“Yes we can! And so can you!” Thus screamed the Obama-badged American lady, quite loudly… and really quite close to my face.
To provide a bit of context, I was around 21 miles into this year’s New York City Marathon and I’d stopped. Although I was experiencing that unique level of pain that runners like to refer to as The Wall, I had actually stopped to stretch some life back into my right hamstring, which seemed to be in danger of giving up on me entirely. The only thing that could have added to my state of exhaustion would have been explaining this to her, so I merely issued a final groan and went on my merry(ish) way.
Taking a short break from producing events, I’d crossed the pond to participate in one of the world’s greatest sporting, er, events. Having endured the London race twice, I’d listened with no little sense of foreboding to friends’ warnings on the challenges presented by New York’s streets… or more specifically the bridges. The views are mighty rewarding, the magnificent Verranzo-Narrows offering a remarkable panorama of the world’s most famous cityscape and the Pulaski vista arguably even more impressive, giving a real sense of the enormity of Manhattan’s towering blocks. However, by the time the race hits the Queensboro crossing, the novelty has faded, obliterated by the ever-growing pain and the realisation that bridges mean ascents and in New York, long ones. Here, the manifold aches and pains began, starting with the lower back and culminating in the hamstring that saw my encounter with the well-meaning spectator, leaning on a tree in Upper Manhattan.
She could have been any one of the magnificent supporters that lined the streets, for the crowd are as much a part of the show as the runners, willing all 40,000 of us to the finish. Live bands; children holding out their hands to touch a ‘hero’; adults to give them fruit, sweets or water; men with whistles; women with bells. They’re not unique in the marathon-spectator world – I can certainly vouch for Londoners – but here, there’s an added dose of American zeal.
The night before, my fellow runners and I had been to see the finishing straight in Central Park, where a pre-race firework display lit up the sky and deafeningly echoed off the numerous high-rises. Afterwards, I sat in a Midtown eatery, carb-loading and declaring to the others (debutants) that this was probably going to be my last marathon. As I pounded down the same path into the final mile, some 17 hours later, I predictably retracted the assertion. There’s nothing quite like it: conquering every mental urge to submit to the pain; sharing the amazing stories of those running – and raising millions – in honour of departed loved ones or noble causes; above all, the two million spectators with no cause other than basic humanity, carrying us over that line.
Al was running in aid of the British Red Cross; if you would like to sponsor him, please visit http://www.justgiving.com/alandoylenyc.
