Manhattan: First Avenue

Tim an I used to imagine on Sunday trips to the gym that we were kick returners, sometimes following blockers, other times avoiding oncoming tacklers as we zigzagged through the gathered crowds on Broadway in downtown Manhattan. We used to joke when one of us got hung up behind an old lady or a mass of tortoising Eurotouristas that our "wedge" blocking broke down. I bring this up because running in the 4ish-hour crowd reminded me of these Sundays, as much for the bobbing and weaving through masses of humanity as the foggy, hungover feeling that was beginning to creep over my body on the Queensboro. Those Sundays, I didn't want to go to the gym, but I did anyway. And I'd officially made up my mind that while I didn't care to run the next ten miles, I would be doing that, too, engaged in the most interminable kick return of all time.

I should also note that I was no longer in the 4-hour crowd. Sprinkled throughout the mass of racers were volunteer pace-setters with signs on their backs indicating an approximation of what their ultimate time may be. In Brooklyn, I'd hung nicely with the 4 hour group; in Queens, I started seeing some 4:15s.

This would become a consistently depressing theme.

According to everyone I'd consulted coming into the race, the turn onto First Avenue is supposed to be a major re-energizer for the runners. I will grant, the bigger crowds, the cheering, and the sense of increased proximity to the finish line was emotionally useful; I found familiarity to be the most encouraging sign, though. I'd run this route before- not specifically down First, but down the East River from Harlem. I could gauge distances. For example, as anyone that rides in a NYC Taxi is reminded on the back of the driver's seat, every four blocks is approximately 1/5th of a mile. Twenty blocks is about a mile. So I could run 18 or 19 blocks and walk one or two and feel like I was getting somewhere. I would be coming to my first "somewhere" reasonably shortly at 90th St., supposedly the St. Vincent's Hospital cheering location, and where I knew I would at least find my parents.

I hoped that, anyway.

Of course, measurements and pacing were theoretical; reality was maddening. My legs would begin to feel better for brief flickers of time and my stride, naturally, would get a bit longer. Seemingly within an instant of regaining an internally acceptable pace, though, near that 18- or 19-block mark (or the 8- or 9-block mark), my calf(ves) or my thigh(s) or my hamstring(s) would spontaneously contract, forcing a halt to progress as I pulled off to the side to attempt to regain control of my bodily functions. I hadn't felt dehydrated the whole race; fluid stations were useful only for purposes of self-image, as other runners walked through these areas too, and so I could refrain from muttering the series of expletives I'd been exhaling since Queens for a hundred yards per mile as I gulped down Gatorade Endurance Formula (TM) and Poland Spring (TM), the official drinks of desperation.

I managed to extract myself from my focus-coma for the few blocks around 90th and slowed considerably at Bar East, the designated Marathon party zone for St. Vinny's. As I slowed and scanned wildly for a recognizable face, the crowd stared back with equally vacant eyes. One of them shouted "Keep going, buddy!" and was forced to catch myself before responding "Eat shit, buddy!" A wave of primordial panic overtook me. That hangover melon in my gut nearly exploded my broken body into a mass of ectoplasmic rage. Some guy cut me off, and I started trying to catch up with the possible intent of pummeling his face into the street until my hands hit pavement.

Oh, Hi Mom!

I saw her on the side of the road, my dad standing next to her, she holding up a "Don't Stop Believin'" sign she'd made at the office. Well then.

They hadn't seen me yet, so I surprised them as I pulled up looking as if I'd been having a jolly good time. I hugged my Mom and answered a few questions- "How're you feeling?" "Great. This is turning into a nature hike, though." "How's the knee?" "Fabulous. I don't think I even have a knee anymore." Blah? "Blah-great-blah." etc. I let them take a photo and took my leave feeling... better. I'd made my first real checkpoint- getting to my parents without looking or sounding like a rabid bloodthirsty lunatic, or worse, like I might not finish. Next was getting to the (whatchootalkinabout) Willis Avenue Bridge and the Bronx, another thirty or so blocks down the road. Not far at all. Things, it seemed, were looking up.

There, with seventeen-plus miles down and nineish to go, I began to think about my tiered pre-race expectations. Initially, I'd thought I could break four hours, but that seemed unrealistic given recent tea leaves and shirt-signs. My secondary goal was to beat the average race time, which in 2007 was somewhere around 4:30; I've always prided myself on being above-average. This still seemed doable, if I could just stop breaking down. I thought this just as a sprinkling of 4:30ers passed me, idle on the sidewalk, chatting up an extraordinarily bored police officer and stretching my calf muscles around 116th St.

Yep. 4:30 or bust.

The ultimate disappointment would come, though, if I would fail to break five hours. The New York Times publishes the name of every runner that finishes with a time under five hours. Everyone else... would need to hurry to get to the afterparty.

The conditions called for a readjustment of priorities and expectations. I'd run the first half of the race well. I simply had to run the second half poorly, it seemed, to make good on five hours. I haven't always said this, but I may start saying it now: If you can't aim high, just try and aim.