Running to Redefine Normal

I ran two uplifting races this weekend, the annual Pride Run and the Achilles Run for Hope and Possibility. It was hot and almost unbearably humid on both mornings and so I was grateful for the feel-good atmosphere of both events, without which I'm not sure I would have made it.

Rainbow bracelets for the Pride Run

With the recent Supreme Court decision, I expected the Pride Run to be more wild and crazy than usual, but it felt about the same as last year. People still dressed in wacky costumes and there was still a great turn-out, but otherwise it felt just like any other Pride race I've run. The race felt pretty typical, with a few key differences. The anthem was sung as usual, but it was performed by a cast member of Kinky Boots and was one of the best race-day renditions I've heard. The race instructions were given by an enthusiastic man with an effeminate lilt to his voice who told a few jokes that had us tittering. We heard a few more brief speeches than usual, and I learned that this was the 32nd annual Pride Run. Wow. Leave it up to New York City to be that progressive. Thirty-two years ago, however, the race was small and most runners avoided it for fear of being ostracized. Now the New York Front Runners, an LGBT running team, has more than 900 members. Times change. We were thanked for coming out as LGBT community members and allies, and then the gun sounded and we set off on a sweaty, five-mile slog. I saw rainbow tutus and a guy in a red speedo wearing a rainbow flag as a cape, and the runners were more attractive than usual, but otherwise it felt like a pretty normal race. What a race for the history books, however! I wondered how many of the spectators on the sidelines were cheering for a same-sex partner, and how many of the children had two moms or two dads. I was thrilled to know that they finally could enjoy equal rights under the law.

Sunday morning, I left the registration tent for the Achilles race with a different goal than usual. Instead of heading for the corrals, I found a bench just behind the announcers' stage and parked myself on it. Last year, Jon Stewart had made a speech at this race, and, figuring that this was one of his regular charities, I was determined to see him. A few minutes after I sat down, two white women and a black women approached, and the black woman sat next to me. She had long, carefully curled hair and meticulous Pumas on, and sipped from a travel mug. In a few minutes, a man with a clipboard approached and shook her hand. "Thank you so much for coming!" he gushed. "I'm so honored to meet you." Whoa, this was someone important. I slyly pulled out a headphone, the better to eavesdrop. The man waved another man over. "I want you to meet someone," he said. "This is Anthony Edwards. Anthony Edwards, Gloria Gayner."

Let me put that into perspective for those of you who are as thick as I am: "This is Anthony Edwards."

As in, sitting-next-to-Tom-Cruise-as-Goose-in-Top-Gun Anthony Edwards

"Anthony Edwards, Gloria Gayner."

"Oh, not I/I will survive/As long as I know how to love/I know I'll stay alive..."

It was only during both celebrities' speeches a few minutes later that I put together who they actually were. Edwards, who played a fighter pilot and later a doctor on E.R., was committed to races for people who are differently abled. Gayner's song gives inspiration to thousands of athletes who have more to overcome than the average runner. One of the white women, who seemed to be Gayner's assistant, explained that the man who'd initially approached her was Toby Tanser, director of the race and founder of an organization called Shoes4Africa that sends used running shoes to people in need. Just when I thought things couldn't get any cooler, I recognized a very familiar and admired face coming over to introduce herself to Gayner.

Mary Wittenberg, president and CEO of NYRR, got a lot of flack after the Hurricane Sandy/marathon debacle. I am a huge fan of hers, however. I think she was put in an impossible position, made even more impossible by Bloomberg's announcement that the marathon was still on (the wording of which made me think she probably didn't have much of a say). She was going to piss people off no matter what she did, and I really felt for her. I love her organization, I'm impressed that she, as a woman, runs one of the largest athletic companies in the country, and I admire her for welcoming all the runners before each race, then hopping off the stage and running among us. She's probably in her 50's and is tall, slender, and pretty. She introduced herself to Gayner, then looked at me. "You ran the Pride Run yesterday!" she exclaimed, I was wearing the t-shirt I'd picked up from the race, and stammered out that I had and that it was awesome. She beamed at me and then turned to greet the CEO of Cigna, who was standing there with his wife and kids, all in matching Cigna jerseys. Goodness. I'll have to hang out by the stage more often. 

The race itself was a bit of a mess, as the division containing all the blind runners with guides and the people intending to complete the race on crutches started about 7 minutes before the able-bodied runners did. Needless to say, things got pretty impacted as we caught up to them, but most of the participants who were really slow turned to make a smaller, 1.7-mile loop, about a mile in and then things opened up. I always find it inspirational to watch people running in spite of all kinds of disabilities: prosthetic legs, missing arms, vision loss, paralysis, etc. One of the wheelchair athletes was Mery Daniel who lost her log in the Boston bombings. I saw a man I recognized from last year who looked to have some sort of cerebral palsy. He doesn't seem to have command of his arms, so he turns his wheelchair backwards and propels himself by pushing off with his legs instead, needing his two guides only for steering. It was a hot race, again, and I was glad when it was over, but a really great one to be a part of. 

I love running for many reasons, but participating in events like this in New York City has added a few more to the list. I love coming into contact with fascinating people, even if we don't interact beyond simply exchanging a smile as we run or wheel alongside each other. I love that my race entry fees help fund organizations that promote equal rights and athletic opportunities for groups that, while gaining acceptance, are still marginalized. And I love that simply by showing up, I can swell the crowds a little to show my support for alternative lifestyles and my acceptance of athletes of all abilities. 

Fulfilling My Civic Duty Leaves me Feeling Confused

I planned to join Ed a the gym last night, but due to a series of unexpected events on the homefront found that it had grown too late. So I changed back out of my gym clothes into street clothes and decided to walk the half mile there to meet him - it was a nice evening and the idea of getting in at least a little physical activity was appealing. I made it most of the way there when, on 20th Street between 10th and 11th Avenues, I saw something troubling.

Next to a loading dock, there was a shopping cart with a plastic bag of empty cans tied to it, and behind this barrier were two people lying on some pieces of cardboard. This is not an unusual sight on this block, where our posh neighborhood gives way to warehouses for a block or so. Instead, what caught my attention was the gruff, angry shouts of a man. I couldn't see much of his companion, but the thin leg and small shoe visible to me made me think it must be a woman. My first instinct was to keep the New York City blinders in place, and I kept walking for a few feet. But something didn't feel right, so I pulled off my headphones. By now, the woman was shrieking. The man did not seem like someone I wanted to tangle with, so from the safety of about 15 feet away, I fumbled for my cell phone. I was just dialing 911 when a new voice caused me to turn back to the scene.

A tall, fashionably dressed woman about my age was striding toward the cart. "Is everything alright?" she asked, in a firm tone that meant business. "Oh yeah, she's fine," the man behind the cart said. The tall woman pulled out her cell phone. "Are you calling the police?" I asked her as I approached. She said she was, so I put away my cell phone. The man began to protest. "You don't need to call the cops, come on," he pleaded. "She's fine." "She can tell the police she's fine," I fired back. Meanwhile, in the background, the tall woman was explaining that she'd come upon an assault and was describing our location. The man leapt up, pulled on both shoes and hurried away down the street, dragging his shopping cart along beside him with one practiced hand. He was about six feet tall, very tan, bald, and shirtless. He looked to be about 50.

As he fled, the woman shakily emerged. She was petite with curly black hair and rings of eye make-up that looked to be a few days old. She smelled like a combination of your run-of-the-mill homeless person and a brewery, and was dressed in jeans and a clean-ish, loose white t-shirt with a few holes in one sleeve. Her fingernails were stained with the remnants of red polish and had dirt caked under each. She was teary as she thanked us for stopping. Two other people, she said, had walked by the struggle and just kept going. I had intended to leave once the police were on the way, but realized immediately that I couldn't go until they arrived. The tall woman, who introduced herself to me as Abigail, asked the woman if she was alright, and the woman explained (in more vulgar terms than I will use here) that the man had been pressuring her for sex. She knew him, but "just as friends," and they'd "done a few cans," which I thought initially was a drug reference, though based on the alcohol reek eventually figured just meant that they'd been drinking. Then things had gotten ugly. She described her turbulent past interactions with the man and said that he always seemed to know where she was. She couldn't get away from him. She showed us a well-established bruise on her arm and a day-old scratch on her throat and said he'd done that to her just then. He'd also stolen her Medicaid card and her ID, and wept that she'd be arrested without identification.  Her name, she said, was Lynn. Her story felt a little fishy, but there was no question that we came upon him being violent and that she was scared of him. And no matter how drunk or destitute someone is, they have the right not to be assaulted in my book.

We settled in to wait. Five minutes stretched into 20, and there was no sign of the police. Ed called me as he finished his swimming class and eventually joined us on the sidewalk. As I hung up the phone, Lynn looked at me, her eyes filling anew with tears. "Am I keeping you from something?" she asked, looking guilty and miserable. I assured her that she shouldn't worry. Lynn told us a bit more about herself, and it was hard to know what to believe (that she had a job, that her husband had passed away three months before, that she'd fallen once and woken up in the hospital only to learn years later that they'd put a plate in her head). Every few minutes, she'd exclaim "Thank God you ladies walked by!" and thank us profusely, apologizing for inconveniencing us and wiping her eyes. Abigail and I talked to her about finding a safe place to sleep for the night and helped her plan a route to her friend's uptown apartment that would prevent William, the bald man, from seeing her. We scanned the street, both looking for a cop car and hoping that William was not on his way back.

The police called Abigail back now and then as we waited. They were having trouble finding us, initially because they were looking for us in Brooklyn. They must have asked for another description of the man, because Abigail launched into it again. Then she paused and looked at me. "What race do you think he was?" she asked. He'd been dark complected, but it's hard to say with people living on the street who often earn dark tans. Lynn broke in. "Pardon my language, ladies, but he's a f*cking sp*c," she spat. "Uh, he's Hispanic," said Abigail carefully, turning back to the phone call.

About 25 minutes after Abigail made the first call, a sedan turned onto the street. "That looks like a cop car," said Ed. "That looks like a gray Ford," I said. To my surprise, it pulled up next to us and we saw two burly men in plainclothes in the front seats and an officer in uniform in the back. They asked for another description and inquired which way the man had gone, then one jerked his thumb behind him as they sped off. I was preparing to be irked that they'd abandoned us when I looked up and saw a police car pulling up from behind them. The officers in it did not look impressed as Lynn told a bit of the story and Abigail added that it had been an attempted rape. The cop nodded distractedly, then got out of the car. "You know who I am?" she asked Lynn, and Lynn nodded. "What did I tell you about drinking in the street?" she asked as she opened the back door. Lynn meekly got into the backseat, thanking us again, and we called goodbye to her as the car pulled back into the lane. Abigail and I shook hands and went our separate ways.

Mulling it all over in my head for the rest of the night and most of today has left me feeling confused. I'm annoyed with the police for being so cavalier, and I wonder whether Abigail's description of the man as shirtless and pushing a shopping cart had something to do with their slow response time. At the same time, I understand how frustrating it must be for them to intervene in the same situations over and over again. Lynn is clearly no saint, but that doesn't mean she has no right to protection from the authorities. But I wonder if they see it that way. I wonder whether she spent the night in jail. I don't wonder whether the police tried to direct her toward a program for recovery from substance abuse; I know they didn't. Is that their fault, or is it everyone's fault for not demanding that these resources be made available to our most vulnerable citizens? Did they find William? If so, what will happen to him? They certainly didn't take any statements from us, which leads me to assume that they did not plan to press charges. Will the two find each other again? What will happen next time? How would this scene have played out differently if Abigail and I had come upon a wealthy woman being assaulted by a wealthy man?

Just about the only thing I'm certain of is that intervening was the right thing to do, though if Abigail had not been there I don't think I would have been so aggressive; one never knows what someone is capable of, especially when that someone is clearly under the influence of an unknown substance. I want to live in the kind of world where people stop wrongdoing when they see it. Ed commented that it had probably been a long time since someone tried to help Lynn, and I hope she remembers this experience and our pep talk about how she has the right to have people respect her decisions. But how much did delivering her to the back of a cop car help her? And I know that my hope that we somehow impacted her life in a lasting way is wishful thinking. It's hard for people to change, especially when the deck is so stacked against them. Maybe eventually I will find the lesson in this that I'm searching for, or maybe I'll make peace with the fact that there isn't one.

Beth's Weekend, and Beyond: Cliffs Notes

Settings: Mexico City, Mexico, and New York City, USA
Primary Characters: Beth, Ed, Marko (groom), Sheila (bride)
Genres: tragedy, comedy, adventure
Major Themes: illness, redemption, relapse, natural disaster, hubris

Chapter One Synopsis - Events Leading Up to the Wedding
Beth, having arrived safely in Mexico City, meets Ed at the hotel as he is on the way to the rehearsal; he has been named Padron of the Rings. Later, while dressing for the rehearsal dinner, Ed tells Beth that the rehearsal was a disaster, as Sheila was very late and the group missed their time slot. Beth learns that Sheila appeared very ill. Later, at the rehearsal dinner, Sheila makes a brief appearance and seems pale and unwell. Ed's mother finally takes charge and chases her into the elevator and home. Beth and Ed offer condolences to Marko.

Chapter Two Synopsis - Day of the Wedding

The reception area

Beth, Ed, and Ed's brother and sister-in-law meet in the lobby for breakfast just as Marko's parents arrive. They learn that Marko and Sheila are both in the hospital on IVs, along with Marko's cousin's girlfriend. All three ate dinner at the same seafood restaurant two days before. Later, word is circulated that they have been struck with salmonella poisoning. Much speculation is raised about whether the wedding will occur, but everyone proceeds as planned. Buses transport the guests to a large cathedral at 6:30, and at 7:15 the wedding party begins to process down the aisle. Marko looks somewhat peaked, though Sheila looks well. The priest announces that the full Catholic mass will now be abbreviated due to the bride and groom's condition. An inaudible sigh of relief ripples through the groom's side of the church. The bride and groom are married to the tune of a live string quartet and choir. Alexandra, the groom's cousin, looks nervous during her reading and later collapses as the guests are filing out; it is later learned that she, too, has been struck with salmonella poisoning. Due to the Cipro taken by everyone at the restaurant as a prophylactic measure, however, she is not hospitalized. Beth's stomach, which has been feeling unsettled all day, finally recovers just as a waiter walks by carrying a tray of lychee margaritas.

The bride and groom rest while the guests take their seats, then appear above the crowd and descend in a glass elevator with "All You Need is Love" playing in the background and fireworks lighting the scene. Toasts are drunk and dinner eaten, though the new couple avoids consumption of liquids or solids. The guests watch several dances featuring the bride and groom and various family members, then the dance floor is opened to everyone. Glow sticks, plastic neckties, light-up devil horns, pom-poms, balloons, and shots are distributed to the dancers at intervals.  

Beth and Ed notice that the groom and his family have vanished, but they reappear near 1:00 A.M.; it is discovered that the groom was napping upstairs. The bride and groom cut the cake, then retire as it is served. Beth and Ed leave the celebration shortly afterward.

Chapter Three Synopsis - Post-Wedding Events

Medieval-style dinner at Meson el Cid

After breakfast with Ed's mother shortly before her departure, Ed takes a nap while Beth goes shopping in a nearby mercado. It is learned that Sheila and Marko have spent their wedding night fighting over use of the bathroom. In the afternoon, Beth and Ed board a tour bus, where Beth is immediately bitten by a sinister-looking insect that leaves a large welt. The bus takes the group on a tour of Mexico City, and Beth and Ed join the bride and groom for a cocktail party that evening. Marko is in attendance, signalling his recovery by taking skips from a bottle of Gatorade and eating a roll. Sheila appears to be improving as well. The groom's brother-in-law, Sean, shows Ed and Beth a picture of Alexandra and the ill girlfriend-of-cousin being transported through the airport in wheelchairs. Later, Ed and Beth go to a local restaurant for dinner with Sean and Charlotte, the groom's sister. They are surprised to find that the restaurant hosts a medieval-style feast on Saturday nights. They are plied with wine and entertained by jugglers, acrobats, musicians, and men on stilts. Back in the hotel, Ed and Beth are woken from their sleep at 12:19 A.M. because their room is swaying violently. They conclude that it is an earthquake and wait in the darkness for about 90 seconds for it to stop. When it does, the curtains continue to sway. When no announcements are made, they eventually go back to sleep.

Chapter Four Synopsis - Back to New York
That morning, Ed tells Beth he has read that it was a 5.8-magnitude earthquake. They find no damage in their room or outside the hotel. After breakfast, they pack, and Beth's stomach again begins to feel unwell. It grows worse during the wait at the airport, the flight to JFK airport, and the cab ride to their apartment. The cats greet them with loud howls of huger, which move Ed and annoy Beth.

Chapter Five Synopsis - Ed's Accident

Ed in his room

Beth goes to work in the morning but leaves due to stomach pain by 11:00. As she lies down, she notices that Ed's street clothes are on the bed and that is running shoes are gone. When he is not back by 12:45, she begins to worry, and at 1:30 his mother calls to say Ed is in the hospital, confirming Beth's suspicions. Ed's mother reports that Ed did not know Beth's phone number (Beth rolls her eyes, as she has been encouraging him to memorize it for a year and a half) and left her a message to pass on instead. He is at Beth Israel because he passed out during his run. Beth immediately packs Ed's wallet and phone and a change of clothes for him and takes a cab to find Ed in the emergency room. She sees that his face and knee are scraped but that he looks otherwise alert and normal. He explains that he stopped at an intersection, felt dizzy, and woke up in the middle of the street, being tended by a patron of a nearby restaurant. He felt fine, but an ambulance was called. He received a CAT scan and several EKGs and his blood was tested. A doctor soon arrives, who tells Beth and Ed that though everything looks fine, it is recommended that Ed stay overnight for continuous heart monitoring. Beth returns home for more supplies and a bagel sandwich for Ed and returns just in time to watch him be wheeled to a room. In a conversation with Ed's brother, she learns that Sheila has gone back for an ultrasound and that the honeymoon is postponed indefinitely. Beth stays with Ed throughout the evening; they watch a movie on his laptop and eat dinner.

Chapter Six - Resolution

Ed's ride to the stress test

Beth joins Ed at the hospital the following afternoon. He is changing into shorts for a stress test. The nurse insists on wheeling him to the treadmill and he runs for 20 minutes. Later, a doctor joins Beth and Ed in Ed's room to tell him that his heart appears completely healthy and that the unconsciousness was likely caused by Ed's very fit heart returning his body to low, post-exercise blood pressure too quickly as a result of stopping suddenly. This can happen to people with overly fit hearts, he says, and the two discuss the principle of diminishing returns as related to fitness. The doctor gives Ed some tips to prevent this happening again, and after answering some questions, discharges Ed and tells him to return home. Beth and Ed take a cab and are greeted by their Russian doorman. He inquires about Ed's face, then points to Beth and asks if she did it. Beth assents and the doorman nods wisely and says, "Yjes, this is sometimes happen."

Colum McCann Captivates, Again

When I went to see Salman Rushdie speak about his memoir Joseph Anton, I was doubly excited about the event. I would get to see Rushdie speak for the second time, but I'd also get to hear Colum McCann, scheduled to talk with Rushdie, for the first. Colum McCann wrote Let the Great World Spin, one of the best novels I've read in the last five years. He also wrote Dancer, a wonderful book that I purchased and read in honor of the occasion so that I'd be ready to have him sign it. After the two literary giants were finished speaking that night, I left my friend Jeremy in the line for Rushdie's book signing and set off timidly to ask McCann to sign my book. He was not doing an official signing, but he very graciously obliged and chatted with me for a few minutes before I thanked him and staggered off, thrilled with my prize.

Colum McCann

This time, I was eager to hear McCann talk about his own work. This would, I assumed, be the first time he talked about his newest novel Transatlantic. I did no research on that, but since the book was to be released on June 4th and the event was scheduled for June 5th, I figured it was a fairly safe assumption. Ed and I arrived to a full house and took our seats. McCann was to be speaking with John Wray, an author I'd never heard of, though he's written a handful of novels which have been well received and was selected by Granta magazine (a favorite of mine) as one of the best young American novelists writing today. He is long and lanky - the kind of guy who can make wearing a suit look like an act of revolution. He and McCann were friends and made lots of references to conversations they've had between them, and with mutual friend Nathan Englander, another powerhouse writer. McCann was wearing a narrow scarf over otherwise nondescript clothes. This seems to be his trademark; when I last saw him, he wore a similar style, and blogging about the experience later, I discovered that he had on something similar in nearly every picture of him that Google turned up.

John Wray

Ed said afterward that this was the first author conversation to which I've dragged him that he felt he wanted to be a part of. I know what he meant. The underlying theme of the talk was, of course, McCann's new book, but the conversation was less about writer's craft, character development, and long days at the computer (though all that figured in) than it was about philosophy, interpersonal relations, and life. McCann talked about first being inspired by a little-known episode in history to write the book, but said he did not want to write a historical novel because to him, the genre was one that people felt they had to treat "with kid gloves." As with Let the Great World Spin and Dancer, the story is told by many voices. Transatlantic spans centuries as well, and is a testament not only to how Irish people have shaped the United States (that's been done) but to how we have influenced Ireland. McCann did not want to write another simple immigrant story. This book sounds broad and sweeping, and I simply can't wait to read it. I put Wray on my list of fantasy dinner party guests after the first few minutes. He was an articulate, insightful, and very funny companion to McCann's bare-faced, sincere intellect. McCann often stammered, seemingly overwhelmed by the burning intensity of the truths he spoke. Wray, in comparison, was slick and sharp, but no less thoughtful - he'd spit out a one-liner and follow it so quickly with a keenly unique point that my head spun. They talked about McCann's cross country bike ride, his experiences living in New York during and after September 11th, and his devotion to promoting radical empathy through projects like Narrative4. (Look into it. It's super cool.) McCann's perspective is imaginative, thoughtful, and fascinating. For example, he said that he wishes our government had spent billions of dollars handing out free iPods to Afghanis instead of on bombs to drop on them. He fantasizes that the iPods would come loaded with the Koran and popular Arabic music, but that after six months it would all vanish, and to reload it Afghanis would have to visit free recharging centers where they could get all the original tracks but also music by artists like Elvis, the Beatles, and Amy Winehouse. This, he believes, would be a way to start dialogue and solve world problems. The scenario is hard to imagine for infinite reasons, but the idea is intriguing nonetheless. 

We were in for more excitement during the audience Q and A. The third or fourth person to take the microphone was a very old man. I saw him only from the back. He had flowing, snowy hair and, as I observed when he turned his head, protuberant white eyebrows. "If you don't mind, I have a comment instead of a question," he rumbled in a thick brogue. My knee-jerk reaction was to groan inwardly; here was another old codger seizing his chance to put his soapbox in a public place for an change. But McCann grinned. "I know that voice!" he exclaimed. Heads whirled to stare at the man. "Malachy McCourt, everyone!" McCann announced, and the audience broke into thunderous applause. I listened, breathless, while McCourt - writer, actor, politician, radio host, and man-about-town - took McCann to task for his poor commercial sensibilities. Not once, McCourt thundered, had he heard the title of the book mentioned. How on earth were we all supposed to go out and buy it? He then asked a legitimate question, which McCann smilingly answered before turning to the next audience member with a raised hand. Ten minutes later, when McCann referred to his novel as "the book," a cry of "What's the title?" rang indignantly from McCourt's direction, causing renewed laughter. I skipped the book signing when the evening ended, figuring that my impromptu interaction with McCann months before was a far richer experience than standing in line to get another signature would be. 

The fact that people like Colum McCann exist in the world fills me with encouragement and hope. I was honored to listen to him speak, and I'll eagerly await a time when I can sit down for a good long stretch to lose myself in his latest work. And I'm grateful to live in this vibrant city, where fascinating authors hang out socially and people like Malachy McCourt pop up on Wednesday nights.       

I'm IN! Volunteering at the Celebrate Israel Run

This month I ran my 9th race of 2013 and volunteered at the Run to Celebrate Israel. According to NYRR's rules, that means I've qualified for the 2014 marathon! I qualified last year for the 2013 marathon - which I'll run in November - in the same way.

I always like volunteering at NYRR races. This one was a four-miler on an exceedingly hot morning. I showed up at Central Park at 5:45 A.M. with, I thought, plenty of time to spare. I hadn't read the email very carefully, though, and had to wander around for about 20 minutes before I found the volunteer check-in tent. This was fine by me. The park was gently warm, quiet, and still. A lone cyclist sped silently by as I crossed the road that encircles the park, but once I entered the center, time seemed to slow down. Birds hopped lazily from branch to branch, and occasionally I'd stroll by someone sleeping on a bench. Once I saw a couple sitting on a large boulder; they were murmuring softly to each other and dressed in what they'd worn the night before, watching morning glide over the distant rooftops. Moments like this are rare in New York, though apparently all one has to do is get up very early to find them.

By contrast, the volunteer staging area was abuzz with activity. I'd signed up for start/finish marshal. I always pick this job because I love the short, spunky Ethiopian ex-runner named Alem Kahsay who always leads this group. This was my third time volunteering with him, though he manages groups of about 20 each week and so didn't recognize me. I showed my photo ID to the check-in lady, then found a man holding a sign that said "Start/Finish" and settled in to wait. One of my fellow volunteers was a man who appeared to be Japanese. While the rest of us were wearing running shorts and t-shirts, he was dressed in slacks, dress shoes, a short-sleeved button-down shirt, and a tie. His hair was neatly parted and combed. He was busily photographing everything in sight. He took pictures of each of the signs, captured the group of volunteers from various angles, and stood in front of things (trucks, tents, trees) and stuck his arm out to snap his own picture.

Secure backpack

After everyone had checked in and helped themselves to water and coffee, the volunteer coordinator made a brief speech about race security. Since Boston, things have changed at NYRR races. For starters, though spectators can't be prevented from carrying bags, runners, staff, and volunteers are not allowed to. We were to stop anyone violating this rule, or to call for back-up immediately if we felt things looked too suspicious for us to intervene. NYRR had gotten around this rule by buying a bunch of clear backpacks for its staff. We were, the official said, NYRR's eyes and ears, and were to report anything at all that seemed strange.

We split into our groups; mine contained about 25 people. Alem introduced himself to us as a formerly fast runner, gave us a few instructions, then lead us to the start, pointing out the finish area, the first aid tent, and the runner baggage check area along the way. We reached the starting area with a few minutes to kill, and so he shared highlights from his running career with us (marathoner for Ethiopia, among the top-ten local finishers of the New York marathon several times, winner of four out of five New York Borough half-marathons, etc.) and told us that now he is a coach. He gave us advice about pacing ourselves and drinking water and shared an anecdote about his biggest marathon disaster which occurred because he didn't do either of those things. He also said that those of us hoping to run the marathon needed to do at least three or four twenty-mile-plus days to be really prepared. (Most training programs advise one day like that.) Then he told us to stay off our cell phones so he didn't get into trouble later and sent us to our stations. I was part of a crew helping runners to cross the running/biking path without causing collisions. We directed people to check-in, baggage, and the starting corrals, and in no time the corrals were loaded, the American and Israeli anthems had been sung, and the gun sounded at 8:00 sharp.

...and they're off!

After we cheered for the runners fora  few minutes, Alem gathered us up and we headed toward the finish, where I was installed in the finish chute. My job was to keep traffic moving to ease chute congestion as runners crossed the finish line. The first guy came in about 20 minutes later. Finish times were slow, but on a day as hot as this one was already, I wasn't surprised. The runners looked miserable, though a fair number of them thanked us for volunteering, and some of them gave us un-asked for high fives. We cheered for them and told them they'd done a great job as they staggered past us. An NYRR employee behind me grimly clutched a ziplock bag of cat litter. "It's slow today," he told me after runners had been coming in for half an hour. "Lots of puking on hot days?" I asked. "Oh yeah. Especially when they drink orange juice. The orange juice is a killer. All that acid." I was more grateful than ever for my college education which exempted me from jobs like being the NYRR vomit sprinkler. Eventually he got his time to shine - several people spewed as they crossed the finish line and he dutifully took care of business. Less vigilant was the policewoman who looked hot and bored in her full uniform. She leaned against a metal barricade, moving slowly along it to follow the shade. There are more police than ever before at these races now, and there are always at least a few walking around with bomb-sniffing dogs. It's certainly changed the climate.

Amped-up security

Some of the top finishers were rangy 12-year-old boys who reminded me of lanky jack rabbits. Toward the back of the pack were kids of a different stripe. NYRR puts a lot of time and money into getting young people, particularly from at-risk communities, to run, and lots of them were out today. I often see them on the race courses. They're still sort of getting the hang of things; you'll see them streak by like comets and then you'll pass them again five minutes later as they walk slowly along the edge of the course, doubled over with side cramps. As often as not, five minutes later they'll streak by you again. Pacing is an art, apparently. I was pleased to see a lot of these kids waddling across the finish line, even it did take them an hour. Most of them were overweight and pouring sweat, but when I congratulated them on finishing the race, they beamed at me and thanked me politely. Four miles is pretty significant for a little kid, even if the kid is, er, not so little.

When our throats were raw, we were shepherded over to the kids' races, where boys and girls of two years old and up were split into groups and told to run for the finish line about 20 yards away. Some of them had difficulty maintaining a straight line. Some burst into tears and refused to move. Some pumped their tiny arms ferociously. It was hilarious. Our job was twofold: We were to ensure that no parent picked up a child without the appropriate claim ticket (this bizarre practice was to prevent kidnapping on our watch) and to hand out Israeli propaganda. We distributed DVDs with names like Big Bird Learns about Sukkot, stickers of the Hebrew alphabet, and Hebrew language activity books. The kids grabbed it all greedily, even little Latino kids being escorted by crucifix-wearing mothers.

After a little over four hours of "work," we were released. We went back to the volunteer tent, checked out, collected our bags, and were given very cool t-shirts in exchange for our efforts. I went home and took a two-hour nap to recover from the early morning and the heat. Running an NYRR race is better than volunteering at an NYRR race. But volunteering is a close second.

Bay-Wide Prominence and Prestige

I learned today that my efforts aboard the Doodlebug II this summer (revisit my post about the trip here) have been recognized. Below is the cover of the Great South Bay Yacht Racing Association's annual yearbook/newsletter, where you will undoubtedly recognize me immediately. (Just in case you don't, I'm the one to the very far left sitting with my pack to the camera. Ed is leaning out on the trapeze of our boat.)



I find this all pretty hilarious, as my main contributions that day were to leap out of the way as the three experienced crew members did stuff I had no idea how to do, or to try to be as heavy as possible when directed so as to counter-balance the pull of the sail. I did learn to be pretty handy with the bailer, too. Anyway, it's a nice memento of a pretty exciting day.

Blood on the Pavement, or, Adventures at the American Heart Association's Wall Street Run

When I did this run last year, I learned several important lessons that prepared me for Thursday evening's race. Lesson One: Runner registration, where one picks up numbers and t-shirts, is maddeningly confusing. My strategy of showing up a few minutes before the gun wouldn't work here, as one really needs to understand the confusing system of buildings with multiple entrances and multiple lobbies in the financial district to pull off the last-minute appearance. I ran down to the starting area, about 2.5 miles from my apartment, with a fair amount of time to spare and got lost enough to barely make the start in the middle of the national anthem.

Lesson Two: This is not a racer's race. The course is narrow and winding as it wends its way through the tightly packed buildings in one of the oldest and most congested parts of the city. Runners are sardined together in a tight pack, compounded by sidewalks packed with unwilling spectators who just got done with work and want nothing more than to cross the street (nearly impossible) and go home. Passing involves shoving, and it's simply not worth it.

With this wisdom in mind, I lined up in the starting corral, approvingly noting all the "teams" in matching t-shirts on all sides. New York is home to lots of running clubs (the Front Runners, The Dashing Whippets, Central Park Track Club, the Brooklyn Runners...) but this run brings out participants from the big firms, too. Citibank, AIG, Bloomberg, and many others were in attendance. I always like seeing participants on the starting line who wouldn't normally be out for a jaunt. It was announced that the race had raised over $8 million for the American Heart Association. People cheered, myself among them.

I was dripping sweat, unusual for me, from my jog from home. It was one of the hottest days of the year so far, and I was thankful I'd thought to bring a handheld water bottle, handily containing my iPod, keys, and subway card in its front pocket. I took slugs from it now and then. In my other hand, I held the race t-shirt I'd picked up minutes before. Then the gun went off and we plodded forward. I'd made my peace with making slow progress, a decision I did not re-evaluate as the pack of us moved forward into the oven that was downtown. We jogged through the streets, hurling around sharp turns every few minutes. Sometimes a spectator would make a mad dash across the street, some looking annoyed and some looking amused. A woman in skirt, matching blazer, and heels jogged along with us for about 50 feet as she worked her way across the road diagonally, grinning all the while.

My hero.

The throngs of people led to disaster for me just after mile 1. I somehow caught the shoe of a guy in front of me and went slamming to the ground. I felt the water bottle in my left hand flatten against the pavement as I skidded to a halt. About 30 people around and behind me gasped in unison, and two men immediately stopped to help me up. I told them that I was fine, mostly to get them to go away so I could collect myself, and they took off while I limped to the side of the course to assess the damage. I examined my knee first and found a somewhat deep cut on my kneecap with small scrapes all around it. The heel of my right hand was scraped, but I got quite lucky on this front: I held the t-shirt in my right hand which shielded most of my palm, and the water bottle in my left hand had taken the brunt of the force when I fell, leaving that side completely unscathed. My left elbow, however, looked terrible and felt worse: raw, bloody, and red. For the first time I can recall in an NYRR race, I walked.

I carried on like that for about 100 meters, taking stock of things. Then I tried a few experimental steps at a jog. It hurt, but not terribly. I had no idea where I was and had no money to get home. Finishing the race was an unappealing prospect, but I knew there was a subway near the finish line, and I'd be in the heat forever if I walked that far. So I rejoined the flow of people and ran on. My elbow stung more and more as my sweat dripped onto it, but I told myself that the faster I went, the sooner I'd be done. I finished the race and went straight to the medical tent, another NYRR first, to be doused in a stinging disinfectant that burst into foamy suds the second it touched my injuries. The paramedic tried to put bandages over the scrapes, but I was sweating so much that nothing stuck. So I set off for the subway with abrasions covered with gobs of bloody Neosporin. At least people left me alone.

Ed was very sympathetic when I finally made it home and did the lion's share of cooking and cleaning up after dinner. I cracked a beer and took further stock of the situation, discovering that I was not the only one that had sustained injuries. The water bottle was looking decidedly worse for wear. My keys had poked through the pocket in front, leaving a small, neat slit, and there were some other small tears along the side straps. Amazingly, my iPod, which was cushioned by my earbuds, was completely undamaged, though, and the bottle is in good enough shape to see me through many more miles.

Happily, I am volunteering at a race this weekend instead of running one. My elbow hurts but wouldn't be problematic if I were to go for a run; my knee, however, is another story, and has me hobbling up and down stairs to avoid bending it. As a runner, though, these are the kind of injuries one prays for. I'll be healed up enough to attend my running class on Monday, whereas tendinitis, shin splints, strained muscles, or any of the other countless injuries common among runners would sideline me for much longer.