Finish

I stepped over the finish line. I waited.

Some cameramen flashed in front of me. I mugged for them. Still I waited.

A woman's voice urging just-finished Marathoners to keep moving droned in the background. I realized that her instructions were directed, if not precisely at me, then at a group in my general vicinity that included me. I looked around in an effort to extend my middle finger in her direction, but I could not zero her location. My phone beckoned, so I texted the letters "DUN" to Jamie.

With nothing better to do, I stepped onwards.

A number of lines awaited us ahead. Waves, even, like one might imagine waves of riot police, draping and taping aluminu-heatshields and finisher medals ("Everyone's a winner!") instead of Billy-clubs to the nosebone or tasers to the torso. I accepted my SWAG and examined my shiny new mystery metal medal: a brass-cast figure (we'll call him/her Androgyna, the god(dess) of nonspecific gender efficiency) stands on the front, arms raised, presumably running through a finishing tape, "2008" above its head, and "ING NEW YORK CITY MARATHON" over its torso and groin, clearly in an effort to conceal the fact that Androgyna has both boobs AND junk. The back of the medal provides two blank plates for the runner to have his/her name engraved and his/her time stamped, as Pheidippides must have done to his messenger-service timecard at the Parthenon before he keeled over in 490 B.C. It probably went something like this:

Pheidippides: Whew! Hey Everybody! We won! The Persians are defeated! (walks over to the timeclock clutching his card)

Messenger service dispatcher: Hi Dippy! That's super! And wow! You did that in 3:05! Nice job.

Pheidippides: Thanks. Can't wait to go home and take a nap. I'm exhausted!

Dispatcher: Hold on a sec there, Chief. You're not off for another hour. I got another run for you.

Pheidippides: (dies)

3:05 is my best guess for that first Marathon. Take into account that our buddy Dippy was most likely not on performance-enhancers, didn't really practice running long distances, and was in such lousy shape that he killed himself running, I figure he couldn't have broken 3 hours. On the other hand, he was running as fast as his body would allow the entire time; we'll say that I didn't exactly do the same. Wondering what that original time was in the marathon could drive one crazy, though- I mean, we could guesstimate Roy Hobbs' stats from his one season in "The Natural" (I'd say a .362 batting average with 45 homers and 97 RBI in 110 games) or Jimmy Chitwood's averages in "Hoosiers" (41.2 ppg, 0.0 assists, 2.1 rebounds), but we don't really know anything about Athenian distance runners in 490 B.C. We simply don't have any data. How fast would I have had to run in order to kill myself doing it? I suppose I don't really know, but my guess is those lazy bastards eating olives and grapes within the Athens city-state limits could have waited another half hour or so so Dippy wouldn't have had to die.

Where was I? Oh right. The medal. An elderly volunteer-lady handed me my medal, smiled, and said "Congratulations." I smiled weakly and tiptoe-limped past as if I were trying to walk with my legs encased in a burlap sack full of knives. As I inspected my medal, of which there are many like, but this one is mine, l started to think about the frontrunners- does the 10th-place guy who thought he had a chance to win this thing in the beginning, for whom this 10th-place finish is a monumental disappointment, take a finisher medal? Does he clutch his heat shield gratefully and mill about with other "we're all winners!" losers? Does he grin broadly in defeat and head to a UPS truck to pick up his pre-race belongings?

I looked back across the line of volunteers. Some of those chicks were hot! How come I got the old lady?

Does he swat the medal away in disgust from the well-meaning elderly volunteer and scream at the sky from his bowels?

I considered this for a moment. I had waited at the finish line for something. Androgyna wasn't it. I was still waiting. I was beginning to fear it wouldn't come.

The reckless-despair-panic attack remained an option for longer than I cared to think about it. The conditions in the post-marathon protoplasm pool made Auschwitz Staten seem like a finely catered brunch. Hundreds, probably thousands of runners stood packed onto a 25-foot-wide road, each having just completed his or her marathon within the prior 45 minutes. All suddenly were obliged to hurry past the finish line and wait, again. We moved at roughly 1 foot per second, or, in terms of Marathons, 1 Marathon per 96 days or so.

After a while of standing amongst others past the finish, many of whom were clearly in greater distress than I, Alex Trebek suggested I try "Famous Death Marches" for $400. At the time, the Trail of Tears came to mind; I began to contemplate exactly what "exposure" meant medically, and how forced marches bred history book epitaphs such as "death from exposure." After the fact, Tim related to me that his mind was on similar subjects, although his historical atrocity of choice turned out to be the Bata'an Death March. To paraphrase,"Until that line to exit the Park, I couldn't imagine falling out of line during a forced military march knowing that doing so meant being shot or stabbed repeatedly with a bayonet. Now, though... Let's just say that for a few minutes there, I might have taken the bullet to the base of the skull."

Well, then.

So I had a lot of fun walking (crawling, piddling) to the UPS truck after the race. No, the specters of shivering, blue-lipped girls huddled on the curb didn't disturb me. Much. I made it to the 28K group (which, in retrospect, was exactly where I should have been- congrats to the organizers for realistic expectations!) and picked up my way-too-large bag from the (sadly) different UPS guys than I had at in Staten. I wanted to chat them up. Ask them how the trip was. Were they having fun too. Et cetera. Oh well.

I called my parents as I made my way to the exit. Slowly. They were in the mid-sixties, I was in the mid-eighties. I suggested the meet me in the M corral, a suggestion I thought was not completely unreasonable, given my last name, and theirs. So I made my way over to CP West and waited. For something.

Eventually, I saw my mother and my father, he waddling as best he could up the sidewalk, his body failing him in the most basic of tasks I've become so accustomed to, walking ten blocks here in the metropolis that best defines these United States. I've made many allusions to why I've made this effort to complete this race, at the age of 29. My father, at the age of 65, as the best example I can extract, is the most visually descriptive reason I can cite. They met me, hugged me, congratulated me. Somehow, physically drained, I didn't feel much different than I had five hours earlier.

I could barely walk. Thinking critically, it seemed most likely that the best way downtown (where I'd planned a small gathering of friends to meet me) would be the subway. Cabs were few and far between. I directed them over to the BC line at 81st and hobbled down the steps, I could have struggled up and down four times before my father made it once.

We waited for the subway. I waited for something else.