on the iPod: "fall on me" -- r.e.m.
We had been on the ground about three hours when it happened, and fittingly in this post-millenium era, it all became evident through technology and social media. We'd landed at LaGuardia on time, managed the buses and subway to our midtown hotel with ease, gawked at the lights of Times Square from our window, walked a few city blocks to find the expo, picked up our bibs, and were congregating with the thousands of runners that had come from all over the world to run the ultimate distance. The air was electric with anticipation and I couldn't have been happier.
And then it happened.
Within moments, the familiar vibration of an incoming email or text message was felt as runners reached for their phones. And as each of us looked down, the news wasn't good. It was hard to believe. In concert, everybody starting looking once, twice, three times in complete dismay. People stopped dead in their tracks and became fixed on Google news, tweets, text messages, Facebook posts and emails. When I realized that something was wrong, I immediately felt my stomach drop and began to expect the worst. Grabbing my own phone, I already had texts and emails from people I loved reporting what they were seeing on internet news reports as well as TV.
My first thought was that I wanted to be alone. I wanted to know how quickly I could get out of the expo, out of the city, and back home. I wanted to close my door and turn off the lights and be alone. I didn't want to respond to anyone who had reached out to me, nor did I want to talk to Mrs. Murie, my best good running friend who was standing right next to me in a sea of people, all experiencing their own emotions in the moment. There was no public outcry, no one raised their voice or cursed. I saw intermittent tears on some faces and a few that seemed overwhelmed, but mostly I just saw sadness.
The phone calls and text messages kept coming. My friends and family were reaching out with love in their hearts, because they knew how much the race would mean to me as a runner, but I wasn't ready to talk or respond. Mrs. Murie and I needed to process what was happening and come to terms with the fact that we wouldn't be running the greatest marathon in the world. And we did that quietly over a bottle of wine and mindless television in a 12th floor hotel room. After a few hours of complete and total disappointment, I made a conscious decision to rethink my understanding of what had happened. I reminded myself that sometimes I can't control what happens around me, but I can choose to accept it. That revelation was a turning point in one of the more disappointing days of my life and I'm so happy that it happened. I thank my mom for it, because i've learned from her to let go of so many things that happen in life. It's liberating.
From that point forward I tried to make lemonade from lemons and Mrs. Murie was right there with me. My phone rang for the umpteenth time and I looked down to see a call from one of the happiest and most loving runners I know -- Deanna Duplanti. I can't count the number of races she and I have run together, but I'll never forget my very first 10K when she got me through miles five and six when I didn't have the self-confidence to do it on my own. We've been friends ever since. She was undoubtedly calling to check on us both, so I picked up and relayed the story for the first of many times to come. It was special to hear her kind words of encouragement and positive attitude and I can't wait to hug her neck the next time I see her.
With no marathon for which to prepare, and in an effort to forget, we went into full tourist mode and dove head first into Gotham. We had drinks overlooking Times Square, watched families of skaters at Rockefeller Center, and shopped on iconic 5th Avenue.
We ran the wooded trails of Central Park, laughed at the bawdy puppetry of Avenue Q, explored the gorgeous collections in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and ate New York style pizza. We even stopped for morning prayer in St. Patrick's Cathedral. The incense, for a brief moment, made me feel close to God.
There's a million reasons why I didn't want to acknowledge the weekend through writing about it: I didn't want to rehash the ethics of Mayor Bloomberg's decision. I didn't want to seem calloused to the devastation that the region experienced. I didn't want to celebrate not running. I didn't want to make it about me.
But the main reason is an unshakeable feeling of embarrassment. I feel stupid for being involved in such a messed up weekend. And in some ways that's exactly what it was: a embarrassing, stupid, messed up weekend. I wish I could have a re-do, because I would have never gotten on the plane in the first place.
But not writing about it would discount how profoundly important running is to my life. I can't imagine where I would be if I didn't get up again, find my shoes, and head out for another mile. And I will. I already have, in fact. I have no choice but to do so, because any other reaction would be giving up on the power of the human spirit. So there'll be no pouting or feeling sorry, there'll be no blame laid, no second guessing. There will only be more runs, whether on the trails of my beloved hometown or through the streets of a downtown skyline. And maybe, on another crisp fall day, one of those runs will end in Central Park. Maybe.
Run.
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