Things tend to happen all around me - cool, New York things - and I'm either unaware of them or unmotivated to participate. I blame New York. There's way too much going on here. Festivals, readings, West Indian parades, concerts, shows, indie craft fairs, etc. It's overwhelming, and when faced with all these options I tend to throw my hands up in the air and go back to my normal, you-can-do-this-stuff-in-any-town-in-America activities.
Once in awhile though, I'm able to focus in on something and be a part of it. This past Sunday for example, I rolled out of bed, walked three blocks down the street, and watched the best runners in the world glide past me. The New York Marathon. Very cool.
The course runs through my neighborhood, and thanks to the helpful marathon website I was able to time my arrival on the sidelines to match the arrival of the first male runners. Olympians, world record holders; I stood on 4th Avenue for a good 15 minutes waiting for them, and they flashed past me on a wave of "wooo!"s from the crowd. I got the chills. I wondered if the great Haile Gebrselassie would win (he wouldn't).
Behind the pack of leaders came a steady trickle of great-but-not-the-greatest runners. Show's over, right? Funny, it turned out not to be. I loved watching the non-elites. Many had their native flags stamped on their racing pinnys. Lots of Brits, Norwegians, Frenchmen and Italians. Really?, I thought while Oliver sipped his McDonald's coffee next to me. These people came here all the way from Europe? Just for this race? Tall Germans with square jaws ran past in pairs. A man wore shorts made of the South African flag.
A number of runners had their names written on their shirts. Handwritten; they had done this themselves. I was confused, but only until the woman next to me started yelling "Go John! Vive le France, Phillippe! Keep it up Paco!" Ah. Hey, everyone needs a boost now and then.
Some hours later, we happened to be up near Central Park, where the marathon finishes. "The race is still going... should we go watch for a bit?" I asked. We hemmed and hawed, then found ourselves up on a hill overlooking the flood of finishing-somewhere-in-the-middle-or-maybe-towards-the-back runners. It was mile 24, and some of these people looked like they were just barely hanging on. One man made his way over to the sidelines and stopped, clearly hobbled by a leg injury. He was so close! But he clearly couldn't go on. He let out a frustrated cry and struck the fence in anger. He bent over for a few seconds, then started to walk forward.
One man ran by in a head-to-toe orange spandex bodysuit. Another wore a hot dog costume. Two runners - an older father and his 30something daughter perhaps? - held hands and seemed to each pull the other along toward the finish.
And the crowds kept cheering. Just as they had back in Park Slope, people yelled out for total strangers. I think this might have been my favorite part of the race, the whole "rooting for the best in all of us" thing. There is such pain and struggle involved in running a race like this... and so much joy and humanity in screaming yourself hoarse to show your support for these struggling, complete strangers.
