Marathon madness

Last year was the first time I watched the New York City marathon, an event that overtakes the entire city the first Sunday in November. Traffic is blocked from streets and bridges. Bus routes are rescheduled (one ride led me through Yankee Stadium in the Bronx before going into Manhattan). Thousands of volunteers set up and distribute water, direct traffic and assist injured runners. It’s the world’s largest marathon (Italy and France were really representing this year). It is magical.

I was a few weeks into my running class last year when our coaches suggested we cheer on the runners. My friend Adrienne joined me. We were in awe of the athletes. The experience was so wonderful — we both left talking about how we wanted to run the marathon — that we watched it together this year too.

We camped out on some steps near Marcus Garvey Park in Harlem, arriving early enough to see some of the elite runners near the end of the race and staying long enough to see the average-paced runners too.

One of the entertaining perks of this location is a “wild” group of nuns from a church along the route. They’re so pumped up that they come out screaming with cowbells. And they keep it up for hours. Praise Jesus, these women know how to cheer. Some runners even stopped to take pictures of them (which says to a lot to sacrifice your time for some photos).

(Left: Runners turning onto Fifth Avenue. Right: Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders should watch out — these nuns have natural talent.)

I have mixed feelings about the fans this year, though. The people who were watching earlier in the race were so obnoxious that I had to move because they were pissing me off so much. One man taunted a runner who took a short walking break (I’d like to see him run 26.2 miles). His young daughter even started repeating the taunts, even though she obviously had no clue what they meant. A woman with a stroller casually walked through a wave of runners, in no rush to get out of their way. Countless others didn’t even wait til the runners thinned out before walking — not even sprinting — across the street. I understand that the marathon can be inconvenient for those who don’t care about it, but it’s incredibly disrespectful to the runners to not even try to get out of their way. I was on the verge of locating a megaphone and appointing myself crowd control since the volunteers and police officers didn’t seem to care.

But if you stick around long enough, the fair-weather fans leave (some of their encouragement sounded more like insults anyway). And you’re left with some very kind souls. Some carried signs or came alone or simply yelled out the name of every person who had it written on their clothes. I remember one man who was dressed like a construction worker, with steel-toed shoes. He was by himself and offering the sincerest encouragement to runners, who at this point looked like they could use all the support they could get. This is what I love about the marathon. How it can bring people, the city and the entire world together. Whether or not you run or know someone in the marathon isn’t important. Because there are universal emotions we can relate to. Determination. Perseverance. Dedication. All from putting one foot in front of other. Over and over.