They say that participating in the NYC marathon is emotional, and that was certainly true for me, although I didn't actually run. It all started on Sunday, when Sandy hit. My neighborhood was barely touched; it was strange watching all the devastation a few miles away on the television and look out my window to only see a light drizzle. I felt so lucky!
Over the next few days, I remained glued to the television and computer. The reports and images from places like the Rockaways and Staten Island were heartbreaking. I couldn't believe it when the mayor announced that the marathon would go on. My wish was that he would postpone it.
As marathon day grew closer, I grew more conflicted. I agreed that the race shouldn't be run, but since it was going on, should I still do it? Even heading to the expo, my emotions were all over the place. (Thank you Kristin and Aphrodite for putting up with my excited-one-minute-anguished-the-next mood swings.) I was stricken by the news reports of devastation; angry at the personal attacks towards us runners; and excited about finally running the NYCM after three years of applying, a long summer of training, and committing to the effort in memory of my dad. Once we got there, my confusion turned to hope as I saw so many charity runners and even a man from the gutted Breezy Point picking up their numbers.
Since the trains were down, Kristin and I wound up walking home from Queens with a sweet French couple stranded in the city. Right after spotting the blue marathon line on the Pulaski bridge, the texts came in: Marathon cancelled! A wave of relief and also disappointment washed over me; tears sprung into my eyes.
After feeling a little lost and depressed that evening, the next day something clicked into place: It was time to act. I decided to join my friends Jenna and Amanda and a group of marathon runners headed to Staten Island to help clean up. After biking to the ferry terminal, I was awed by what I saw: a sea of 1,300 orange bodies, each one carrying a huge bag of supplies. Like the marathon, the course was tough. We ran straight uphill (no joke) for 10 miles with 20 to 30 pounds strapped to our backs. Even though we got a little lost, the cheers and thumbs-up from Staten Islanders replaced my discouragement with with hope.
After dropping off our supplies, we wound up helping a family clear out all of its worldly possessions from their devastated home; the father nearly drowned in the surge. When we were finally done, these tough, gruff men's eyes filled with tears as we said good-bye. Heading back, we finally found to the words to chat with our fellow runner-helpers and heard so many amazing stories, like Tanya from England. She had spent all summer training and fundraising for Haiti to run NYC, and spent so much of her own money to get here. With only one day left in the city, this was how she chose to spend it.
Before Sunday, I never really considered myself a runner; it was just something I did now and then. Now, I'm beyond proud to call myself a runner. You better believe that I'll rock my neon lycra, fanny pack, and giant Garmin with pride.
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