This is part 2 of the NYC marathon recap. You can find Part 1 HERE.
When I submitted my text on NYC marathon for the monthly column I write at the National Post, it was too long. The editor and I decided to split it in two, because she liked the behind the scene description. However, too much time has passed since the marathon, so my “behind the scene” scenes are ditched. Since it’s now certain it won’t be published, I decided to post it here, so my writing effort wouldn’t go to naught:
I’m typing this entry carefully—my hands are sore from the snow shovel. I’m afraid there’s going to be a blister or two nesting in all the redness of my palms. Winter wonderland in Canada is back. Shoveling aside, I’m looking forward to my snowy run after work. It’s difficult to describe the feeling, one must try it for himself: muffled sounds of my own steps through the softened din of the neighborhood, as if the whole town is covered in cotton; early Christmas lights reflecting off the snow in the evening; the solitude and peace of being out in sub-freezing temperature, while everyone else hunkers in warmth of their homes; my breath trailing me in a cloud, like a steam-locomotive plodding through the fresh snow. And, although the signs of life are all around me, I’m the only person out alive, feeling like this whole white, sleepy, fairy-tale town belongs to me.
The problem with running through the winter is—it lasts too long. After the virgin snow turns into grey slush and ice creeps on the sidewalks making each step an adventure, the feeling of owning the world is quickly replaced by the gloom of it all. Knowing that there’s five months of it doesn’t help either. Some runners switch onto indoors mode and mount the treadmills and stationary bikes. I prefer the outdoors, no matter how grey it is. To help me through the winter blues, I set the goals for the Spring—’Around the Bay’ 30 kms race in Hamiton in March, for example—and I run thinking happy thoughts of the past races, like the New York marathon I described in the previous Black Toenail.
I told you about the thrill of it, the rush of wind, the racket of the crowds, the sweet pain of the effort. But now, at Winter’s threshold, even the memories of the long hours leading to the starting gun make me smile and pick up my pace on the slippery sidewalk. Let me take your mind off the winter blues, and lead you behind the curtains of the world’s biggest race...
...It's 4 a.m. on Sunday morning November 7th, when my alarm clock screams its waking tune. I stumble in the dark, tripping over objects which always seem to be where they aren't supposed to be, and swallowing the yelp when the toe stubs the bed-frame. Slowly, blindly, painfully, I dress into my running gear. A goodhearted relative is giving me a ride at this ungodly hour to the Staten Island ferry.
The traffic doesn't exist this early. The city that never sleeps seems to have dozed off for a while. That changes as we approach the pier. Line of yellow cabs and cars crawls by, spitting out stumbling, half-dormant runners at the bottom of the stairway leading to the ferry building. They are promptly shooed away by the traffic cops -- my first glimpse of the organized chaos that is New York marathon.
The waiting area is already packed, half an hour before the departure of the first ferry. People stand, sit, and mostly lay sprawled all over the floor. I make my way tripping and stepping on a bag and a few limbs. My advance is followed by choice curses in a variety of languages. A short wait later the gate opens and the sprawling tangle of bodies comes to life, streaming through the gate and onto the boat. There’s little conversation at this hour, only an occasional excited exclamation, mostly in a foreign language.
Trip to Staten Island takes us by the Statue of Liberty, illuminated in the night by dramatic lights. Some runners get to their feet, the excited murmur grows louder in a stew of global dialects, cameras are drawn, pictures are taken. Soon after, the ferry docks and we pour out onto the buses which take us to the athletes' village.
In the village the wind is relentless, it blows the chill through the bones. A few tents with hot drinks and bagels provide no shelter and little comfort. The more resourceful among us take anything that can be wrapped around the body to preserve some heat: cardboard boxes, plastic wraps, garbage bags. I brave the elements sitting on the grass. Behind me a huge metal column of the Verrazano-Narrows bridge towers over us. Soon, we’ll be running across this enormous, double-decked suspension bridge connecting Staten Island with Brooklyn. Right now, however, my excitement is dampened by the chill of the morning. The dawn is grey, the sun still slow in rising. The time has changed over night from daylight-saving into daylight-wasting time, and while that gave me an extra hour of sleep, it also delayed the badly anticipated heat of the sun.
Near me, a group of Norwegians huddle together under the tarpaulin, gnawing on their bagels. A contingent of Mexicans make a quick shanty-town of cardboard boxes. Italians run around wrapping everything and everyone in Tricolore flag and taking pictures, laughing and bantering loudly. Lineups in front of thousands of port-a-potties grow steadily. I join one too, the lesson learned the hard way on one of the previous marathons - even if you don’t need to answer the call of nature, do it anyway, or the nature will catch up with you during the run.
Finally, the sun climbs over the shadow of the bridge and everything becomes warmer. Loudspeakers crackle with announcements, inviting us to leave our outer layers in the baggage trucks to be transported to the finish. We undress, shivering, and make our way to the starting corrals, still an hour before the start. Each corral is supposed to contain a thousand runners. They are separated by ropes, but the ropes are not an obstacle for some eager runners, who duck under to get into the faster, front corrals. With another bark from the speakers, the ropes are removed altogether, and we walk forward. The purpose of corrals is completely obliterated in the mix of the bodies pushing forward. It leaves me baffled -- why pushing forward at the start of a 42.2 km race? It’s not a sprint, a better start position doesn’t mean a thing on the long run. Besides, we all have timing chips tied to our shoelaces, and the time is measured from the moment our feet cross the timing carpet. Still, I’m pushed and shoved aside, where I bounce into men emptying their bladders at the roadside. So much about the thousands of field toilets being provided!
At last the pushing stops, the elite runners are introduced—they include the World Record holder Ethiopian Haile Gebrselassie—but I can’t see them in the ocean of people which keeps me far from the start line. The Star-Spangled Banner is sung. A few more seconds of shivering—I’m not sure if that’s cold or anticipation shaking my body now—and the starting pistol is fired. Human tide moves forward, slow at first, but picking up the pace quickly as the head of the line is released onto the bridge. My chip crosses the timing carpet about a minute after the gun-start. I start my wrist chronograph when my foot lands on the carpet, and off I go in this giant snake of people, this single living organism in which I’m but a single cell...
...as I dust off the snow and rub my chilled fingers, my eyes find the NY marathon finishers’ medal on the shelf. I smile, warmed by the memories.
There's something special about these cookies. It's not only that they are commonly associated with the Christmas time, or that they are loaded full of walnuts, sugar and real butter, and therefore are sinfully fattening and irresistibly delicious. Meg, who never saw or tried them until my mom made them a few years back, became an expert cookie-maker. Her vanilla crescents, the very ones in the picture, carry her reputation far and wide, from our own neighborhood, where the neighbors coming from distant corners of the globe tried and enjoyed Meg's cookies, to our respective workplaces, where colleagues start asking after the cookies early in December. As I type this, fingertips sticky with icing sugar, I am glad to share in true Christmas spirit this picture of perfection. As for the real stuff--I'm afraid there'd be none left before this Christmas day is out. Ho-ho-ho, Merry Christmas and Bon Appetit!
by Carlos Ruiz Zafón
by Richard Harvell
To exhaust another old cliche, 'tis the season to pull out the Christmas tree from the basement--the evergreen, echo-friendly variety (meaning: plastic)--and assemble it in the living room. It conveniently has the lights pre-installed, all that needs to be done is put together the three segments of the tree and plug it in. Oh, and decorate it with dozens of balls and ornaments.
by Vincent Lam
by Wells Tower
