here for a course map. I was in the blue wave.

The bridge was peaceful (or it would have been if there weren't low-flying police helicopters on either side of us - many of the runners waved cheerfully at them), and I was glad for the chance to mentally center myself in advance of the race. I was warming up (meaning my muscles were loosening and my toes were regaining feeling) and felt good, though I had the nagging sensation that I needed to pee. I figured it was just nerves. The first mile or so of the bridge is a long, gentle uphill, and I ran it more slowly than my pace dictated--on purpose, not wanting to use any more energy than necessary--but I was able to speed up and make up the time on the long downhill that followed. Then we were in Brooklyn. It was clear, at this point, that my feeling that I needed to pull over was not all in my head, and I ended up using the very first port-a-potties on the course at Mile 3. Luckily, one was vacated as soon as I arrived at it, so I didn't need to wait in line. Between slowing down, stopping, using it, and getting back on the road, I estimate I lost somewhere around 90 seconds.

Adoring fans in Brooklyn: Mom, Ed, Dad, Jenny, and Anthony

I really enjoyed the Brooklyn part of the race. The miles, as they say, melted away. I was warm enough to pull off my warm warmers, which I tucked into my fuel belt. Each mile had a marker--which I found very useful since my watch wasn't reliable--and long tables from which volunteers handed out water and Gatorade. I grabbed a cup of water every few miles, the soles of my shoes sticking to the sugary asphalt as I did so. I spotted Ed, my parents, my brother, and a few friends jumping up and down and cheering around Mile 8. Somewhere around this point, I passed the woman in the bright tights and running skirt who had passed me on the bridge miles before. She was plodding along slowly, and I did not see her again.

Brooklyn is a huge borough; almost half the course is in Brooklyn. Our foray through Queens felt pretty short, by comparison. I still felt pretty good, but all that changed on the Queensboro Bridge. I know the overall elevation change is less than the Verrazano Bridge, and it is definitely shorter, but it felt much steeper - perhaps I was just tired. My hamstrings felt so tight that at one point I stopped along the side and did about ten seconds worth of stretching before continuing on. It seemed that we'd never stop climbing. No spectators are allowed on the bridge, so the only sounds were huffing and puffing and footsteps as the runners around me directed their focus inward. Then, at last, we were headed downhill, and we barreled into Manhattan.

My cheering section crossing Central Park.
These matching orange shirts were essential
to my being able to spot these guys during
the run.

The "wall of sound" that greets runners as they enter Manhattan is famous among marathoners, but I found the reception waiting there for us to be more tepid than the crowds in Park Slope in Brooklyn had been. I continued to focus on my pace--I felt I'd really gotten it locked in at this point--because I'd read horror stories about runners being so excited to be in Manhattan that they blasted out a few really fast miles and paid for it later. I worried I wouldn't spot my family, but my dad had climbed some scaffolding and I spotted him waving, then everyone else below him. This gave me a boost, but not enough of a boost to ignore a problem that was growing more urgent by the step - I need to pee again. I couldn't believe it--this never happens to me during races--but there was no getting around it, and so I did another mad dash off the course which cost me another 90 seconds or so. Back on the course, I passed three runners standing still in the middle of the course, shielding a woman who had fallen. Two others were helping her to her feet. Her stiff, extended leg told me it was a cramp.

There were a few long, gentle hills along First Avenue, but we got to a steep-ish, albeit short climb when we crossed the bridge to the Bronx. A man next to me muttered, "I hate bridges." One of the students I tutor had told me that he'd be watching by "a yellow church," so I kept an eye out for that but didn't spot it, or him. There is a lot of twisting and turning in this part of the course, but finally we were headed west again. I could see the Empire State building on the horizon and knew two things: 1) it was really just a long, straight shot until just about the end of the race, and 2) one of the toughest parts was still to come.

I'd passed Mile 21 just before arriving at Fifth Avenue. Most runners "hit the wall" somewhere around Mile 18, but that hadn't happened for me yet. My legs had taken on that pleasantly dull feeling they often do when I've been running for a long time but am in good shape. They hurt, but I feel sort of detached from them and have the sense that I can keep going for a long, long time. And, generally, I can, so I knew I was almost certainly going to be good for the 4+ miles. It wasn't bonking* I was worried about. It was Fifth Avenue, over a mile of which is a long, gentle-but-relentless ascent. I fell into pace with three Swedes and listened to them babble away breathlessly, mentally steeling myself. For the first third of the race I'd been holding back, and the second third I'd been running along comfortably. Now I felt myself pushing, not too hard but constantly, to keep my pace up. I lost the Swedes, but ended up just behind two very tall, bald men in matching orange t-shirts and shorts who were running back and forth across the course, waving and high-fiving fans. I stuck with them for the next few miles. I spotted my small group of cheerleaders for the last time and waved at them, then turned my attention back to holding my pace. The hill went on and on until, finally, we arrived at Engineers' Gate and entered the park on a downward slope. Finally.

At this point there were two miles to go. I'd imagined that the park part of it would be relatively easy. I know the park well, so I'd be on familiar ground, and I figured I'd be buoyed by the fact that I was almost done. But pushing hard when one is that tired is no picnic, and since I usually run around the park the other direction, there were moments when I wasn't sure exactly where I was. (I'm sure being exhausted didn't help my navigational skills.) My memory of this part of the race is, alarmingly, a little fuzzy. I was aware that there were a lot of people along the sides of the course, but I had entered what my friend Eliot refers to as the Pain Tunnel. I focused on keeping my cadence fast, and on not throwing up, which was feeling more and more like it was a possibility. I noticed that I was passing more people than I had at any other point in the race. Some of them were even walking. It's nice to pass people, of course, but I was irritated that I had to weave around them, costing me precious steps and energy. Mile 25 came and went. The last mile was incredibly hard. Markers told me that I had a mile to go, then 800 meters, then 400 meters. It wasn't until I had 100 meters left that I felt I was close to the end. I threw every ounce of energy I had into my legs and sprinted.

Cozy in my poncho

I don't really remember crossing the iconic finish line as much as I remember hitting the "stop" button on my watch, then looking around at everyone walking. I almost felt, for a moment, as though I had to keep running - it was strange after all that time that it was OK to stop. I was emitting a strange little moan with every exhale, and couldn't stop for a few moments. Because of my watch snafu, I had no idea what my final time was. Figuring I'd look it up later, I started walking. I passed a woman weeping in the arms of another runner. People were laughing, hugging, slapping hands, or else looking silent and haggard. Some were stretching. I passed a few on wheeled stretchers. Paramedics watched us walk by. Patches of cat litter on the asphalt showed me where other runners had lost their own battles with the urge to revisit pre-race nutrition; my own stomach was slowly but surely calming. I collected a medal, had my picture taken, then picked up a reflective blanket and a recovery bag containing some bottles of beverages, an apple, some pretzels, and other things. Then I sat on a curb next to an exhausted-looking man to put on my arm warmers, as I was suddenly freezing despite the blanket. This helped, but I still had to enlist the help of a friendly park ranger to open my bottle of Gatorade due to cold, stiff fingers. It tasted terrible and my stomach was still roiling a bit, but I wanted to get enough calories into my system to make it to 72nd Street where I'd meet Ed and my family and catch the train home.

The walk out of the finish area seemed to take forever. We finished around 62nd Street but had to walk all the way up to 77th before we were allowed to exit the park. Then those who hadn't checked bags were shepherded further through the never-ending walkway out of the park, where we were given bright orange, hooded ponchos with windproof outsides and fleecy insides and told to keep walking. Finally, back down at 73rd Street, we were allowed to exit the area, and I staggered two long blocks to the station to meet my family.

Drinking chocolate milk, my preferred post-
workout beverage - still too tired to take off
my poncho.

The thing about exerting that kind of effort is that even stopping doesn't help right away. My legs, feet, and knees hurt for the rest of the night, and throughout dinner and a movie on the couch and even in bed as I waited to fall asleep I couldn't get comfortable. But this is par for the course. Now, a little over 24 hours after my finish. I feel surprisingly good. My muscles are certainly sore, but mostly only when I stretch them or stand up for the first time after sitting for a while; once I've walked for twenty or thirty seconds, I feel much better. This, more than my race result, tells me that my training was sufficient.

Speaking of results, my final time ended up being 3:44, twenty-one minutes faster than my former personal best but four minutes slower than my (admittedly ambitious) goal time. A portion of that spillover, obviously, is due to my two bathroom stops. Still, I'm not sure I'd have been able to finish in 3:40 even if I'd run continuously, though I'd have gotten awfully close. I certainly debunked the Yasso 800 theory, as I was a long way from finishing in 3:27 the way my intervals indicated I would! Ed has calculated that I was in the top 10% of my age group, and the top 20% overall, which is pretty cool. Upon finishing, I was pleased to discover how consistent my pace during the race had been. My split times were as follows:

5K - 27 minutes

10K - 26 minutes

15K - 26 minutes

20K - 27 minutes

25K - 27 minutes

30K - 27 minutes

35K - 27 minutes

40K - 26 minutes

(A marathon is just over 42K, by the way.) This works out to an average pace of 8:35 per minute. Part of me is a bit surprised by how consistent I managed to stay, given the hills, but part of me expected this. If there's one thing I'm good at, it's picking a pace and sticking with it - I seem to have a knack for getting into a groove. Seeing all my splits really hammers home how tired I was; I felt as though I was running six-minute miles by the end of the race, which was obviously not the case!

With Anthony and Ed outside the 72nd Street station

I am both relieved and sorry that the marathon is already over. My brother asked me yesterday, as he watched me hobble off the train, if it was all worth it and I told him to ask me in a few days. It hasn't taken me that long to decide, however. I can already say that it was, and I would absolutely do it again (in, say, a year). I didn't experience the rush people always talk about at any point during the race, even at the end (I was too tired), but I look back on yesterday with great joy and pride. It's quite a feeling to work hard for a long time and see one's efforts pay off. Seeing so much of the city I love, and its people, on foot was certainly a phenomenal experience, as was running with such a massive group of 50,000 other runners from all over the world who all felt rather like comrades for a few short hours. And I've been moved by the enthusiasm with which my friends and family supported me over the weekend, and the heartfelt congratulations of so many people all day today. Should I have the good fortune to do this marathon again, I'll look forward not to the anxious first-time run of a newbie but the confident race of an experienced runner.

*Bonking = running out of energy/crashing and burning