An Old Race With a New Face
The word route gets used by a lot of runners. The word gets used for a variety of different things, ranging from my morning routine to the 20-mile run I plan during marathon training and of course what to expect during a race. The route during a race has multiple different factors that runners will relentlessly discuss. We will talk about both sides of the hills that will be encountered, where to drink water and eat your “gu” or “chewy” and of course what the finish line looks like. The scenes from a race route are a lot like a photograph, it can challenge you to the core, it can provide moments of incredible clarity at that moment, it can elicit incredible memories, and on those good days, it can provide a fountain of inspiration.
The first half marathon I ever ran was the New York City Half Marathon. It always falls in March, so it’s the race where I freeze while waiting in the cold. It is also the annual race that my mom buys pictures of me despite the fact that I can’t stand photos of me running. It is the first big race I did when I started running. The kind where people pay a premium for bibs, and there is a lottery to get the right to participate in it. I had grown to love the course, partly because of the custom and familiarity and because it’s a rare day you get to run through midtown Manhattan. That was until this year when they went and changed the course.
The new NYC Half Marathon now starts in Brooklyn, at the foot of Prospect Park. Like most of these “bigger” races in New York, there were some logistics and planning involved in arriving on time, checking my bag and getting to my corral anxiety free. The new course required quite a few road closures, so there is also the added pressure of potential traffic jams for my Uber at 6:00 am since I don’t trust the MTA and the subways anymore. Just like in past years, I was forced to wait in the cold after making my way through security and bag. Waiting in the shadow of the Brooklyn Museum of Art, I flashed in and out of the conversations around me when I was waiting alone in my corral. I was pretty nervous about my lack of training, my recovered hamstring and ultimately my ignorance of the route I am about to encounter. I know I have looked at a map that shows me elevations and I know I have actually walked or driven over these streets, but its never the same.
At 7:30 am the corrals start to break down and I started to make my way closer to the start line (after a long wait at the porta-potty). I finally broke into a slow jog and glanced at the ground when I crossed over the blue plastic wire covers, I pushed the button on my watch and simultaneously glanced at the clock at the top of the arch. The first two miles are downhill through downtown Brooklyn. It is a cruel test of a runner’s self-control because I was already pretty excited and I wanted to warm up after waiting in the cold for an hour. I kept reminding myself that I needed to slow myself down as I felt the muscles in my legs start to warm up and the feeling in my toes and my fingers started to come back.
At the foot of the Manhattan Bridge, the New York City Half grabbed my heart and tapped into all of those nostalgia muscles. Growing up as a native New Yorker, the bridges along the East River seemed to be part of the background. For me, I never paid attention until I started running. Each one of those bridges now represents something different for me but most of all it reminds me of the New York City Marathon. I saw the Manhattan Bridge on the horizon, and it seemed so familiar and yet so new on that day. I had crossed this bridge dozens of times, but I had never done it this way. I made my way up the steady incline until it plateaued on the somewhat narrow sun-soaked road. I looked to my left and I could see the Brooklyn Bridge and glare of downtown Manhattan. I peaked to my right, and I could see straight down the East River at the Queensborough Bridge. The indoctrinated runner understands that there is something intimate about getting a new view of a place I have called home for so long.
As I came off the Bridge, I noticed a Greek flag waving in front of Saint Barbara’s, a Greek Orthodox Church. Another familiar place that I was seeing for the first time as a runner. The course took us through Chinatown and the lower east side. After the initial reentry into Manhattan, the roads were sparsely lined with spectators who were braving the cold. I love running through Manhattan during a race because it feels like this big City is mine for that day. For this brief period on a cold March Sunday morning, I own the road that I usually would have to avoid cars, pedestrians, and a million other urban obstacles.
By mile 5 I had reached the FDR drive. I had come out too hot at the beginning but I didn’t care because I was healthy. I hated the FDR drive so I won’t linger on it. I never like highways during a race. It is a personal aversion but I feel like its one urban landscape that just isn’t appealing because it is so devoid of life. I turned down the exit ramp for 42nd street in the shadow of the United Nations. The wind whipped at me as I turned onto 42nd street and crossed under the overpass. 42nd street tells a story on a day like this when you get to cross Manhattan early in the morning. I work on Third Avenue so ran past a corner I pass every morning when I come into work. The road is empty except for runners and red-faced police officers who occasionally smile at the waves of people passing by them.
Turning onto 7th Avenue in the heart of Times Square I know mile 9 will probably be my last burst. My legs remind me that I can get through this race but without the training I won’t have that final burst through the last four miles. But on this day, on this new course in an old place, I don’t really care. Times Square and 7th Avenue are lined with crowds of people cheering and ringing cowbells as the neon lights clash with the cold sunny sky. The entrance to Central Park is another old friend and another postcard from the Marathon experience, which has its last few kilometers on the same path but going in an opposite direction.
I finally made it to the west side and knew that I would deal with a couple of rolling hills and then see the finish line right past the reservoir. I had done this what seems like a million times before, but it felt different when I approached the finish line and saw the blue finishing arch and streams of flags that bordered the final few steps. I crossed the finished line, stopped my watch, my official finishing time was 1:38:46. I smiled because I recognized the feeling, tired but not hurt so I’ll live with the slower time. My day was finished and a new course had breathed life into an old place.
