The Wisdom of Whittier

For the past sixteen weeks, I put my body through the paces training to run the New York City Marathon one final time.  In my mind's eye, I had visualized myself countless times crossing the finish line in Central Park.  On Sunday afternoon, the end came for me far earlier.  It came on Bedford Avenue in Brooklyn, at the 15K (9.3 mile) mark.   I shall be forever grateful to my great friend, Jeff Grubb, for having been there to record my dubious departure from the annals of this great race for posterity (or for infamy depending on your perspective). 

Bedford Avenue, Brooklyn (15K mark NYC Marathon)

Photo Credit: Jeff Grubb

My goal on Sunday had been to finish in five hours or less, which effort required a 11:30 pace.  Through the first 5K (3.1 miles), I ambled along at an easy, almost effortless 10:32 pace.  However, at somewhere between the fourth and fifth miles, my left knee simply cratered.  Pain in it had plagued me during my training, which pain I responded to by doing what I do when my body starts sending me strong pain signals (see, gallbladder and hernia as points of reference), I gobbled larger and larger quantities of Advil.  Sunday, having already taken a dozen Advil in an effort to ward off the pain, when it became impossible to land on my left foot while running without feeling intense pain and like I was going to fall over on the street, I made what was for me an incredibly hard decision.  

Knowing that the Missus, keeping company with Jeff and Gidg, was going to try to find me on the course in several locations, I telephoned her to inquire where they were and was relieved to learn that they were just coming topside in Brooklyn, walking up from the subway to find a spot from which to cheer for me.  I told her what had happened and told her that having signed up to run the Marathon and now not being able to do so, I was not going to subject myself or the three of them for that matter to me walking/running, walking/running, walking/running my way through another twenty-one miles, which might have taken me seven-plus hours to complete.  I told her I was coming off the course.  Rather than them coming to find me, they simply walked a mile or two from where they had gotten off the subway to a spot on Bedford Avenue within yards of its intersection with Lafayette Avenue, where the field turns left from Lafayette onto Bedford and waited for me to make it to them.  

Eventually I did, although I came perilously close to requring a calendar to measure my pace for the final four miles of my race.  I came off the course one hundred yards or so short of the 15K mark.  Knowing that what had started as a cheer mission had devolved into a recovery mission, after sitting for a few minutes on a storefront's bottom step trying to compose myself and to collect my thoughts, Jeff recognized how much better I would feel simply making it across the 15K mark.  Truthfully, he recognized it far more than did I.  I am glad I listened to him.  I hobbled my way towards the 15K sign, and knowing he was going to be there taking photos, put together at least three actual running strides and the phoniest smile in New York City Marathon history.  

Sunday was a profound disappointment.   I hated like hell to come off the course but, selflishly perhaps, I hated like hell even more the thought of staying out there all day just to say I had completed the Marathon.  I have done that three times already.  

My heartfelt thanks to everyone who supported my mission on behalf of the great people of Stomp the Monster.  Thanks to your generosity, my campaign raised more than $3000 for them, which money they put to good use providing financial assistance for cancer patients and their families.   

Whittier was right.

-AK