Brooklyn

I am a leaf on the wind... Watch me soar.

For a few moments, there were no roads. No crowds, no Marathon, no fears. I floated high above the fray, looking down, marveling at the streaming convection of bodies making its way through the veins and arteries of this city. I couldn't feel my feet, my legs, my hands, my face...

I am a gazelle, buried amongst the herd, fleeing from a cheetah, willing my way to survival...

And then I was running. Fast. I cut across the crowd of runners to the left side of the road to high-five members of the crowd, marathon junkies, kids, crazies. I threw my fist in the air as a local band did their damnedest to struggle through Led Zeppelin's Black Dog. I breathed easy, kept my cadence quick, realizing that I was well ahead of the pace I'd set out for myself.

I am a camel, built for long travels across barren wastelands, awkward at first glance, but faster than you might imagine, whipped from my life of meandering leisure by a group of crazed Arabs...

Miles 1-5, my knee resisted, trying convince me that this was a bad idea. Why didn't I just hop into the subway and meet everyone at the finish, it whined. I don wanna, I don wanna... In Mile 6, it drew silent. I like to think it came to the conclusion that this wasn't going to end anytime soon and gave up pain for a few steps. Had it any idea this would continue for another twenty miles, I suspect it would have complained longer.

I am a seagull amongst the flock... I run.. I run so far awayayay.... Gotta get away....

The best band in Brooklyn was a Motown-style group outside of a black church at the entrance to Bed-Stuy. A fantastically energetic crowd of people, they danced and clapped and cheered as the mass of churning protoplasm made its way past. Then came the projects. Crickets.

I am a Clydesdale... Muscling Budweiser from one place to a distant other, running through pastures, rivers, nostrils flaring, determined.

I hooked my traincar to Carlos for awhile near Mile 10. Carlos seemed to be a runner of similar ability running for Fred's Team, dressed in relentless violet spandex running gear, with a photograph of a young boy affixed to the back of his shirt with the name "Carlos" written above in black magic. It's unclear to me whether the runner or the boy was Carlos; perhaps we all were Carlos. I decided to be Carlos for awhile, and as fans cheered Carlos on, I pretended they cheered for me as I pressed onward and upward to Queens.

I am the Journey.