Picking up from NYC Marathon installment one’s cliffhanger conclusion at the Staten Island start line, seconds before the race began…

…Our wave was cued to start with a cannon. Close and loud enough that it prompted several yelps of surprise and smoke you could actually see and smell. We surged forward in one pulsating mass of nerves and excitement. My first NYC Marathon and second ever marathon was beginning.

Nearing the starting sensors and the Verrazano Bridge, the crowd thinned enough to accelerate into a trot. I was in Wave 1 and right next to the 3:20 pace group. In healthier days those would have been my people. Instead I was aiming for around a 9:30 mile average to encourage my ankle to hold out. I opted to go out in the first wave anyway, to buy myself time to actually finish in time for our 6pm Amtrak home. Wave 1 set off at 9:50, I had friends in later waves who didn’t start till after 11am.

I’d decided to be selfish, going out early in a pace group I couldn’t keep up with to buy myself as much time as possible to finish. I was worried that the people around me would hate me, or that I would feel so self-conscious I wouldn’t be able to keep myself slow and I’d end up sabotaging my own success by hitting 7:30s out the gate to save face.

It ended up not being a problem. Things were crowded enough on the Verrazano that everyone around me was pretty much consigned to my 9:30 goal pace for the first mile. And once we crossed over the Bridge into Brooklyn it wasn’t crowded enough that anyone would be mad at me for gumming up the works. So with the crowd’s help, I settled into something around a 9:30 min/mile, and I did my best to stay there.

Like I had for the Army Ten Miler, I’d turned coaching off my Nike + app so I wouldn’t hear my pace and try to compete with a healthy version of me. I would instead run off feel and perceived exertion – keeping the effort well under max.

We crossed off the bridge and into Brooklyn just before mile 2, and immediately the crowd support was incredible. People everywhere cheering – old, young, whole families, tons of dogs, everyone was out. (I’m unhealthily dog-crazy so four-legged friends on the sidelines are a mixed bag because they give me the happies, but I also want to stop and say hi to each one.)

The same adrenaline-fueled glee that had pumped me up on the start line kept me sailing thanks to the crowds. It made me want to go faster but I held my legs to that pace I’d started with, trying to keep a rough count of time between mile markers. It seemed to work, at the 5k mark I was at 28:16 so just slightly faster than the 9:30 goal but pretty on point.

Huge race plus: The course was very well marked: Each mile and each 5k mark were dressed in celebratory signage accompanied by a digital clock. I was pretty sure I’d crossed the start line at around the four minute mark, so I had a decent idea of where I was without my app or GPS telling me explicitly.

The mind games also kicked in early. The first couple miles I was focusing hard on my ankle and whether it was ok. Then I would try to shake such thoughts from my head afraid I’d psychosomatically will my bones to fail. Eventually my thoughts were entirely overcome by the positivity of the experience. There was too much else to look at and listen to and think about to dwell on what may or may not happen.

People lined all twelve miles through Brooklyn. I probably benefitted from being in Wave 1 – early on in the day with spectator energy cranked up to eleven. I had a repeat of the Army Ten in terms of pre-race over-hydration, and had to pee by mile two. I held out till I’d finished my first 10k, then ran through the crowd into a line of porta potties. Another race plus was the bounty of bathrooms along the way – of which I made enthusiastic and leisurely use several times along the way!

At mile eight the orange, green, and blue courses converged into one. I had not memorized the course well enough, and at this marker I assumed we were running into Queens. Borough three! I thought! This is going great!

Six miles later, the crowds momentarily thinned while we ran over what I realized was the Pulanksi Bridge…we were of course met with a “Welcome to Queens” sign on the other side. I was a borough short of where I’d thought I was.

That realization stung like lactic acid build-up for a moment, but was quickly swept aside with the never-ending crowds’ never-ending enthusiasm.

Going slow and not really “racing” meant my mind and eyes were free to wander and take in the support and energy. And the signs! So many signs! There were the usual pick-me-ups like Mario Bro’s ‘Slap here to power-up’ posters, and joking digs like ‘Worst Parade Ever’.

There were more personalized messages than I’ve ever seen. Even though they weren’t for me each one touched me as I thought about the awesome friends and families (and dogs!) out supporting the people they cared about – out rooting for them to succeed. That love is inspiring no matter who the intended recipient is, plus it reminded me of my own friends and incredible husband who had trained with me, donated to Gilda’s Club, and sent me words of encouragement every step of the way.

On a (sort of) lighter note, the best sign I saw (Walking Dead four-weeks-old spoiler alert here!) was a picture of Glenn next to the missive, “If you PR, Glenn gets to live.” While this was the funniest sign I saw, it was also stress-inducing, since I knew damn well I wasn’t about to PR! I just hoped that this beloved-character-life-or-death entreaty was meant for someone else.

My Queens letdown was short-lived and just a couple miles later I was headed uphill onto the Queensboro Bridge – the mile-and-a-half silent struggle I’d heard would give way to the ear-drum shattering crowds lining First Avenue in Manhattan.

In the fifteen miles it took to get there, I’d grown accustomed to rowdy crowds through Brooklyn and Queens.  Their energy begat more energy in the runners around me, and the dull roar had become a comforting backdrop drowning out everything but my playlist.

As we headed up the ramp into the Queensboro (or 59th St Bridge as I’m used to hearing it,) everything got quiet. Eerily so. The crowds shrunk away and it was just footfalls and heavy breathing.  I’d heard this was a tough moment for a lot of NYC Marathoners: crowd support falls away and the sun literally vanishes obscured by the overpass, just as the incline becomes much steeper, and right as you head toward the wall-inducing miles.

Indeed I saw a lot of people slow down to a walk, or even a halt here. Pairs and groups running together started yelling and begging each other on – in some cases pretty forcefully.

I was actually relieved for the silent, technically difficult moments on the way into Manhattan. Psychologically I knew those challenging bits would make the others sweeter by comparison, and I was happy to have a little quiet time with my thoughts, to really live in the experience and my gratitude at having it. Physically my ankle was holding up – I’d felt a few twinges around mile 13 and slowed myself down a little more and the brief pain had gone away – and my fitness was holding up – almost 16 miles into the race (already my longest run of 2015 by far!) and my energy was good and muscles felt fine.

Just before the middle of the bridge we crossed the 25K mark. My pace was still right where I (was pretty sure I) needed it hitting 2:24 at that point, or around 9:24 min/mile. Just past 25K the course started heading downhill into Manhattan.

Where everyone around me celebrated the descent I had mixed feelings about it.

I’ve written before that as a mini human I like going uphill on healthy legs. (Or wheels.) That day my feelings escalated past ‘like’ to need. It’s a lot easier on my hollow bird bones to run uphill safely. While other runners relished the gravity boost and sped up, each time the course veered downhill I felt more out-of-control, and more afraid my ankle wouldn’t survive the beating.

But I was so excited for the moment when we would turn onto First Avenue and the crowd support would reassert itself ten times stronger than it’d been before the bridge.

And that moment did not disappoint.

The crowd was so loud my headphones became obsolete. I pulled the left one out and soaked it all in as I (probably ugly) cried for at least the fourth time that day.

First Avenue carried us about three and a half miles north to the Bronx and the twenty mile mark. That’s about when the first waves of fatigue started to roll in, and the months of not running caught up to me.  (I was slowing way down so catching up to me wasn’t too hard.) I started walking slowly through each water mark, and made lingering use of another bank of porta potties. My ankle also started speaking up in protest against the day’s activities and I obliged dialing my pace way back. (Angry ankle or not, I don’t think I had a choice really.)

We spent only a mile in the Bronx before heading back into Manhattan down Fifth Avenue. Over the Madison Avenue Bridge my mental, emotional, and physical faculties were starting to self-destruct, but I realized we were really in the final stretch as I crossed into my twenty-second unrehearsed mile of the day.

I started doing feverish calculations in my head. At the half-marathon I’d been at 2:01, and had briefly entertained thoughts of picking up the pace a touch to go sub-4. Then my ankle moaned a little and I quickly pushed that recklessness aside. Now at 35k my time was (my original overall goal time of) 3:25 and I was starting to seriously consider walking. But I was so close and didn’t want to come in over five hours, so if I was going to let myself walk I decided I had to time it right – especially as I suspected a quick power walk would feel any better than running so it’d likely be a slow crawl.

I stopped a few times to stretch my hamstrings, which felt amerrrzing. I desperately wanted some pretzels and cursed myself for not packing salt tabs this time around. As I trudged on, a few times I saw folks on the sidelines giving out the salty crunchy snacks I was dreaming of, but always on the other side of the course and it didn’t seem worth the energy to backtrack or dodge and weave to get there. In stead I grabbed at any banana bits being handed out and forced myself to pick my feet up just a little while longer.

After crunching the numbers I made myself a deal  that I could  walk once I passed the 23 mile marker. At that point I’d only have a little over 5k left and I was pretty sure I could walk that much in an hour if I had to. As I reached that self-appointed mile marker of sort-of-rest, I stretched again and slowed to a brisk shuffle.

I walked about half that 24th mile, the whole time struggling hard against my own ego. There were a couple other walkers,  but I was still far enough towards the front of the pack (thanks to my Wave 1 start,) that almost everyone was not only still running – but still looking strong. It was a moment of humility that probably taught me more than any other part of the day.

The lesson being that noone was judging me for walking – noone except myself. I HAD to go easier on myself, to be nicer to myself. I criticize myself a lot, outloud and with expletives. Scott can vouch, I’m always verbally accosting myself. And for every time I voice my disappointment in my body and abilities and dedication and performance, I’m doing it ten more times in my head. I wouldn’t speak to another person the way I speak to myself. (And that’s not because I’m nice – I am admittedly not.)

And so I walked. And cried a little. I ate the handfuls of banana I’d amassed, and I thought about Mo which made me cry a little more. And I told myself good job. You’re doing a good job. You’re almost there.

After about ten minutes my legs had loosened enough that I felt like I could try a slow jog again. Maybe the bananas’ potassium booster had done the trick unlocking my  hamstrings, or maybe I just needed my own moral support to finish the race. Whatever the reason, I was pleasantly amazed to be able to run a little again after thinking I’d have to walk the entire final 5k.

By now we were in Central Park and really almost done. Around the mile 24 mark the path starts to wind mostly downhill. Where I’d dreaded those declines earlier I was so happy for the boost now. As we neared the finish line the crowd got more raucous. At one point I’m pretty sure I heard someone yell my name but I couldn’t tell who it was.

With around two miles to go Scott found and called out to me and seeing my love and biggest cheerleader kicked me into action. It was a second wind like I’ve never felt before. It felt like a store of energy was shaken loose somewhere near my heart and radiated on down to my legs. The emotional adrenaline burst sent me on my fastest tear of the day. My pace dropped to the low-8s and I barely felt the previous 40k.

As we closed in on the finish line and distances were ticked down in meters instead of miles, I felt that energy and adrenaline radiate upward behind my eyes. A serious ugly cry was building.

The last 200m the tears fell hard. (Maybe all the previous crying is what had depleted my salt-stores!) I couldn’t believe I’d done it, and that my much-maligned body and skeleton had pulled me through. My final net time was 4:12:49. Better than I could have asked or hoped for in my condition.

I cry/smiled through finisher photos, collected water and post-race fuel (and obviously my medal) and began the hike out of the Park.

Now for a big piece of advice to anyone doing this race in the future. Months ahead of time you have to choose between a post-race poncho, or bag-check. CHOOSE THE PONCHO. They are crazy nice with fleece lining and the poncho option cuts out your post-run walk by a lot. I went for the poncho, and not only am I snuggling in it right now, I don’t know if I could have walked any further than I did. With proper layering and throw away warm-up clothes in Staten Island, bag check shouldn’t be needed. Even opting for the poncho I walked at least a mile up and out of the Park and back down Central Park West for 12 blocks before I was able to meet up with Scott.

I was so happy to see my gorgeous man. I don’t know what I did to deserve such a cheerleader. The man had checked us out of our hotel, gone to Penn Station to check our luggage, coordinated through the race with my friends who were watching (none of whom I found in the crazy throngs despite their yelling!) and was there waiting with hugs, love, and clean clothes at the finish line.

We slowly shuffled west and plopped ourselves down at the first restaurant we found that could seat us. It happened to be an Italian cafe, so we ordered Peronis and a pizza, and my friend Nick came to join us for a few. (Exciting 2016 side note – Nick just got an awesome Cannondale road bike and is gearing up for his [of many] tri[s]! You know I love when my friends join me in my multi-sport addiction!)

A little before 5pm, Nick accompanied me to Duane Reed for some much-needed Advil, and then Scott and I made our way south to Penn. We snagged seats together on the train, and I attempted to settle in for a  nap, but the adrenaline was still flowing. I gave in and made a trip to the cafe car for snacks and a mini bottle (ok two) of delicious train wine. I wore my medal (and poncho!) proudly and gratefully the whole way home.

What a way to end yet another injury-plagued season. I don’t think I can keep calling 2015 a disappointment after a race like that. I got to be part of something so much bigger than myself – from fundraising for a great organization in the memory of an amazing friend, to being part of an international community of like-minded masochists seeking to challenge their bodies and minds. I learned to love myself more, and to say thank you to the body I’m usually cursing for its deficiencies.

And while it wasn’t the PR/BQ I wanted, I still did get to experience the hard work I’ve put in swimming, biking, and lifting. That fitness and this body got me over the finish line. I still hope that BQ is coming – and soon. And I hope I’ll get to run/cry through my hometown and the greatest city in the world many more times to come.