Marathon

I'll be the first to admit I've been to a lot of sporting events.  I've played in them, winning a National Championship, and losing a Final Four game.  I've watched the Yankees win a World Series, sitting seven rows behind their dugout in 1996 with my dad, hugging him as Wade Boggs mounted a horse, and Joe Torre let the tears flow.  And I've sat in the stands cheering for the Mets, Giants, Nets, Red Bulls, LA Galaxy...countless times reclining in admiration of the athleticism taking place in front of me. Sports take us through the highest of highs, placing athletes on pedestals, creating idols, and nurturing rivalries and competition.

Yet today, I choked up watching ordinary people compete not against each other, but against time, age, mother nature, and their own limitations.

I was in Long Branch, under the brightest of springtime skies. On the drive down, I'd taken a moment while ascending the Driscoll Bridge, when there was nothing but blue and clouds ahead, to comment on how perfect a day it was.  Now, walking across Ocean Boulevard, nothing seemed unusual, except the vision of white tents peeking through the  row of brand new condominiums.  

The closer we got to the ocean, the more people we started to see milling about, some wearing fleeces, shivering in the wind coming in off the sea.  There were others, dressed in spandex and shorts, with numbers affixed to their chests and medals around their necks.  There was even a four person cluster dressed in the aforementioned spandex, but with wigs and bedazzled capes styled like Elvis.

The ones dressed for summer were smiling, guzzling bottles of brightly colored sports drinks, water, and chowing down on everything from bananas to hot dogs.  They had a somewhat dazed look in their eyes, their hair was matted, but they seemed genuinely, unequivocally, happy.  

We were there for my sister's boyfriend James, who turned forty in November, and, after running a half last year, decided he wanted to run a full marathon.  This was his race, a 26.2 mile course around the Jersey shore, culminating in the final trek down the boardwalk in Long Branch.  

We had a rather sizable group to support him. James's daughters, his mother, his best friends John and Drew, John's girlfriend, and my family were all headed down to cheer him on.  

I'll be honest. The idea of a marathon terrifies me.  When I first heard of it, it was in the context of ancient Greece, the legend of Pheidippides running from the Battle of Marathon to Athens to tell the assembly that the Persians had been defeated.  A noble cause, yes.  A damn stupid one that ended in his untimely, exhausted death?  Well, that too.

I've never been much of a runner.  My friends chide me because, as a soccer player for most of my formative years, I did my fair share of moving quickly on the field.  But most of that involved chasing down a ball, or sprinting to elude a defender.  The actual running of it all- the miles pounding the sidewalk and streets, listening to Melissa Etheridge's "No Souvenirs" on repeat, my knees screaming- that was punishing.  You're alone with your thoughts, with your body.  You're aware of every breath, every memory, every instinct to quit.

Which is why, gingerly approaching the finish line with our crew, I was awed to see these people accomplishing what I never could.  They were fighters, all of them.  Pink shirts with "Survivor" printed in big letters, American flag patterned shorts and dog chains around their necks, friends holding hands as they ran through the finish line. Each had their own story, their own demons and victories, their own reasons for enduring.

A marathon isn't entered into lightly, it's something you have to commit to, fully giving yourself over body and soul .  I know my friend woke up at ridiculously early hours, went to bed late, withstood grueling mile after mile.  I know he charged through the wall you inevitably hit (he told us it was around mile 18 that day)- and he kept going.  

We had our own minibattles that day to contend with. To start, there was security- and that security almost cost us our buddy's reunion with his family.  They wouldn't allow his mother to bring in her four inch by four inch purse.  She was running late, got lost getting to the venue, and, after being guided in via cell phone directions, was promptly stopped.  

After a brief conversation with my sister (consisting mainly of "I need you to do this for me"), I used my speed and long stride (remarkable, I thought, as my legs extended and the sea crashed behind me, I can still glide while sprinting) to move from the finish line to the security stop, scanning the crowd for two adorable little red haired girls, and a feisty petite grandma. They were relatively easy to spot.

"Hi!  Nice to meet you," I said, bending down to hug grandma.  "Just head over to the finish line.  I'll be right back," I stated, gesturing toward the yellow-flagged finish with one hand while my body moved in the opposite direction, towards where my mom and stepdad were perched with my kids.

After that quick hand off to my stepdad, I ran back towards the finish line, my ponytail slapping my red Harvard hat - only the sweet grandmother with the double stroller wasn't there.

Instead, my sister and our friends were looking rather confused.  "Where'd they go?" Nicole asked me.

"I have no idea!  I pointed over here..." I trailed off, scanning the crowd, my stomach sinking as I realized James was headed towards the finish line any minute.

Nicole's phone buzzed.  "You have to find them. Please," she said to me, pacing away as she turned back to the finish line. "Hello?  (pause)  What do you see?  Do you see the yellow flags?".  

I handed my camera over to John's girlfriend, giving the fastest tutorial in how to handle it possible, and ran towards the fence.  I ascended the miniature dune, the sand and tall grass giving way beneath my sneakers, and climbed up on the juxtaposed metal .  I spotted them, speaking to a black-clad security officer about twenty feet away.  

Waving, I pleaded, "Her son is about to cross the finish line- can you PLEASE let them through?" I could feel my voice catch in my throat, that thing that happens when you're too emotional for your own good, and the sobs are threatening.  

Knowing how far James had come, knowing how important it was to him to have his girls and his mom there for this once in a lifetime moment, I tried every Jedi mind trick I could conceive of.  And then, I used good old fashioned Jersey stupidity/ingenuity- I just acted like he was going to say yes.

James's mom took the cue, and started walking towards me with the stroller.  I sensed the guard's hesitancy as he held back a bit.  "I just don't want to get fired."

"You're not going to get fired- you can escort us if you need to," I assured him, placing one foot on the top of the fence, and hopping over it.  Briefly, I thought of the security guard by the entrance, the one holding the four foot long automatic weapon that looked like something out of Judge Dredd. I quickly dismissed this.

The group of us made our way through the emergency medical station, straight towards the finish line.  We reached yellow caution tape, and I started to pick up the four year old out of the stroller.  "Come here, sweetie- we're going to get your daddy."

The words were barely out of my mouth when I saw James, curving around the bend, having crossed the finish line, and coming straight towards us.  In the moment, I heaved a sigh of relief that his family was there for his accomplishment. I noticed his legs shaking, his eyes somewhere between delirium and a dream at having accomplished such a Herculean task. The image of the white fabric on his shoe dyed red from his foot's blood blisters popping during the last mile stays with me.  But most of all, I remember the smile on his face, the one mirroring his daughter's as I handed her off to him, and he beamed.  

I can't imagine running a marathon.  My knees are too far gone, the wear and tear of twenty plus years of soccer is too much for a road race of that magnitude.  But I can see why you would.  It's a proud moment, a defining moment.   Just to be a part of it in some way, to help someone reach their goal, cross an item off their bucket list, and shout to the world that they can conquer the unconquerable, was special.  

If you can swing it, do it.  Ignore the naysayers, ignore your angry limbs, and just see what you can do when you give yourself over to the "what if" of your dreams.  I teared up because literally everyone who crosses the finish line comes out a winner- a rarity in sports, and in life.  It's a feat worth being present for, in any capacity.