And so, I’m back. Not quite sure how I feel about that. The saddest moment of the days since I got back from running the ING New York Marathon (I did it!) was yesterday: I spent much of the early evening glancing at my watch – so much so that my fiancé asked me what was up? What did I think I was missing? “Nothing.” I told him. “But this time last week, I was running.” He reached over and gave me a cuddle. It helped, but only a little.
They say the moon-landers were never the same when they came back to earth. That’s how finishing a marathon feels. It’s most likely something that’s been on your to-do list for years, and even as you’re doing it, you’re not sure it really is achievable. Suddenly, you’re over the finishing line, wrapped in foil and being force-fed free Gatorade and bagels and you’ll never have not done it again. You’re part of a very tiny percentage of the world’s population. You’re wobbly and sick and over-emotional and now freezing – but you immediately want to do it again.
With the help of the most generous friends (Facebook, Twitter and, y’know, real), we’ve managed to raise 84% of the £5000 target I’ve set for the Alzheimer’s Society. I know that target is high, but there’s no point setting a huge personal goal and then attaching it to a rubbish, easily attainable charity one, now is there? It was a risk, particularly in a year where everyone’s broke and every other bloody one is running a marathon a day for “Save the Angels”, or something much prettier or popular than Alzheimer’s. But still, people have coughed up, and re-Tweeted, and sent messages of support that really did mean the world.
There’s nothing like that moment (which came for me at mile 16) where you want to stop and go home. Everything aches – shoulders, neck, old groin strain, that hamstring that the physio said you shouldn’t run with (hah!) – plus nobody talks about the foot-pain; pounding and pounding on concrete and only concrete for hours and hours meant my feet felt like someone had taken a jack-hammer to them. During the later stages, I was barely lifting them; slapping them down again was too painful, and I was reduced to a shuffle. Mind you, that eased the hamstring, so swings and roundabouts. But at that awful mile 16, I just thought of all the donations. There was no way I was going to let people down. Plus my very dear mate in Dublin had just lost her closest pal, and I’d said I’d do it in their honour. No way I could look her in the eye with only 16 miles under my belt.
And New York (New York) would have shunned me if I’d quit, and I love it too much for that to happen. I plan to be there several times in the future, and I was only going to be able to do that with my head held high, my chest medal-adorned. I had been going to settle for hobbling around at about 5 and a half hours. Not awful for a first-timer, but Edward Norton did it in just over 3 and a half and you know how I’m always competing with him.
In reality, my dream time would have been about 4:30. Imagine my surprise when I bought the New York Times the following day, purely as a souvenir, to discover that I’d scraped into their Finshers List at a time of 4 hours, 44 minutes and 27 seconds. I was only 7 names before the cut-off for making the list! 10 seconds later, and my time would not have made the print version. I did better than I thought, and yet again the marathon made me feel something I don’t usually feel off my own bat: I’m great! I’m top! I may as well have won (although the actual winners were already eating bagels while I battled my doubts at mile 16).
I have never seen a city get behind an event quite like this. Fire departments brought their trucks down to the route to cheer us on. Police escorted us everywhere, even once we’d finished and were hobbling around Central Park. “Runners only!” was a cry that infuriated many locals and tourists on the day, but made our lives so much easier. Bands played, there were block parties, people cut up banana and baked cookies and lined the route with signs and claps and cheers. It’d melt the stoniest among you.
I know you weren’t there, but if you’d like to feel part of this event that broke me and stopped New York City itself in its tracks, then there’s still time to sponsor me. My page is www.justgiving.com/taraflynn and although it sometimes gives trouble, it’s usually a hassle-free way to donate. It’s such an amazing cause…and I am such an amazing person. Not as amazing as Edward Norton, but still.
