The Blonde, The Brunette and Their Blisters
Part 7
Sunday 7th November … THE BIG DAY.
Everyone was talking about the race, even before we left the country. Whilst checking in baggage at Heathrow the men behind us were discussing their training schedules.Going through airport security, the woman in front panicked because she had forgotten her trainers. And as we boarded the plane, some man on the loudspeaker wished us good luck. The hairs on the back of my neck were on end. I was covered in goosebumps. The time had come, the training was over. We were flying to the Big Apple.
Adding to the anxiety, I had spent the last week in bed with flu. Not ideal preparation foranything, let along 26.2 miles, but I overdosed on vitamins and Ibuprofen and visualised the finish line.
We spent the first day acclimatising to our surroundings … AKA shopping! Despite numerous warnings about pre-race burnout, we felt the best warm-up would be tostretch our legs and bend our credit cards at the same time. Our first stop, however, was a visit to the exhibition centre to collect our race numbers. The goose bumps soon developed into all-over body shakes. This was our first encounter with our fellow runners ‘en masse’. There were queues as far as the eye could see, and an audible babble of different languages … all talking about one thing …Sunday. As the queue snaked round a complex maze of ropes and tunnels, I sussed out the competition. There were people of all shapes and sizes, men and women, old and young … some looked lean, mean and super-fit, and others looked like they would barely get over the first bridge … but that’s the thing about running. Anyone can do it.
We picked up our number (superstitiously adding up the five digits to check they didn’t total anything unlucky!), activated our microchip (the gadget that would measure our exact time, between the start and finish lines) and received our goody bag. There was an ‘official finisher’ t-shirt in the pack … something I definitely wasn’t ready to wear just yet. Gulp. 2 more days …
After a good sleep, we woke on Saturday bursting with energy. Everyone was meeting downstairs, before the start of the International Breakfast Run. Fortunately the start line for the 4 mile jog was just round the corner from our hotel, so we casually made our way, lured by the sensuous scent of Deep Heat. The Breakfast Run is a well-trodden tradition. Always the day before the main race, it provides a good way to stretch the limbs, get the blood pumping and battle any butterflies. The weather was glorious. Cold but sunny, we jogged along 42nd street before turning up MadisonAvenue. Enthusiastic supporters, clutching their Starbucks, clapped us all the way round. Without the pressure of having to survive 26 miles, several runners were in fancy dress and there were flag bearers for every nation. There was a great sporting spirit. It felt good to be moving. It was my first run in 9 days and I was able to build my confidence and run a quick physical assessment after my period of inactivity. Feet …check, knees … check, legs … a little wobbly. As we approached Central Park we merged with the actual marathon course and both the brunette and I gulped as we passed beneath the banner bearing ’25 miles’. All going well, we would be re-tracing our steps in twenty-four hours time. Who knows what kind of state we would be in then?
The rest of the day was a blur. Unable to forget the challenge ahead we sauntered aimlessly round the Lower East side of the city. Even the Abercrombie & Fitch store failed to distract me entirely. By late afternoon we had descended into nervous quiet, lost in our own apprehensions.
Still battling jetlag and the drain of the preceding weeks, we were in bed by 8pm. At 10pm I jolted awake with a suspected heart attack. My chest was pounding, I was short of breath. What to do? I could hardly breathe, let alone sleep. I double-checked our gear for the next day was where we had left it, neatly arranged in two piles with our UPS bags for the finish packed with survival essentials. Relief. I double-checked the brunette was still alive. Sleeping soundly … that’s a good sign. There were 7 hours left before we had to get up … eventually, exhausted by worry, I must have dropped off …
Reflecting on the morning of Sunday 7th November still makes my stomach churn. I don’t think I have ever been so nervous in all my life. We assembled in the foyer with our team mates, had a couple of photos taken (the results of which would later show us white-faced and panic-stricken) and started the slow walk to City Library where coaches waited to bus us to The Start.
As the route begins on Statten Island, all runners have to congregate hours before the official start time so they can cordon off the bridge. The start area resembled a crazy sport-themed circus with lots of tents, all colour-co-ordinated by race number and gender. We had three hours to kill, most of which was spent queuing for the row of portaloos.
Images of the last few months were whizzing through my mind. All that training, the early mornings, the late nights, the hung-over Saturdays … the scorching summer days, the frosty winter nights … we had trained through three seasons. I thought of the three pairs of trainers I had worn out and the socks I had treated myself to … the mini disks that had formed my soundtrack for the most gruelling sessions … and the hours and hours the brunette and I had spent pounding our various routes … Never had I worked so hard for anything. Never had I wanted something more than that medal that lay 26.2 miles away. Never had I felt so overwhelmed by the task that lay ahead.
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