I watched my first marathon in person in November 1996. At the time I was living in Park Slope on St. Mark’s Avenue, just by the intersection of Flatbush and 5th Avenue. It was a small, dark, basement-level studio, but I was making it, after a fashion, in New York—I had been there three months. It was cold that day but, as I recall, sunny. I had the TV (which sat on the floor—no luxuries like furniture, except a couple of chairs) on, and the marathon was being run. I realized that I could just walk down the block to Fourth Avenue and see the runners pass by. The male leaders had come and gone, but I could hurry down to see the women. The favorite for the year (though not the eventual winner) was Tegla Loroupe. I bundled up, walked down, watched for a few minutes, then hurried to an apartment which was not large but was, at least, warm.

I didn’t think much about running for the next four years.

Then, late in 2000, my friend and co-worker Robin started trying to talk me into running with her. I was reluctant. Running was the sort of thing my dad did. Yike. On the other hand, I had been feeling out of shape, and was looking for something to satisfy my not nonexistent athletic side. So I signed up with the New York Road Runners Club and entered a race in January, a five-miler.

I had no training, the wrong shoes, and it had just snowed. On the up side, the park was beautiful with its pristine new white sheath. On the down side, I learned that running five miles in the wrong shoes with no training is a recipe for pain. I finished in over 57 minutes (12-plus minutes a mile) and lived for the next several days with the gift of knees so stiff I had to take stairs one step at a time. But I kept it up. Weeks later I was in another race, and soon I was running regularly. Still, the marathon was not a thought.

November 2001, I came out to watch Robin and another runner we had become friends with, Laura, run the marathon. I was with another member of our little group, Steph, who had just run the Chicago Marathon. It was a nice day for spectating, and I enjoyed the vibe. But I was still uncertain. Even so, I had made sure to run the requisite nine races to automatically qualify.

By spring, I committed. I paid the fee and signed up. I also planned to run the Hood to Coast, a 200-mile relay from Mount Hood, Oregon, to the coast of the Pacific. As it turned out, though, injuries suffered in running that event forced me to withdraw from the 2002 marathon and wait at least another year.

This year, I was determined. I signed up again, started training in June. And fought through a painful knee and a late illness that sidelined me for different stretches. By the end of October, I felt ready.

Saturday, the day before the marathon, worried me. I did not feel well, which is not something you want the day before running 26.2 miles. My head was congested, my cough (which had lingered since a head cold a month earlier) had worsened, and I felt listless. In the morning I puttered around, packing to go over to Mrs. S___’s, where I was going to stay the night, since it would be easier to get to the bus to the start from there Sunday morning.

I went over around 3. It was a lovely day, more late summer than fall, but I was in no mood to enjoy it. I just kept hoping I would feel better. I had planned to go over to the free pasta party at Tavern on the Green, but I was beginning to think I’d be better off sticking close to Mrs. S___’s Upper West Side apartment. I got my jersey ready by putting my name on the front using sticky letters I bought at Staples and attaching my number—I wanted to be able to get off the bus ready to run.

By 6 I knew I wasn’t going down to the pasta party, so Mrs. S___ and I walked over to Columbus and walked down to a nice Italian restaurant, Bella Luna, which had atypically poor service that night, but the food was good, which was all I really cared about. Perhaps influenced by the Italian ambience, we discussed the recent controversy in Italy over the court-ordered removal of a cross from a school classroom.

Afterward, I felt little better. I stopped for some bananas for the next day, and then for some NyQuil to hopefully stem the congestion and maybe help me sleep. Normally I would resist anything like it the night before a race, but I was really concerned that the congestion would worsen if I didn’t stop it.

Exhausted, I went to sleep a little after 10. I was too tired to even think much about the race ahead.

I awoke (for good) at 5:30. Happily, to my immense relief, I felt much better when I got up. And, whether due to pharmaceutical progress or not, I had a solid night’s sleep. A quick shower and a bagel later, I was ready to go. Unfortunately, I had planned on Mrs. S___ having Cheerios that I could bring along in a Ziploc bag; she didn’t, so I had to hope I could pick some up on the way.

I caught the 6:38 crosstown bus which took me to Lexington and 96th. Looking out over the East River, the rising sun was low and red in the sky. The day was going to be picture perfect. Of course, the aesthetics of a beautiful fall day don’t necessarily correspond with ideal running conditions.

I was able to find Cheerios at a bodega walking down Lex. The Flyers buses were waiting on Lex at the corner of 86th. Paranoid as I am about being late, I got on the first bus right away. We took a scenic route down to Staten Island, at least at the start, going up and over to the George Washington Bridge to cross into New Jersey. Looking up the Hudson toward upstate New York was a spectacular sight: the early morning light on the golds, reds, and tans of the forests crowding the river cliffs. I retreated into my thoughts and tried to think up the run ahead.

After crossing onto Staten Island from New Jersey (less scenic than earlier), the traffic was already starting to pile up leading up to the Verrazano Bridge and the Marathon start.

After the bus dropped us off, we walked several blocks to the staging area, passing through two checkpoints where we had to show our race number and chip; only runners and personnel allowed past this point. I sat with a couple of other Flyers at a corner where runners were coming, waiting for Flyers from the following buses. I downed some Cheerios, water and orange juice, hoping to time it so I’d be energized by the calories but not loaded down while running. It’s a tricky balance.

The crowd swelled as we sat, the sky blued. The Verrazano loomed to the south and east, and the day was already growing warm. Runners milled, pinned on their numbers, stretched, ate, slept, waited in the bathroom lines, doing whatever they felt necessary to be ready. There are probably as many styles of race preparation as there are runners. There was a distinct buzz of anticipation.

I jumped into one of the bathroom lines about an hour before the start. It worked out well—I got through at about 9:50, leaving 20 minutes to spare. I tossed what I had brought to the side (sweepers would pick up the sweater and sweatpants I had discarded for charity) and I made my way to my corral (Red 25000-26000). As I arrived there the crowd began to surge forward toward the bridge. The race was upon us.

With a sudden roar, the crowd moving en masse, the cannon went off, and just like that, the marathon started. As we came around and onto the bridge, you could see ahead the pack surging up toward the apex. Brooklyn lay beyond, the sparkling water to our left and right. Frank Sinatra sang “New York, New York” and we all sang too, and whooped, and cheered. The mood was gleeful, and the crossing of thousands of chips over the start line mats melded into the sound of a runner’s song.

On our left water taxis shot cannons of red, white and blue water that merged into the ocean. Far (very far, to my eyes) to our left was Manhattan, waiting.

The peak of the Verrazano is the highest point of the race, but of course the climb is the easiest because of the massive amounts of adrenaline. The crowd is still thick, almost forcing you to keep a slow pace. Still, it’s easy enough to look around and take in the sights of one of the biggest sporting events in the world. In the 34-year history of the marathon, about 630,000 runners have completed the course. At the current rate, it will take about another 250 years for the number of runners who have completed the New York City Marathon to match the city’s current population. What does that mean? I have no idea. But it sounds neat, doesn’t it?

Still on the bridge, I hit mile 1 at about 10:50, way slower than my plan of 9:30-10:00, but I was fine with that. Better too slow than too fast. In what seemed like no time we came down the east side of the bridge and peeled off into the southern reaches of Brooklyn, where the first crowds met us.

A couple of quick turns, and we were on to Fourth Avenue, just after the 2-mile mark. This is one of the long continuous stretches of the marathon, and the first big crowds show up here. I sped up a little, cutting my pace down closer to 9 minutes a mile. That way I could still maintain a shot at four hours. The pack was still pretty heavy but there was plenty of room. I started to hear shouts of “Go Torsten!”, often even pronounced correctly! Go New York! I settled into a regular rhythm, as did the people around me—for the next several miles I saw a lot of the same backs. There was an older fellow named Pepe who kept encouraging the spectators to make noise. Local residents would cheer on fellow countryfolk—not surprisingly, the area was Latin America heavy: there were many shouts of “Mexico!” with the “x” sounding like an “h.” Soon we were hearing, “Welcome to Park Slope!” and I passed St. Mark’s Avenue, the street I first lived on when I moved to New York.

As the street numbers ticked down, I knew I was getting close to where Adina was waiting to see me, between 1st and Carroll, after about 7 miles. I was taking in fluids at every mile due to the heat, so I made sure to stick to the left side water stop at mile 7, as I told Adina I’d be coming up that side. I edged as far to the left as I could so she could spot me more easily. As I came toward her she raised her left arm for a high five but I stopped for a hug. High fives are great but this was a marathon—I needed a hug.

I still felt good at this point. I was hydrating at every mile and starting to take Gatorade every couple of miles. At 8 miles I slowed down to take some Gu (an energy gel) to help restock glycogens. They say that basically, anyone can train to run about 20 miles. After that, though, the body runs out of glycogen and starts to look for other fuel sources, like carbohydrates and fat (this, I don’t have much of). You take in sport drinks and energy gels to help supply your body with fuel sources, and the long runs help train your body to switch over to alternative fuels at the late stages, but to some extent it’s just a crapshoot how your body will respond.

The crowds were really thickening in spots. People on balconies were blasting music; as we passed BAM and into the Fort Greene area, the crowds were heavy and vibrant. This was a good place to pick up energy, and it was about here that I ran the fastest art of my race. My friend Allison found me in the midst of the crowd: I hear “Torsten! Torsten! Torsten!”, look over, and see her jumping up and down and waving frantically. I waved back and ran on. In a marathon no inducement can get you to backtrack.

I hit 9 miles at almost exactly 1:25:00, or about a 9:30 pace, and made 10 miles at 1:34:00. At that point, for some reason I can only put down to gradual fatigue, I began to slow down; I would run the next 10 miles at right around a 10-minute mile pace. I was a little surprised at this, but unconcerned. Time was a secondary concern; finishing was the goal.

The crowds began to thin as we headed out of Brooklyn and up to the Pulaski Bridge, which marks the midway point of the race. Even so, some hardy souls (perhaps emboldened by the nice weather) were up on the bridge to cheer us on. I hit the 13.1 mark at 2:05:30. I knew at this point I wouldn’t make four hours. There was no way I would run the second half faster than the first. I still had hopes of making 4:10, 4:15. But I was definitely tiring.

The Queens section isn’t the nicest part of the course, but it is my borough, so I was happy to be there. We wended our way around the Citicorp Building (the tallest New York City structure outside Manhattan, coming around to Crescent and onto the Queensborough (sometimes called the 59th Street) Bridge. You know, the one from Spider-Man. In training I often ran down Crescent, which goes just by my apartment, down to the bridge to run over and back. Of course, I knew then that there was a big difference between hitting the Queensborough after one mile as opposed to 15.

The saving grace of the bridge was shade, which the course otherwise has little of. Even so, it was a trudge up. Another Flyer, Bill, spotted me and we ran the bridge together. He admitted to having a rough time; I told him I could feel my legs starting to tighten. At the bottom of the bridge was one of the only (mild) disappointments of the race. There was a huge crowd, as expected, as you came off, but they were oddly quiet. Perhaps taking a break? But by the time we curled around under the bridge and up 1st Avenue, the noise picked up. It was badly needed by then. I was flagging, but the many shouts of “Go Torsten!” did help. Even so, I was becoming concerned about the last few miles.

I finished the Gu that I had brought with me between 16 and 17. Between 17 and 18 I downed some Gatorade, which I was diluting less and less because I need the pop I got from it. Adina, Liz and Mrs. S___ were waiting for me at 102nd and 1st with fresh supplies, and more importantly encouragement. The crowds were huge all the way through the 90s. Noised poured in, and on the occasions where the avenue dipped ahead, you could see the wave of runners moving down and then up to the horizon. At around 96th I saw Robin, who had started all this two years before. She gave me a hug, told me I looked great (I felt this must be a lie, but welcome nonetheless), and I went on. At 102nd, where the crowds are smaller, they were waiting as promised: I hugged Adina and Liz, grabbed some bites of a banana (immortalized on film), was cranky at Mrs. S___ for starting to open the new Gu packet, and took off for the stretch run. I had run for just exactly 3 hours.

The Wall. 20 miles. What they say is true, it turns out, or at least it was for me. In the New York City Marathon the 20-mile mark comes at the Willis Avenue Bridge into the Bronx. My legs were screaming, my head was becoming fuzzy, and my right calf had already buckled once. Cramping was setting in and I was exhausted. My lungs, I should say, were fine. I could probably go 100 miles on those. But my wheels were coming off. As you go onto the bridge the road narrows and it quickly became very crowded. Having slowed to a jog anyway, I gave in and, for the first other a water stop, walked. Psychologically, this is very difficult. It feels like a defeat. But I knew that if I wanted to finish, if I was going to get through these last 6.2 miles, I needed to give my body a break. A short-term sacrifice for long-term gain. It was disappointing, but in retrospect, very necessary.

The Bronx is notorious for sparse crowds (the marathon is in the borough for only about a mile), but the warm weather seemed to bring people out. I was able to keep running, at least intermittently. Around 21 miles I put my hand up to my brow and my forehead was gritty. Looking at my fingers, the had grains of salt on them. Dehydration was taking a toll.

The last bridge takes you onto 5th Avenue at 138th Street in Harlem. Bigger crowds here than in the Bronx, but now the fall sun was directly in our eyes. After 21 miles, it’s an added aggravation. At this point, I was playing the mental game with myself of setting a target to run to, then allowing myself to walk for a stretch. The runs got shorter, the walks longer. At 125th you have to run around Marcus Garvey Park, which cuts across 5th Avenue. A middle-aged shouted encouragement, and I said, “I’ll make it.” To him and to me.

Lots of people were hurting now. We walked, we stopped briefly to stretch our calves and our quads, we ran when we were able.

Finally, at 110th, the park, golden and luminescent. I think. I can’t swear to everything I saw at that point. Just over three miles to go. My head swam, my legs throbbed.

At 91st the Flyer contingent set up. I was running here—I wanted to enter the park running—and the retiring Flyers Coach Cliff is leaping out, shouting, “You’re doing a great job!”

Two miles now. Well, 2.2, and I can tell you at this point that .2 looks huge, woolly mammoth huge, Mount Everest huge. Here's an important lesson you can only learn running a marathon: The difference between 20 miles and 26.2 miles isn't 6.2 miles: it's much farther, some weird Einsteinian distance that can only be calculated in suffering. I had now gone over four hours. I was hopeful, vaguely, of 4:30, but at this stage all of my mental energy was going into running as much as I possibly could to the end. I went down Cat Hill behind the museum, the decline not as easy as it usually is. I passed the 72nd street transverse, where all my long runs had started, and soon I had gone 25 miles. Then out of the park again to Central Park South, and just a mile to go. I walked, I ran, in the recesses of my mind I marveled at the huge crowds and the sight of the buildings looming to the left and ahead.

I was walking down the left side of Central Park South by the crowds when the best part of the race happened. I heard a voice. A loud voice, saying, “Torsten!” Startled (as much as you can be startled when totally exhausted), I looked over, and saw a cop, tall, thick mustache, a megaphone in his hand. Booming: “You’ve got to get going! Whatever’s happened in your past, leave it behind!” Honestly, I have no idea what that meant. But I laughed, the crowd around laughed, I shrugged obediently and started running. The crowd cheered. A half-mile to the finish, and I wouldn’t stop running again until then.

I ran through Columbus Circle and back into the park. I pumped my fist. The crowds were cheering, and somehow I got energy from somewhere. I wasn’t going fast, but I ran, down the hill as you come in, passing 300 yards to go, then 200, then 100. The finish line came into sight, just up the short final hill—easier, maybe, than any. I put up my arms, and it was done. I exulted, I teared up, with relief, exhaustion, but mostly joy.

And here are the results for Torstens:

Links:

Official Marathon site
New York Flyers