Staten

"What am I doing here?"

The thought bounced in my brain a few times before I discarded it as I waited for Tim outside the entrance to the marathon encampment at Fort Wadsworth in Staten Island. The answers could have been short or long. I was waiting for Tim, as he'd asked me to give him a few carbohydrate gel-packs from my stash before the race. No problem buddy- just show up where you're expected. On a larger scale, I was "preparing" to run 26.2 miles through the five boroughs of New York. "Preparing"by standing around for three hours in 35-degree cold. "Preparing" by munching on Power Bars, bagels, drinking water, coffee, visiting the Port-o-Johns 3, 4, 5 times... "Preparing" by pacing, back and forth, driving myself out of my skull. I swear, between the walk to the subway, then the buses, then off the buses, then through the camp to the other entry, then along the 5 foot patch where I was waiting for Tim, I walked three or four miles leading up to this damned race.

Seriously, though- What am I doing here? Can I do this? On a bum knee? Do I want to do this? Let's weigh the pros and cons:

Pro: $2,800+ raised for a hospital so some poor uninsured sap can get his face reattached after a bar fight Sunday night.

Con: Big whoop. Maybe the penalty for chickening out is doctor-prescribed eye-gouging with a blunt spoon. It's not like I read that legal agreement or anything. And it's not like they know who I am, or where I live.

Pro: Sixteen weeks of training. Time and effort invested.

Con: It's my personal opinion that too many decisions are made based upon sunk costs. If that training has any value, it sure doesn't feel like it.

Pro: Sixteen weeks of talking (and writing) up my experience to all of my family and friends, many of whom also have sunk some cost into this little event. Let's rephrase: Invested in Mark Matuska Futures.

Con: People like me. I'll make new friends.

Pro: No you won't. You're lazy and irritable.

Sigh.

I waited until 8am. No Tim. Sorry buddy. You're out of luck.

Back in the camp, lugging my transparent check-bag along with me (which seemed to enclose about four times as much stuff as anyone else's- guess they pack light), I couldn't take any more. I decided to call my friend Liz, in from Chicago to run her 9th (!) marathon. What about this experience that would make me want to run it nine times, I couldn't tell. I was cold, tired and more than a little lonely. The relief I felt to find her in the coffee line offered a brief respite from my frigid inner monologue. I realized that the words I spoke to her on the phone were the first words I'd uttered since speaking with Tim at 5am. It's good to talk.

We sat for awhile under a tree chatting. Liz and Tim would both be running in Wave 1, and I in Wave 2. The Marathon this year had three starting groups, separated by 20 minutes each in start times, in an experiment to investigate "growing" the race. 39,000 strong apparently isn't enough.

Soon she would be called to her corral. I would have to wait. "You're gonna have a great run, Matusk." she said, smiling. I hoped so. I wished her well in turn, and off she went.

I returned to the staging area, where a rock band was packing up its things after the earliest show they're ever likely to play. I began going through my bag in anticipation of handing it off to the UPS guy that I would meet again after the finish. I changed to my running shoes. I sifted through for my carbo-goo. I pulled out my race number. I shuffled through my pockets for the safety pins to affix it to my shirt.

Panic.

I'd put the pins in my pocket for "safekeeping." I failed to foresee that the pins most certainly were likely to fall through the holes in my mesh shorts. I looked in my check-bag for extras.

One pin. Great.

I dumped my bag at the UPS truck and made my way down to a group of volunteers gathered under a tent and explained my situation. Each looked at the other, until finally the last guy in the circle, either the supervisor or the biggest asshole, or both, replied, "You're screwed."

Thanks, buddy. You've been a big help. How about this idea: I rip off your arms and tie the number to my shirt with your elbow ligaments? Or, alternately, I simply affix the number to my bare chest with your dried blood?

I decided there were more diplomatic options available.

I began asking around to my fellow racers. Happily, my first inquiry, to a group of three that had come with a tent, was met with pleasant smiles and three Marathon-grade safety pins. Whatever your names are, folks, may you receive seventy virgins in the afterlife to do with what you will.

My group was being called to its corral. Go time. I hurried over to the barricades to wait, one last time (or so I thought.) The gun sounded after a few minutes buried in the crowd, and shortly thereafter we began to move. After another shorter while, we passed the entry to Fort Wadsworth, which in future correspondence I may refer to as Auschwitz Staten. As we were definitely, nearly, potentially on the bridge approach, I discarded my trusty Merrill Lynch sweatshirt, which I obtained sometime in college and had kept for no reason whatsoever until this day, on which it served its ultimate purpose amongst the rest of the detritus disposed on the side of the road. The crowd grew more dispersed. The road widened. A few people chose these last moments before crossing the start to take one last urine break over the guardrail or between the buses lined up on our right. I pressed on. The high-pitched tone of the shoe-chip scanners, which I would come to know well over the course of that morning and afternoon, sounded as I crossed the starting line. I was on my way, jogging briskly.

On a normal day, one cannot walk across the Verrazano Narrows Bridge; it's closed to pedestrian traffic. In 1993, 65% of the population of Staten Island voted to secede from New York. I suppose these are but two of the reasons why runners of the New York City Marathon spend roughly twenty steps in Staten Island proper before hitting the bridge to Brooklyn. I know I was pleased to leave it behind. No runners paused to look back upon the start; rather, eyes and cameraphones were fixed across New York Bay to the Manhattan skyline.

"That doesn't look so far," I joked to myself.

I stepped up on the berm on the side of the bridge to pass the lollygaggers. I had stuff to do.