In a letter to the New York Times editor 20 years ago, I referred to the NYC Marathon as a “magnificent piece of urban theatre.” With a one to two million spectators, random New Yorker’s (including cops and firefighters) cheering for middle-of-the-packers, handmade signs in a thousand comical iterations, it a wonder to both to behold and participate in.
Some call it a 26.2 mile block party; I prefer to think of it as a very long stage. I have pre-planned beer stops, airplane around the turns, slap the outstretched hands of little kids and adults alike, and do my very best to whoop and holler and engage with the crowd, as I have usually determined by mile five that I probably won’t win. Because without the people it would be just another footrace.
On Marathon Sunday, New York City — where people don’t generally chat up strangers — becomes the biggest small town in the world. Everyone talks to everyone, and everywhere, if you are within spitting distance of the course.
Sometimes, especially as I age, I suffer minor injuries in training that curtails me. So I end up doing the event as a fun run instead of racing it. Hence the beers.
I’ve blogged about this before, including a Blawg Review (as well as reflections about running Boston). It is an extraordinary experience, and I’ve been lucky enough to do it 23 times.
But this year I’m out. I had my best training in years — with hundreds of miles running roads and trails, sometimes at night — and was hoping to actually race this year for a good time (on the clock, instead of simply hamming it up).
Instead I’ll be spectating. Just one week before the race I pulled a calf muscle while scrambling up a steep pitch on a hike. Then limped for a couple hours to get down the easy way. Then pulled the other calf muscle a few days later while limping down the stairs.
But if you think I’m tapping this keyboard to whine and complain about my misfortune you are mistaken.
Life is a series of experiences. Family, travel, jobs and if we are lucky, recreational. It’s the reason I was sworn in at the United States Supreme Court. It’s the reason I keep coming back to run New York.
Hopefully the good experiences we have in life will outweigh the bad when our time has come.
In my job over the last 38 years I’ve represented many, many people with lousy experiences. It’s why they needed a lawyer. It’s why I run races in a turkey suit come Thanksgiving time. I let my feathers fly to appreciate my luckiness.
In other places there are, of course, far worse experiences than those represented by the records in my file cabinets, often by many orders of magnitude: Ukraine invaded by Russia, civil wars in Sudan, Syria, Libya and elsewhere, crisis in Venezuela, and 100 years of Islamic extremists trying exterminate Jews and Israel. Horror stories abound of killing, starvation and displacement.
And me and my aging legs? I can’t whine. I’ve been as lucky as a guy can get. I’ve been able to run the streets of NYC for no other reason than the thrill of running the streets of NYC. Again and again and again.
To those that are running the race, I wish you all the best of luck. And hope that you are able to appreciate how lucky you are simply to have this opportunity. And to cherish the experience.
