Marathon Weekend
Mary HK Choi points out that Halloween seems unusually hyped up this year. But who has time for ghouls and goblins when Sunday is the New York City Marathon? Liz Robbins has marathon tips; Tara Parker-Pope looks at our amazing adaptation for running:
Most mammals can sprint faster than humans — having four legs gives them the advantage. But when it comes to long distances, humans can outrun almost any animal. Because we cool by sweating rather than panting, we can stay cool at speeds and distances that would overheat other animals. On a hot day… a human could even outrun a horse in a 26.2-mile marathon.
Yeah! Eat that, horses!
In all seriousness, what a beautiful thought.
This is the first year since 1995 that I won’t be in the New York area on Marathon Sunday, but my forecast, too, looks clear for an extended run (for me, 7-12 miles).
Since I can’t be there, I’m re-blogging some post- and pre-marathon encounters from my defunct TypePad blog:
Sunday afternoon I happened into the enormous post-race party draining into Midtown. It was four thirty, a half hour before sunset, hours after, for no good reason, I assumed Central Park West would have been returned to drivers.
There were the scents of Ben-Gay and cigarette smoke, charcoal and beef and sausage grilling, the two-stroke motor wake of park department carts.
The morning’s runners walked slowly, wrapped in foil ponchos emblazoned with the marathon logo, accents and languages overlapping:
“We’ll just get take-in.” (an apparently Americanized Brit)
“How’s it going, Lieutenant?”
“Can’t complain.”
“Si vous nécessite l’attention médicale…” (a female voice on the loud-speaker system)
“Ellen Marsten, please meet your mother at the West Seventy-Ninth Street Information desk.” (another female loud-speaker voice, no French accent)
It was a mile-long party of well-wishers. Since 9/11 the heightened watchfulness of the NYPD and my heightened sense of the NYPD watchfulness has added tension to holiday crowds and parades. Sunday I saw few tense faces. Tired faces looked glad; groups of runners greeted one another, friends and family accompanied their runners as if the runners had just graduated with honors. Which they had.
Salon.com ran a weirdly contrarian article on Friday, claiming that marathons’ popularity was ruining them. I was reminded of William Hazlitt’s observation, how Samuel Taylor Coleridge always contrived to prefer that which was the least known.
All along the marathon route and all around Central Park, the city is given over for a day to running (though, as one woman remarked as I vainly tried to reach my usual route, it’s actually not a good day to be a non-marathon runner).
So what if the snappy blue and gold nylon banners are corporately sponsored? If that’s what it takes to put on such a party, so be it. Everyone’s still invited.
On Saturday, while the stands were still being built, cables laid, and banners set up, I ran the circumference of the park drives. Including the distance to and from my apartment, it’s about eight miles. It was blowy and cold, and the finally seasonal temperature was strange under the still-green trees. Even last year by this time the leaves were past peak. This year the green was only just starting to be filtered with yellow.
The usual weekend crowds, moms with strollers; French tourists trailing tobacco smoke; weddings; and oblivious shutterbugs were joined by news crews, mostly small teams, and pairs out looking for sound bytes. Passing the boathouse into the long slope up Cedar Hill, the runner ahead of me flagged and was pounced on by a plaintive-looking woman with a notepad. A man carrying a Beta Cam (they still use them?) hung back behind her.
“Will you talk to Channel 11?” The woman said. “I just need to talk with some athletes.”
The runner waved them off.
“I just need to talk with some athletes.” The Channel 11 reporter turned to me.
I was happy to.
