Talk About Running

Yesterday was the New York City marathon, and the first in five years that I haven’t been in attendance. 

The first year I lived in the city, an avid runner and friend of mine insisted we wake at dawn to watch the professionals whizz past. We split a bagel with schmear and sipped ‌burnt coffee. 

A clump of cream cheese fell down the center of her chest. While she dabbed at the stain, the professional men went sprinting past. By the time she looked up, we were watching their shapes recede into the horizon. 

“Jesus, fuck!” She exclaimed. We laughed and paid closer attention when the women rounded the corner, minutes later.  

I wasn’t exactly inspired by the professionals, even though they were mighty impressive. I took the subway home and went back to sleep. In the second and third years, I worked at a studio where I taught on Sunday mornings. The marathon was little more than an obstacle course for me to navigate along my commute. 

I’d take my time getting home, mostly out of necessity, and when I came along the course, I would pause for a moment to watch. In that third year, I watched a young runner rush to her family, who stood beside me. She shared a long hug with her father as they both choked back sobs. They asked me to take a photo of them, and in their hands they held a photo of her presumed mother, his wife. 

I excused myself shortly after she ran off, shouting over her shoulder, “For Mom!” I cried under my breath as I navigated the park, heading west towards my home. 

Last year, my friend Amanda ran the race. Amanda is the first to arrive and the last to leave any party. She is always down for another dance, another drink, another place. Still, she managed to fit in an arduous training block and finish the marathon in a pace group that to this day leaves me awe-struck. 

I got to have my sideline moment with her, at South 5th and Bedford, about ten miles into the race. She ran off with a wave, and again I was left swallowing tears. 

This year, I watched as my friend Tori crossed the finish line from a grainy and stuttering live stream. She’s sharp-witted and quick to laugh. When we get to talking, there is little way to slow us down, as we navigate the dangerous lane changes of our conversation. 

 I inundated her phone throughout the race with encouragement, hoping it was helpful and not distracting. She sent me a selfie with her medal after she finished, and I hid my face in my hands. 

But this begs the question: why do I always cry on marathon day? It isn’t a feeling unique to me; many experience the phenomenon, and it seems most documented at the New York City Marathon, in particular. 

The feeling isn’t reserved to race day. It lingers like a bad hangover over the city. Paper cups and discarded gel packs litter the sidewalks. The inspired masses haunt the aisles of Brooklyn Run Co.‌ and disrupt the traffic patterns of the McCarren track. I am not immune to this sensation. 

In fact, I succumbed to it last year. A few days after 55,000 runners completed 26.2, I laced up my running shoes for the first time in years.

I have a troubled relationship with running. I was introduced to it, as many of us in our childhoods were, in open fields and recreational sports. But when recess became a time for making friendship bracelets, and I quit field hockey to prioritize my dance classes, my only interaction with running became the annual Presidential Pacer Test. 

Say it with me: The FitnessGram Pacer Test is a multistage aerobic capacity test that progressively gets more difficult as it continues

I performed pitifully each year, and by the eighth grade, I was so dejected that I purposefully flunked it. My gym teacher excused me from remedial gym since I provided a note from my dance teacher. I couldn’t run laps because I had lost a toenail in pre-pointe. 

On the hockey pitch and in gym class, running was a punishment to be performed in front of your peers. 

But in secret, I loved running. I supplemented my dance classes with morning sit-ups and jogs around my neighborhood. 

I would wear a grey and white striped Under Armour bra that my mother hadn’t fit into and a pair of Nike Pros. I felt very adult as I sprinted past kids my age riding bikes with their siblings, or eating ice cream on our main street. 

I’d wave, but rarely stopped for neighborly conversation, with my Hello Kitty iPod playing Disturbia by Rihanna on repeat. 

I’d run without knowing the time or the distance. The wire of my headphones would thump against my chest in time with my steps, and I could hear my breath even through the pounding music. 

I was young to be running as often as I did then. I struggle to determine, more than a decade later, whether this exercise was harmful or helpful. 

It became worse in high school. I was in dance class every day of the week and typically took two or three in a row. On Saturdays, I’d take a hot yoga class, and on Sundays, a mat Pilates class. I stopped running.

Then, exercise was more of a given than a punishment. I was a dancer, a performer, a body on the stage. Physical capability was a prerequisite. I would be sore most days of the week, the pain wholly mine, and the body simply a tool.

The messaging from my teachers and directors was clear: the skinnier I was, the easier I’d fit into costume. The shorter boys could partner with me, lift me over their heads. I’d be more marketable. I’d be an easier thing to swallow if I were smaller. 

I grew up with grocery store aisle tabloids, where they labeled Jessica Simpson a "pig" and dissected Britney Spears' cellulite. So, it was easy to believe my teachers. 

If I ran, I would develop the “wrong” muscles. 

I would increase my time at the barre and decrease my food intake.

When I got to college, things suddenly became less competitive. There were no college acceptances to fret over, or dance teachers watching as you stepped on a scale. I started teaching yoga and bought a bike to ride to class. 

I took classes in the dance minor, but they were far less strident. I lost the drive to deaden my toes to sensation or see my ribs in the mirror. My body became something I was acutely aware of, but not controlled by. 

I moved to the city and kept teaching fitness, took the occasional dance class, which would leave me both leached of energy and revived, spiritually.

I gained what my mother refers to as “womanly” weight. Sometimes I poke my hips and wonder if my Italian ballet teacher would still mutter, “beautiful facility” under his breath when he saw me. Or would he purse his lips at the sight of me in a pair of pale pink tights? 

I started to lift weights, go to yoga, and practice Pilates more seriously. I recovered from some well-ignored injuries and lost my splits. Then, every November, the marathon. I started running again. 

I mimicked my childhood ways, with my headphones cranked to their highest volume. I let my legs split apart in leap-like strides. My first runs back were unmeasured, but passionate. 

And now, like most habits, I’ve made it methodical. I have routines and usual routes. I treat food as fuel, and water like a lifeline. I’ve purchased a running wardrobe and expensive shoes. I’ve broken them in like a stallion and run in them like a wounded mare.  

It is not as joyful as the runs of my childhood, or as passioned as the pursuit of artistry.

But the consistent pounding of feet on pavement is a meditation in inevitability. 

The straining effort of surging uphill is a practice of dedication. 

Running is a reservoir and a resource. I turn to it when I have nowhere else to. I have wrestled with my past mistakes, won imaginary arguments, and written paragraphs while I run. 

I’ve run through block parties, and past funeral processions

I’ve high-fived passing runners, slammed my hands on the hoods of intruding cars. 

I’ve sobbed over pain in my hip and in my heart. 

I’ve sung along with my music and reveled in the quiet solitude of an early morning. 

On the run I took this morning, I ran backwards for about five yards, just to see if I could. It reminded me of a Graham-inspired technique exercise we’d do in Modern class. 

The pain in my chest and calves is different, but similar enough to replicate petite allegro, which I do not miss. 

Running, and its agony and sometimes joy, subsumes the ache of missing who I once was, as I run towards the person who I one day will be. Each step taken, a step towards a future, a person, a life, I might like just a little bit better. 

Maybe that’s why we cry on marathon day.